Sally's Room

In the book, Sally's Room, by Mary K. Brown, Sally discovers that when her room in empty, she can “dance in here.” That’s how I felt after R. and I removed everything but the furniture from my very cramped study. After the skies dumped 16+ inches of rain on us in 6 weeks (April-May), I found mold growing in the southwest corner and knew we had to get my books and files out of there quickly. It took an entire weekend of backbreaking work to do this, but now I can sleep at night, assured that I will not wake up to find fuzz growing on Mary Oliver’s poetry or my genealogy records. Or my CDs, art supplies, etc. (Although I doubt that Mary Oliver would be offended. She’d probably write a poem about the fungi reclaiming her words.) We’re still waiting for the repairs to begin on our chimney and roof before the contractor can even think about making the room livable again. In the meantime, I’m looking at the almost empty room and wondering if I can bear to pitch about half of my stuff so I can actually have some floor space. Maybe to dance in. Or maybe even room to sew or make art. Maybe I’ll redo the closets so I can move the filing cabinets inside. Maybe I’ll move the bookshelves. I’ve already taken four or five bags of clothing to Goodwill, but, alas, only one box of books. Everything else is stuffed into one end of the living room. I plan to be very selective when I put things back, but will I have the courage to cull enough stuff so that I can make art? Dance?

Resting

When I returned home yesterday, R. motioned for me to look out the kitchen window at the birdbath. On the left is what I saw. I wonder if this is the same guy I took a picture of last summer, curled up in almost the same spot. That picture is on the right.


Lying down beside
Our birdbath, the yearling buck--
Velvet antler stubs.

Like an inchworm

I don't know that I've ever gotten a new blouse after finding an inchworm crawling on it, but it was fun to imagine that the worm was measuring for one. Maybe that old wives' tale was created to teach children to be kind to harmless creatures. All I know is that I've never killed one--at least not on purpose--but have always taken great care when removing them from my clothing. Today, while watching the roofer measure and diagram our roof, it suddenly struck me how much like an inchworm he looked, walking so carefully along that steep peak, above the chimney, almost even with the tree tops. Like the inchworm, will he soon give us a new one?

White Amaryllis

This is the white amaryllis that I brought home from Mother’s condo before she died, almost ten years ago. She asked me to take it and the two red ones because she no longer wanted to tend to them. The only time the white one has bloomed since then was the year we heated the greenhouse over the winter. I guess it especially loved all the light coming through that glass room. Last summer I repotted the 3 bulbs into 4 pots. (One of the red ones had grown another bulb.) This one had hardly any dirt in the pot, so I guess it’s thanking us for taking care of it. They usually bloom in the carriage house during the winter, but this year--for some unknown reason--R. got it into his head that he wasn’t supposed to water them, so didn’t. One day in January or February I commented that I wondered why none of them had put out their usual leaves and asked if he’d watered. He said no, he didn’t think he was supposed to. Oops! So, once he started watering, they immediately responded. The red one in the background bloomed while we were in DC for the Poetry Therapy conference, but we got to see it at its peak because the dog sitter emailed us a picture. Nice!

In the Pines

Someone wrote that walking among pine trees reminds us that the way to success is inner peace, calmness, serenity - and letting one's spirit rise to touch the sky. I was thinking about this recently, while walking through our pine trees on a very cold and windy day. Under the canopy of the trees, I stood for a long time, just listening to the singing of the pine needles and feeling the strong power of these old friends. We planted (okay, he planted, but I helped) a grove of about 50 White Pines more than three decades ago, watering and pruning them over the years when needed. They have rewarded us with shade and a wind break from the weather, and a soft carpet underfoot. In cold and hot weather alike, we look forward to reaching "pine tree hill" when walking the dog, because the temperature is always 10-15 degrees better there. When they were small, our neighbor's grandchildren called it "the enchanted forest." It still feels enchanted to me, for it gives off a definite positive energy which reminds me to stop on my path and reach for the skies.

Blue Sky in February

Yesterday I took time to notice the depth of blue in the winter sky. So often I take clear days for granted, or forget that we had them when it's gloomy or raining. Maybe looking back at the photo will remind me that we did have some beautiful weather.

Three trees participated in this photo. In the right foreground is a Sweet Gum. In the background is the Thorny Locust, whose thick brown seed pods help the deer and rabbits get through the winter, and whose long, hard thorns have punctured many a lawnmower tire. And reaching across from left to right in the foremost foreground, as if not to be ignored, are a few branches of the Willow Oak just behind the house. The two closest trees are where the birds wait their turns at the feeder or birdbath, giving us a chance to identify them.

The more I study this photo, the more I am astounded at the complexity of color, shape, and texture of the trees. The clear blue sky was simply a canvas, but provided the perfect contrast. Look again at only the negative spaces, or at the hundreds of small twigs. And finally, notice the "ham" of the skies, the ever-watchful Blue Jay, perched on a broken limb.

Clear day in winter
Uncovering surprises
Shadows and contrasts