Switched At Birth

Westmark's Retsu Wabi-Sabi

I didn't realize until recently that I've been badly bruised if not broken, and have been running on fumes for several years, going through the motions of life in a sort of emotional coma. I stopped gardening, stopped winding clocks, and had begun sitting on the edge of a sofa or chair like a bird just ahead of a hungry cat. I ran in all sorts of directions, like a white mouse in a tiny box, racing to find a reward somewhere, or if not a reward, an escape hatch.

A few weeks ago, without knowing why or what process was at work,  I took several cheap, old-fashioned black and white composition books and a glue stick, and began sticking bits of colored paper, word phrases, cut-outs of photos -- whatever pleased me in a seemingly random way -- and I let the books become and then be simply themselves, with no "you are this" and "you must be this" talk.The simple act of using a child's tools: scissors, colored pencils, and glue, was strangely satisfying, and I began to breathe deeply once again.

Then, one day soon after,  I wandered around various rooms and wound up the clocks. Their beating heart sound was like a familiar echo from a former time.

I bought two small dracena plants to put on my desk.

Then I rescued a bedraggled purple African violet from one of those sad supermarket displays. It has already perked up. I smile every time I look at it, which is frequently, since it is almost at my elbow, like a grateful new shelter pet.

A few days later, I went out to the small oval area not too far from the side door near the kitchen and laundry room -- the one I call "my weed patch"  -- and looked at the messy tangle of junipers, several cedars, rosemary, marjoram and thyme interlaced with thick, strangling blackberry briars. Long shoots of grass were interspersed everywhere. I vaguely remembered this as a space where coriopsis, hydrangea and gardenia bloomed once, where a coral-colored bouganvillea trailed from a hanging basket, where ferns and a Christmas cactus harmoniously co-existed.

I looked at that space and saw myself. Why was I punishing life? When did it begin? There were events, of course, and several tragedies, but I had not fully appreciated the termite-like, chipping away, life-narrowing, cumulative nature of them: deaths -- family and friends; the grim, hand-to-hand combat of struggling with a stock market that had once seemed like a fun game; and small, niggling health issues that put you on the couch when small bones fracture. Life. It's life.

I remember returning from a short trip that was not fun because we worked unproductively during the whole thing and cut it short to come home (totally uncharacteristic for Buck and me). This was the fall of 2008 and there had been a persistent drought, along with everything else. When we got home, I looked out at my "weed patch" (already in full neglect mode) and found that hungry deer had (for the first time and never again since) for some reason eaten the tops out of the formerly pretty miniature cedar trees. They were about 5 feet tall, and now were misshapen and ugly. Somehow, that was the last straw. A bleak melancholia settled coldly around my heart, and I vowed to never garden again.

Two days ago, I went out to the old red storage building and dug out my gardening tools. I bought my first-ever pair of Fiskar clippers. And I went to work.

Many things are happening all at once. When I walked into the pantry Saturday morning and saw tiny round black bugs perched comfortably on the white wire shelves, I woke up, joyfully indulged my inner obsessive-compulsive side, stripped the pantry of its contents, cleaned, polished, vacuumed, mopped and rearranged everything. It came out with the herbs and spices alphabetized, yes, but the whole is now playful in a way I have never seen before. I'd like to put in a lamp and a reading chair and just hang out in there, it's so friendly and fun. See?

 


The various chains are left-over from hanging light fixtures used when we built the house. I found them on an S-hook in a corner of the pantry, and just like the way they look draped around the shelves. 

In the July 9, 2010 issue of Canadian artist Robert Genn's thoughtful, exquisite on-line newsletter, The  Twice-Weekly Letter, he discusses the traditional Japanese concept of Wabi-Sabi. The article title is Retsu Wabi-Sabi. I didn't get around to reading it until two days ago, but when I did, I read it several times, and felt certain tumblers click as I thought about our lives here at Longleaf, the changes we have seen and lived through, and changes that will come: the constant moving river of existence. 

Mr. Genn writes about his interest in systems that "refresh and reboot" creativity. One of those systems is Retsu Wabi-Sabi. He says, "This is how it works: Wabi-Sabi is a traditional Japanese idea based on the acceptance of transience. It also means seeing beauty in imperfection, impermanence, incompletion and decay."  He adds that "retsu" means "something that is collected, in a line, or added to."

Personal daybook-style blogs are a living caravan of our minds at work, our evolving spirits. We add to our memoirs picture by picture, line by line, in an open-hearted sharing of the human experience.

I walked the woods this past Tuesday, the last day of August. They are full of clues to  seasonal changes yet to be fully seen or felt. Summer's rampant growth has come to an end. The long stalks of purple blazing stars have begun to flower. My own heart is once again open, tender and vulnerable, yet unafraid.

Let's link our arms, take a deep, cleansing breath, and walk.

 

 

 

Maintenance

Sometimes a day of mostly physical work outdoors can be immensely satisfying. Today was one of those.

The dew had dried enough to start mowing by 8 this morning. Buck hefted the heavy container of gas and filled the little riding mower for me, and then he grabbed a peanut butter sandwich and headed over to the Sugar Shack to supervise some fellows who were dumping several tons of white, crushed phosphate rock from the driveway all the way to the back door there. The gravel adds eye appeal, and has the practical benefit of providing a parking pad and clean path to get into the house without trudging through dirt or sand.

I mowed for an hour, and was able to get all of the front, the sides, and part of the back. The front yard is mostly planted oats, wheat and rye, but there are portions and swaths of centipeed. In another month, it will be time for Buck to disk under the oats, wheat and rye, spread fertilizer and lime, and plant a new crop of seeds.

Our friend, Harold, has helped with that planting day for years. I would like to think he will be able to join us this year, too, but he may still be in recovery mode. Harold had surgery yesterday to remove a portion of a cancerous right kidney. Buck and I sat with he and Louise and several other of Harold's friends before his name was called.

At 9, I cut off the mower and hit the shower. I had a hair appointment at 10, and you better believe I didn't want to miss that.

I got lucky. My friend and hair stylist, Michelle Kuehmeier, was late, so a receptionist ushered me to "The Relaxation Room." This salon, LeSan, has all sorts of spa treatments, too, although so far I have not availed myself of any of them. The room was dimly lit, illuminated mostly by flickering light from an electric fireplace (no heat, only light). The heavy, soft leather furniture was squishy and comfortable. I fixed myself a mug of chai green tea, sat back in one of the leather chairs, and became aware of quiet music playing. It sounded like a spiritual waterfall.

When Michelle came in about 15 minutes later and began apologizing for being late, I said, "Are you kidding? I would pay to come in here several times a week and just sit. This is wonderful."

Late this afternoon, I finished mowing the back yard, while Buck worked with Harvey and Mike to spread hot mix asphalt millings on places in our road between gate and house where heavy rains have rutted it and made holes.

That's Buck with his sun hat on. He and Mike are building a berm to channel water off the road and into the woods. Looks like it will make a pretty good speed bump, too.

 

Appetite for Life

It was unnatural when my zest for flavor, my enjoyment of cooking, disappeared. Maybe the fact that my younger brother has gained six pounds in the last two weeks and is eating again has something to do with the return of my own appetite.

The photograph of the seared scallops, whole wheat couscous, and scrumptious roasted red pepper, zucchini, garlic and onion is accented by rosemary and thyme which grow with voluptuous abandon whether I notice or not, and two yellow flowers from the woods that I gathered two mornings ago, along with several fern fronds from the stream bed.

 

Imperial Moth: Saved from Spiders for One Night of Passion in the Pines

"Look at that pretty moth before you get in the pool," Buck said. I walked over and saw that this wondrous-looking Imperial Moth (Eacles Imperialis) was on the concrete floor. Bending down for a closer look, I saw shiny strands of a spider web.

I don't know how the moth got into the screened pool enclosure, or how long it had been there. The industrious spiders were wasting no time in spinning a goassamer cage for their royal prisoner.

I thought the moth was dead. I picked it up, walked to the other end of the room and sat it down on the concrete there to examine it more closely. When I did, I felt a quiver from the moth, opened the door, and put it on the grass.

"Ants will get it if you leave it there," Buck called to me.

Not today. The moth flew. I went back into the house to fetch my camera and was ridiculously happy to find the moth still on the vertical board.

Their lives as adults are not long. I wish Eacles Imperialis a magnificent night of love.

Plan B Ain't Bad

I had planned to drive downtown yesterday to attend my first ever yoga class. The studio is situated in a lovely old house in Pensacola's historical district, fronting on Seville Square with a view of the Bay. It is led by folks with deep experience in the practice and commitment to the community. Sometimes when I decide to move out into a new space, it takes me a little while to actually get there. I'll have an idea, make a plan, and start swimming in the general direction of where I perceive shore to be. Usually I find little islands along the way and stop off for awhile before making it to my original destination!

Yesterday was like that. Some things popped up that needed my attention and presence here rather than downtown, and so I postponed visiting Breathe Yoga, but did go for an early morning walk in our woods. Not exactly a bad second choice.

I left the house a few minutes after 7 -- prime time for birds in the woods. I passed by a woodpecker busy on the side of a dead pine, and then startled a covey of quail. For the first 15 minutes, before the sun was fully up, a cool, moisture-laden breeze felt like a spa treatment for the spirit.

There is a boggy area on the path that our friend Harold and Buck refer to as a "weeping hill." It is rarely completely dry. That's where I can find pink sundews at certain times of the year, along with all sorts of bog plants, like this "hat pin".

Berries for birds, deer, turkey, squirrels and other critters have been abundant this year. Usually, in mid-August I would expect to find a few dry, shriveled berries on parched stems, not this late, lush crop.

Engage your imagination here, and maybe you can see what I saw but was not nearly quick enough to take a picture of: a large doe, surprised by this two-legged morning interloper, loped in a graceful s-curve from one side of the tree cover to the other, flying a white tail flag and turning her head back over her shoulders in my direction to take a look at me. She reminded me of a star quarterback running, untouched, through a line, carrying the mail for a touchdown.

When I see a sight like that, the tumblers of my life click back into place and the rest of my day is a pure, sweet gift.

I turned from the deep woods, crossed the front yard and touched down on asphalt to walk to the front gate.

The asphalt only goes a short way, and then turns to friendly gravel for the rest of the shade canopied walk.

Down in the stream bed, I admire lush ferns, dark water and fox grape tendrils and breathe deep the air that smells like a brilliant herbal mix of mint, sage, ginger root, eucalyptus, marjoram and ancient rotted leaf.

The stream bed is a magnet for lovely mystery flowers. I remember this one from last year, but never did find out what it is. The flowers have a waxy look and feel.

The gate. It's a sweet, simple farm gate. No electronics. When we drive in from town and have to open the gate in a rainstorm, the overhanging oak tree is almost as good as a roof.

On the way back to the house from the gate, I notice the American Beautyberry (French Mulberry) plants are beginning to show the color which will become Lady Gaga-esque in September.

Home

 

When Wishing Makes It So

I swore a blood oath last winter that I wouldn't complain about the heat this summer. And I've pretty well kept my promise, although I have suggested long and loud how wonderful the weather must be at a higher altitude. Actually, now that summer is almost over, with perceptibly cooler mornings and evenings, thanks in part to abundant rain, I realize it was short and not bad, not bad at all.

Dear friends (family they are, too) came to supper last night. Buck and I had decided to turn a page on the season a few weeks early. Instead of grilled chicken and watermelon, we decided to cozy up the dining table with a rustic table cloth and olive green candles. It was fun to prepare the house and the meal for our guests.

Whe our friends arrived, they opened the door to a blast of garlic, basil, red wine and beef: the quientessential ingredients for Italian Pot Roast.  Oven roasted carrots, turmeric potatoes, green beans and Thai canteloupe salad completed our comfort food plates.

We all laughed together at the idea of bringing on a change of season merely by wishing for it, and acting as though your wish had been granted -- a laughing suspension of disbelief.

But you know what? After dinner, we traipsed upstairs to the outdoor deck, drank coffee and herb tea, ate brownies, listened as a gentle curtain of rain drew around us, and almost shivered in the fresh breeze.

 

Mid-August: Time for the Big, Ugly Singing Cicadas

They're everywhere. In the trees, on the front porch, in Maggie's mouth. What?! Yep, sad to say, the otherwise gentle Maggie loves to eat cicadas.

Every night before we turn out the lights, Buck opens the sliding glass door in our bedroom and takes Maggie out for a last walk of the day. A couple of nights ago, they had completed their ritual and were just about to cross the threshold back into the house, when Maggie jumped on a cicada, who (quite naturally) made urgent , continuous tiny screaming sounds as it disappeared into Maggie's mouth. Judging from the popping and crunching sounds that came next, cicadas must be crispy critters.

I am noticing now that every morning when I let Maggie out, the first thing she does is run around on the concrete patio to examine any spot that looks like a bug. I think she is looking for more cicadas. That Maggie. Sometimes she is such a dog.

Ballerina Luna and Ssssinuous Snake

This ethereal Luna moth brings to mind a ballerina en pointe. Taken outside the garage window. The bright blue circle in the background is the cover on a weight at the end of a barbell. I can almost hear Tschaikovsky.

Black snake on concrete. The circular rust spot where an outdoor heater used to be almost looks like a sun dial.

 

"Take me in, tender woman. Take me in, for heaven's sake. Take me in, tender woman," sighed the snake. (From The Snake, by Oscar Brown, Jr., made popular by singer Johnny Rivers.)

Late Summer Pasta

Two nights ago, we ate this version of roasted veggies and whole grain pasta with tiny dishes of lump crab meat dipped in hot lemon butter and a small Greek salad. Last night, we ate a slightly different version with Italian-herb grilled chicken breast filets.  It's pretty. It's gooood.

Version 1:  Chopped yellow onion, two cloves garlic, one sweet red pepper and about 6 white mushrooms (Cremini would be even better). Toss with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast in the oven at 400 degrees for half an hour. Soon as you take it out of the oven, throw in a handful of spinach leaves. Pour over cooked angel hair pasta and chow down either by itself, with bread, or the protein of your choice.

Version 2: About the same, but traded out the mushrooms for zuchini.

 

Diagnosis: Old and Severely Arthritic with Danger of Gastric Volvulus

Who would have thought Buck and I would be relieved to hear this diagnosis from our veteranarian and friend, Dr. Chere Ernest, at Scenic Hills Veteranary Clinic?

We dropped Maggie off at the clinic early yesterday morning for a fun day of no food, lots of xrays, poking, prodding and a barium milkshake. A staff person at the front desk told us we could pick Maggie up between 5 and 7. All day without Maggie. Not a happy thought.

Buck and I worked at our desks most of the day. We grimly battled a cut-throat stock market to a standstill, and then went outside to mow grass. He took the small push mower to cut around corners and sidewalks. I laid waste to grass in the back yard on the riding mower.

The phone had not rung all day, but I was sure that as soon as we went outside and were out of earshot, Chere would call. That's the way it usually happens. I put the little John Deere back under the shed and went inside, a confetti of cut grass sticking to my sweaty face.

No messages. I called. A nice-voiced young man said Maggie was fine and that we could come get her. "Fine?" I asked. "Do you know she is fine? Really?"

"Um, I meant to say she's fine. She's comfortable. And that Dr. Ernest will show you and your husband the xrays and talk with you when you get here."

"Oh."

Buck was just parking the little mower when I went out to get him. We jumped into the pool to rinse off the sweat, then threw on shorts and t-shirts and drove to see Chere and get the word.

Our fear, and her's too, was that Maggie had cancer. Her abdomen was so tight last Friday when Chere felt her, and the xrays showed her guts all pushed together strangely. There wasn't a tumor, but Chere showed us the xrays of Maggie's poor spine, which showed a remarkable degree of degenerative arthritis.

I kept waking up last night with imagined scenes of Maggie as a very young dog being trained by her first owner to become a field trial champion. How young did the training start? Was her immature skeletal system overworked and stressed by the impact of all that leaping and the competitive trials? I doubt it, and in any case, those thoughts are nothing more than fruitless, middle-of-the-night speculation. She came to us in April of 2003, when her owner knew he could not breed her due to a diagnosis of hip dysplasia. Maggie has been a lovely gift of light since her first day with us.

I don't know how to explain it very well, but it seems that the abnormalities in the vertebrae are causing problems with nerves in Maggie's belly, and creating motility problems. This can make her more susceptible to a highly dangerous condition called canine bloat (or gastric volvulus).

Chere recommended several approaches: first, to change Maggie's diet to more frequent, smaller meals. Next, to change her food to Hill's Science Diet for Active Seniors. There are other things, like making sure that she doesn't gulp lots of water, or exercise shortly before or after eating. Chere told us to stroke Maggie's belly and be sure it doesn't feel tight, and isn't tender or swollen.  We'll continue the glucosomine condroitin and fish-oil capsules to help with her arthritis.

Mostly, we'll continue to treat her like the privileged character and great friend she is, and celebrate her dearness every moment she is with us.

"Don't you just hate waiting for the doctor to  open that door? Then again, maybe she'll have a cookie for me."

When Buck and I had lost our beloved black Lab, Westmark's No-Cut Contract, who died in March, 2003 at almost 16, we swore we would wait at least a year to get another dog. Then someone called us about Maggie. I insisted they email us a photograph. I didn't want to drive over to Alabama and feel pressured into taking home a dog that we didn't have a chemistry with, and risk the awful-ness of either keeping it or returning it.

Soon as this photo of Maggie came on the screen, I told Buck, "Get the truck keys. Let's go get our dog." I always thought Maggie looked like a bright orphan auditioning for a new home in this picture. She hopped in the club cab of our truck and never looked back.