The Beauty of Overgrowth: Everyday Magic, Day 940

With temperatures rising to summertime and good rains falling last week, everything is speeding into growth around this house. The hostas look like they’re on steroids, and all blossoming things are exploding into petals until they’re spent to thin, brown paper. Within the house of this human, a whole lot is growing exponentially too, coming to fruition at 80 mph. A bunch of projects that seemed maybe-ish are definite, meaning my days are full with finalizing an extensive online class with Laura Packer on our Right Livelihood Professional Training, watching clips of pre-Holocaust Jewish life in Europe for an upcoming Osher class, working with students on thesis projects and coaching clients on books, and many manner of other soon-to-harvests in the works.

The downside of such explosive growth is how behind I am on weeding — the garden and my mind, which is overrun with tendrils of this issue to solve or that decision to make. As I make my way through a lot of lists and a pile of work, I find — no surprise — that my mind spins with how to get through the mountains of work beyond this mountain in front of me.  So instead of counting sleep, I’m counting tasks and hours ahead late at night, planning how to do justice to the work I love when it’s in such a state of overgrowth. There’s also some fearsome and stressful edges in my work to navigate, trying not to get myself into such a state that I can’t navigate the wild waters well.

This is old hat for most of us dwelling in a state of overgrowth, yet sitting on this porch sipping iced tea, I’m reminded, as always by this beautiful world of greening presencethat my little worries and plottings are just the tiny picture shows playing in my frontal lobe. Beyond that is the vastness of this: a late spring morning, the hummingbirds zooming toward the feeder, the dog suddenly up from his long nap to watch a carpenter bee floating toward the walnut tree, the tired car, mud-splattered, napping on the pavement, the delicate wind winding through all that’s opening, doing its thing, then collapsing back again. Like me who will soon close this computer and take a nap on this porch while the world whirls in place.

Weeding in the Rain: Everyday Magic, Day 938

Did you know you can sing “Weeding in the Rain” to the same tune as “Singing in the Rain”? In a sense, both songs are about falling in love, at least for Gene Kelly and me. After weeks of not getting to the garden for a garden variety of reasons — book release stuff to organize, too cold, too muddy, too dry, more book release stuff to do, too tired, third winter arriving, yet more book release things to check off the list, and oh, why go outside when I can lie on the couch and watch Netflix? — it was time.

I felt that call of the garden as soon as Ken and I stepped out for our evening walk around the edges of the fields. “Let’s just stay here and weed,” I reasoned, but no, he felt we just had to walk, so walk we did — taking in big vistas of elegant displays of great could verticality. By the time we got back, I headed straight for the raised beds where I should have planted stuff back in mid- to late-March. I sat on a ledge of one of the beds, started pulling out invasives and falling back in love with gardening.

Although you wouldn’t know it if you look at our gardens in, say, July when the heat and chiggers make me throw up my hands and use the word “fuck” numerous time as my people (New Jerseyans) are prone to do, I actually like weeding the best. I like it more than that fussy, get-it-right planting. I even like it more than harvesting although it is a luscious thing — quelle surprise! — to lift a leaf and find some nestling cucumbers. Weeding — the daily bread of a keeping a garden — is extraordinarily satisfying to me for many reasons.

  • I get my hands moving rhythmically in and out of dirt, which is one of the things cheap cialis and levitra hands are made to do.
  • If, like me, you imagine each weed as a pesky worry — everything from what to remember to buy at the grocery store or why someone won’t return my call to whether I’ll ever get over being too much of a people-pleaser — there’s great catharsis to be had. Pulling out invasions works well for the mind as well as the garden. Each weed is another niggling bit of anxiety, fear, and dread tossed out of the vacinity.
  • It feels really good to work hard in concert with plants, dirt, light, wind, and in tonight’s case, water. My body chimes as if beautiful music just swept through me. There’s something deeply cleansing about getting down and dirty on ground level.
  • Then there’s the artistic accomplishment: when I finish weeding a bed, I feel like I just revised a poem (which, incidentally, is the same process). Or I feel like I just made my bed (loyal readers know about how the  “Clean bed, clear head” advice has helped me and some of you).
  • Weeding also allows what we want to grow the necessary air time and space to actually grow — another satisfying symbol of reality!

Now weeding in the rain is all this and more as the drops fall on the my back and the backs of my hands while the wind and rain thicken up. I sat on the dirt,  turning increasingly to mud, deep in my groove of reaching, pulling, tossing. By the time I finished, I was about 80% soaked, and walking to the back deck, eyeing the flower beds, I thought of squatting and beginning it all over again, but I figured I’d save that for another day because I got too busy singing, “I’m weeeeeeeding in the rain, just weeeeeeeding in the rain! What a wonderful feeling! I’m happy again!”

Annual Magnolia Walk: Everyday Magic, Day 935

Every March, I seek the magnolia trees growing recklessly in Kansas where it’s almost guaranteed that their tree-full of pink blossoms will meet Mean Old Mr. Winter with a fury. These trees are meant to grow in warmer climes, but they seem to survive okay here despite an annual attack (or two) of icy temperatures, turning those fragrant and curvy blossoms sad and brown-edged.

I love magnolia trees. Let me be more honest: I really and deeply love magnolia blossoms, and it’s one of my recurring nightmares to miss them in their prime, especially since those prime weeks can be reduced to a few days, depending on the mood swings of the weather. Today is such a cusp: it was in the low 60s, windy with a particular kind of cold wind that announced far more cold was coming. Tonight? A low of 23 expected. So I set out to be with my people, I mean, trees.

Here is the one I cozied up with the most because I was ill-dressed for that cold wind. It’s a twin, accompanied by another magnolia on the other side of the front of Central Junior High School. These trees guard this bastion of changing hormone levels like statues of golden lions, except without the gold or the lion. Looking up through the tree, once again, I was enthralled,  and grateful. Some blossoms aren’t able to last nearly long enough, so when it’s time, it’s time.

As someone who also hasn’t mastered much of the art of holding back, I resonate with these trees, growing in a different climate than were they were native, but homing in to beauty and exuberance none-the-less. Here is my poet about these friends:

Magnolia Tree in Kansas

 

This is the tree that breaks

into blossom too early each March,

killing its flowers. This is the tree

that hums anyway in its pool of fallen

petals, pink as moonlight. Not a bouquet

on a stick. Not a lost mammal in the clearing

although it looks like both with its explosions

of rosy boats – illuminated, red-edged.

Not a human thing but closer to what we might be

than the careful cedar or snakeskin sycamore.

It cries. It opens. It submits. In the pinnacle

of its stem and the pits of its fruitless fruit,

it knows how a song can break the singer.

In the brass of its wind, it sings anyway.

Tree of all breaking. Tree of all upsidedown.

Tree that hurts in its bones and doesn’t care.

Tree of the first exhalation

landing and swaying, perfume and death,

all arms and no legs. Tree that never

learns to hold back.

Equinox Quirks in East Lawrence: Everyday Magic, Day 933

Nothing like a brisk walk on the first day of spring in East Lawrence with a good friend. Along the way, we saw many more friendly sites, all illuminating the wonderful quirkiness of East Lawrence just on the cusp of leafing out and flowering forth.

First, there is a totem tree of sorts, complete with a glow-in-the-dark giant cricket, strange moppet-like figure living in the hole, and a kind of anime carving on top. It’s something new, I believe, just sprouted on a quiet street, and in the process, it reminds me of how the creative just a big plastic bug away.

As we move on, we find lots of gardens tumbling themselves into a few daffodils here, some hyacinth there, all happily unfurling because of the recent rain after too long a drought. Down Pennsylvania Street, we discover the cloudy days makes more than the vegetation pop. Here’s a lovely purple-to-electric-blue-trimmed home, still flying the flag of some Christmas lights, bringing whimsy and verve to a quiet street.

No East Lawrence trek is ever complete without stopping at the Wishing Bench, something that started with just a bench and a few ribbons, then carnival-Bollywood-exploded into all manner of color and texture. As we were sitting there, casting out our wishes to the air, a man with a colorful sign saying he was “homeless, not hopeless,” called out to us about how he sits in that bench wishing everyday. He’s even helped bolster some of the soggy wood around it, and he was now musing about improving his efforts with some nails. We didn’t have any nails or dollars to give him, but we shared the Wishing Bench magic, all of us affirming that the bench’s slogan — “You will not be disappointed” — is true. Adding to that truth are new items — a tea pot for one, plus many plastic, woven, knitted, and found critters from various dimensions of the galaxy. I already wasn’t disappointed.

Toward the end of the walk, we were taken by the peeling paint on the top of a stand-alone garage, almost iridescent in the cloud-light. Many shades of sky permeated the layers of time on the worn siding. It reminded me that this moment is composed of Wabi Sabi, the Japanese quality with no English equivalent that can mean the perfection of imperfection, or the beauty of passing memory, or simply, what’s alive and storied all along us as we age and change.

Returning, I remembered that we live in a Wabi Sabi world, and there’s nothing like walking through that world to remember that.

Prevernal Wonders: Everyday Magic, Day 932

I love the prevernal season perhaps best of all: that space between the start of spring and before the leafing out of the big, green world. There’s such a brief series of moment between the last dregs of winter and first flush of spring, snow and daffodils, or sub-zero nights and thunderstorm afternoons. All show us that there is no line between seasons, just a two-steps-forward, four-steps-back, one-leap-forth, and a-crash-to-the-cold-ground dance.

Last night, I was acutely aware of this when we took a sunset walk across part of the field, up the hill, and through the woods, all the trees so dry that we were snapping off interfering branches as we went to make the trail more of a trail. Yet in the middle of this drought moment, there sky exhaled humidity, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel so thirsty. The clouds cleared, the sky darkened, and over the horizon of time and weather, finally some rain arrived at 4 a.m.

Having woken myself up from a nightmare in which I was the entire KU men’s basketball team, rushing around my house to lock all the doors against impending danger, I sat up in time to see lightning in the distance. I stayed up, convincing myself I wasn’t fragmented in all those star basketball players but just one woman watching the world change to rain.

This morning, the deck and gravel drive held shallow puddles, the top of the car was wet, and the grass around our house was amazingly and suddenly greening up, as if someone crayoned a black-and-white drawing of this world while we slept. Cottonwood Mel’s branches are  full of buds for the leaves to come. The one lone  backyard daffodil, stunted but in bloom will soon have lots of company.

This prevernal time in Kansas is famous for bringing us all four seasons in a day, so I don’t hold onto what sweet, damp, and shining weather is given to us at this moment, but maybe that’s one of the great meanings of in-between times. Change is coming, following an old pattern but unfurling in its own mysterious way. It’s outside of my control, but at least, I can still keep going outside, the air — whatever temperature it is — remembering me to who I am beyond my ideas about myself, and helping me remember what’s real.