That’s what Neighbor Fred called little Wren yesterday while he was pruning our apricot tree. It was a gorgeous day, almost hit 70℉ with abundant sunshine. He wasn’t wrong: as pruned twigs clustered with fat buds hit the ground, Wren trailed along behind him eating the buds from the twigs. Have you ever?
Fred had said he’d be happy to help me prune the tree, but in truth I was even less help than Wren. I sat on a bench and kept him entertained with mindful conversation when I wasn’t wrapt in the phoebes calling around the house. I heard at least two, maybe three, and one of them perched atop the roof and called and called for a mate. Fingers crossed!
Once Fred had provided her with all those snackies, Wren decided he could be her friend, and finally let him pet her. Ooo, he did it just right!
After our arduous work supervising pruning, we sat on the patio for lunch, and enjoyed a second exciting bird. Pinyon Jays are moving through, and some of the flock stopped to drink at the birdbath. All I need is a third bird, and I’ll be calm.
I’ve learned over the past few years how not to tend a pond. For a constellation of reasons, I let the curly rushes get out of control. (Among them, I didn’t know or bother to figure out the best time to not disturb the frogs breeding cycle.) I meant to clear some out last summer but didn’t get to it. With this summer half over, it was time to dive in. I found to my dismay that not only was the top of the pond choked with rushes, but they had grown a mat of roots two feet thick all the way to the floor of the pond. Yesterday I discovered that getting in and pulling wasn’t going to cut it, so today I took a pruning saw and literally cut blocks of roots out, heaving them up onto the lip one at a time.
Good Tim was working elsewhere in the yard, and when I had a big enough pile I hollered, and he came with the garden cart to haul a load to the compost. He laughed at the spectacle, which made me laugh. Then he asked, “Do you still have fish in there, or just frogs?”
“No fish, and I don’t think there are anymore frogs either,” I said. “I think it’s gone anaerobic.”
“There’s a frog right there,” he said, “right behind you. A big one.”
I turned around slowly and two feet behind me, floating on a mat of lily roots I was saving to replant, sat a beautiful northern leopard frog. I laughed. He laughed. I kept laughing. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so lightly with pure joy. It’s been a rough summer. I sat back into the rushes, resting in the cushion of their massive root mat, cool water up to my shoulders, and laughed.
Good Tim hauled a huge load of roots and rushes off to the compost, and headed off to his next job. I sat in the pond and pulled some more roots and laughed some more. Wren always has to check on me when I laugh, so she came to the edge and then accidentally jumped in. All summer she’s just leapt across the pond or into the rushes chasing grasshoppers, and only gotten her toes wet. I grabbed her and hugged her to me, sitting in the root cushion, and whispered how nice and cool it was, how she was safe, what a good girl she is, until she stopped shaking and relaxed a little. Then I released her onto the edge and she raced off to roll herself dry. I sat and laughed a few more minutes and then climbed out of the pond and came in for a hot shower.
Later, both of us dry and happy, we checked out the apricot tree. I’m grateful that neighbor Syd brought me some apricots from her tree, because of the zillion babies that had been on mine, only a couple of dozen managed to hang on long enough to mature and ripen. Most of those were way out of reach on one tall limb, where the birds have been feasting on them for days. Oh well.
Topaz enjoys lap time on her brand new rag rug that Garden Buddy made for her. She and I are both grateful for it! More gratitude for rag rugs coming soon.
I was looking for an image of a seesaw the other day to use in a slideshow about meditation. I ended up finding one on a free stock photo site that worked well for the idea I wanted to convey, but not before I recalled this picture that was taken more than forty years ago. In a very small world of perhaps three to five people, it’s iconic. I couldn’t imagine where my copy might be, so I texted my friend Doodles to see if she had “the seesaw picture” handy; she texted her daughter, the baby in the swing in the foreground. It took a few days, but the image was excavated and texted to me. Ah, technology!
None of us had recalled the baby in the swing. At the time it was taken, we had all marveled at the perfect balance Jerry and I had achieved on the seesaw. That had taken some time, and we sat there for quite awhile; long enough, maybe, for Doodles to run back upstairs to the apartment to get her camera. I’m fascinated looking at it now for so many reasons. And so grateful. Grateful for the friendships that it represents that have lasted lifetimes, grateful for the halcyon days it recalls of youth and optimism; grateful for the technology of the time that captured it on film, and the tech of today that enabled it to reach me in minutes after it was found. I’m grateful for joy it brought to the young adults in that moment, the spirit of play and perseverance, and for the symbol it became through the years of that perfect moment on the playground. How young we were! How red my hair was! I’m grateful that we are all four still alive!
And I’m fascinated by the trick of memory that none of us recalled the baby in the swing, but only the marvel of the balancing act. I’m fascinated to see Jerry’s perfect yogic posture and my even then asymmetry. Ever since the aches and pains of aging have made me aware of the imbalance of my skeletal structure, I guess I’ve imagined that at some point I might have had better alignment. But even then the stiff right hip couldn’t release the leg, even then the spine had no lumbar curve. I’m grateful for the compassionate perspective this realization gives on my past, present, and future.
Meanwhile, in the garden, there is another sort of balance: that sweet spot of spring when it’s still cold at night and flowers are blooming. Yesterday it snowed off and on; this morning I enjoyed a rare chorus of redwing blackbirds.
Apricot and forsythia are in bloom even as the wood rack is still stacked full. I planted three columbines in these cages this morning and deep-watered the tree.
These used oxygen cannulas might be perfect tree ties.
More tulips are opening in my own private Netherlands bed, and the bright morning face of this yellow tulip hides behind blushing petals at sundown.
Wren nibbles her favorite spring snack, the tender leaves and tiny buds of the mat daisies.
I continue to navigate balance between joy and grief, my small sanctuary and planetary chaos, and find myself grateful every day for the calming influence of mindfulness practice. The gift of equanimity is indeed immeasurable.
We ran errands yesterday. I had to run to the post office, and thought while I was out I might as well go buy some dirt and red salvias at the garden center. I was grateful for the company of my little friend, who charmed everyone at Afton’s, and I was grateful for Afton herself, who runs the ‘new’ garden center on the west end of Rogers Mesa. And run she did, running herself ragged making sure I and other customers found everything we wanted. I was also looking for rosemary, and a cherry tree, and came home with all those things and a few more: strawberries and columbines as well.
I’d had my heart set on one kind of sour cherry tree for no reason other than that someone had recommended that variety; but while we were at Afton’s we found a different cultivar called North Star. I’m grateful I was able to support a local business owned and run by a young woman putting her heart into it, rather than order a tree online. I was grateful that we managed to fit everything in my hardy little Honda and still have room for Wren.
Then I fell last night. It got so windy before bedtime that I went out in the dark (with a headlamp) to move the cherry tree up against something, so it wouldn’t blow over in its pot and get damaged. Instead I got a little damaged: but I’m grateful it wasn’t worse. It could have been so much worse. As it was, I bruised a hip and scraped an ankle, tripping on the wire edging as I stepped over it holding the pot; but the cherry tree was unscathed, which is what really mattered. Oh, and that I didn’t break a hip or anything else.
In the morning the mini-tulip had opened, as well as the first yellow tulip in My Own Private Netherlands bed (below). I can hardly wait for these rows of tulips to bloom all together; but I don’t know that they will, and even if they do they won’t last long, so I’m not hanging my happiness on this stimulus-driven pleasure. Instead, my happiness lies in the satisfaction and fun I derive from the idea of color-blocking tulips; from working in the dirt, from spending time outside in the garden appreciating the transient beauty of each blossom as it opens; from simply being out in and belonging to nature.
I’m grateful for enjoying morning coffee outside under the apricot tree bursting with popcorn blossoms, under a bluebird sky, buzzing with bees, while a meadowlark sings…
I’m grateful for meaningful conversation this morning about grief and guilt, life and death, meaning, laughter, and joy. And I’m grateful for help in the garden this afternoon. All the prep work we did enabled me to plant the cherry tree in a hole deep and wide, filled with fresh, nutritious, slightly acidic soil. Years ago I planted a cherry tree in this same location, and it died in its second year. I don’t know why. It had come from the equivalent of the tree orphanage, those straggly struggling trees that stand lonely outside City Market every year until the last of them dies; so I chalked it up to childhood trauma. But it could have been planter error.
Ever since it died, I have wanted to replace it, but for one reason or another it hadn’t happened. As I continue to age, I’m pondering how long I’ll be able to live here. Suddenly, replacing the cherry tree assumed paramount importance this season. I’ve done everything right with this one –so far– testing the surrounding soil for pH and nutrients, and then filling the hole accordingly; roughing up the rootball which was pretty compacted; leaving on the protective sheath to protect against sunburn. Tomorrow I’ll tie supports from the stakes to the trunk to stabilize it from wind. I’ll pay more attention to its water and fertilizer needs. I’m grateful for this cherry tree, and so I’ll tend to it tenderly, with exquisite care.
One of my dear next-door neighbors came over this morning to help pick the last basket of apricots off the tree. We dropped plenty for the deer, Wren, and Biko, and left plenty pecked ones on the tree for the birds. I was grateful for help with the last basket, and she was happy to take them home. I’m grateful beyond words for the joy this amazing tree brings to me and to others, for its beauty all year long, for the history we’ve shared, and for the generosity of its harvest this year.
I said I wouldn’t show her face, but she’s just too pretty to hide!
The cloud show this evening was spectacular. It was followed after dark by dry lightning and loud thunder. I spent an hour playing thunder-coat to a trembling little dog instead of doing dishes, but I’m grateful she let me hold her through her terror and gradually calmed down enough to go out again before bedtime.
Tonight, I’m grateful for my martini-buddy Connie who taught me how to can, for Chrissie Lou who suggested cream cheese with my warm jam on toast, for Ruthie who started me on my sourdough journey all those years ago, for Neighbor Fred who prunes the apricot tree, and for the bounty this precious tree has provided this year. I’ve frozen ten cups of halves already, given away bags and boxes, and today canned five pints of jam, with a seemingly endless supply of fruit left on the tree. I can spend only a few hours a day on my feet currently because of plantar fasciitis and sciatica, and so am alternating daily between picking and processing apricots among other standup obligations. I’m grateful to remember that I’m not the only one suffering, and that even with consistently limiting physical pain, I’m able to balance and enjoy every good thing my little life has to offer; including remembering that just like me, there are thousands or millions of others around the world experiencing similar pains and limitations. I wish that they also might find joy, pleasure, and meaning in the simplest elements of their days.
Even before coffee I picked three more baskets of apricots in the cool morning air, using the step stool to reach some of the higher, riper fruits. Up at the very top the birds have left only pits on stems. Topaz has added my coffee and kindle time to her morning routine, settling in for a cuddle as I read for the past few days. I’m grateful she’s becoming more affectionate in her middle age.
I was chasing this western tiger swallowtail butterfly all around the pot when little Wren strode through. Getting a shot like this makes me ridiculously happy. If this were the only image I had to show for today I’d be very grateful.
But then I got this one and was doubly delighted.
Potato gnocchi stuffed with mushroom-cheese filling…
I’m grateful tonight for so many things, including Zoom Cooking with Amy: Gnocchi Ripieni edition. We both started yesterday, making the dough and filling ahead of time. I only got as far yesterday as baking the potatoes, which I scraped from the skins and refrigerated, then grated cheddar on and baked the skins for a snack with Penzeys Chip & Dip seasoned sour cream. What a great instant dip! So simple, so delicious!
This morning I mashed the cold potatoes and added flour, salt, an egg, and a few dashes of fresh nutmeg to make the dough. I also sautéed the mushrooms, and after they cooled blitzed them with the cheeses to make the filling.
Remember, don’t crowd the mushrooms! I just learned this wisdom recently and since then have added mushrooms to the skillet a few handfuls at a time, waiting til each batch cooks down a bit before adding the next.
Once we had our zoom drinks made, we quartered the chilled dough, and rolled each quarter, then chopped it into 15 gram rounds. A half teaspoon of filling in each, then pinched them closed and set on a tray to chill in the fridge for fifteen minutes, as we continued chatting while shaping and filling the rest of the dough.
When the second tray was filled, we swapped out trays and cooked the chilled ones in batches in boiling water until they floated. (Later I put the second tray in the freezer, and will bag the gnocchis tomorrow, to pull out and cook for next Boyz Lunch.)
As my second batch boiled I drained the first batch and kept them warm over the gnocchi water. Then we sautéed them in butter and olive oil, and at the end I added a couple tablespoons of the hot starchy water to the skillet and swirled to make a silky sauce. The recipe calls for “a pinch of parmesan.” Whoever heard of a pinch of parmesan? I grated a generous amount and topped the bowl, then we sat down to dine together.
I’m grateful for every chance I get to cook with my precious friend.
Wren enjoys a morning nap as I drink coffee on the patio.
I’m grateful again today for the cheese sandwich: I’ve truly become addicted, not only to the cheese sandwich but to exploring its infinite possibilities. Mayo with Penzeys’ sandwich sprinkle, Havarti, potato chips, lettuce, apricot halves and mustard on homemade sourdough. Crunchy, creamy, tart and sweet: so simple, so delicious. I thought twice about the apricots but concluded Why not?
I’m grateful to be able to share the bounty. Yesterday it was the old doe reaching for low fruit; this afternoon it was the tragic buck picking up fallen fruit under the tree.
This evening the old doe had her brave fawns out grazing in the new green grass next door.
I’m grateful every day of every year for this beautiful apricot tree as it steadfastly lives its own life, whether or not its able to provide fruit for the rest of us in summer. It offers flowers reliably each spring, followed tender leaves that start out the blush-tinged green as its ripening fruit in conducive years; its leaves transform to yellow and fall, and it rests and rejuvenates in dark winter bark, year after year. It doesn’t ask for much: We tend it with water, occasional food, and skillful pruning, and it gives and gives.
Wren surveys the fruits of her labors this evening. She did a great job supervising and letting me know when I dropped one. Haven’t weighed the baskets yet, but I’m grateful for the first apricot harvest today, and plan to make some jam tomorrow.
Here’s the tree after our evening’s picking, by far the largest apricot crop ever on this precious tree. Most are not ripe yet, but the birds are already marauding some. Time to make space in the freezer!
The beautiful apricot tree is a direct and constant connection with neighbor Fred who prunes it every spring and taught me how to tend it so it flourishes.
I’ve been pondering the value of Connection for a few days now. Both Covid and Mindfulness have changed my understanding of connection. As most people around me ‘move on’ with their lives or return to pre-Covid ways of being my sense of connection in my community has shifted. At the same time, mindfulness has expanded my sense of connection with people in general as I practice the Four Immeasurable attitudes, wishing happiness and well-being for all, and working to reduce suffering of others as I’m able. I feel less seen by a few nearby, and more understood by many afar. I’ve learned that meaningful online connections can be cultivated authentically with old friends and new, that I can make a positive change in people’s lives from a distance, and that all nourishing connections are worth sustaining. Of these, my connection to the natural world is bone-deep and paramount; and my connection with my innermost self is stronger than its ever been.
So many of the things in my home represent connections with dear people, past times, beloved places. Even a simple breakfast is loaded with connection. Setting aside the larger interdependence involved in the technology of a Kindle and all the humans and resources necessary for it to exist at my breakfast table, there’s the connection I feel occasionally to my sister-in-law when I remember that she influenced me to buy a Paperwhite: “I know you like to sit outside and read,” she said, “so that would be the best Kindle for you.” And what am I reading this morning on my Kindle Paperwhite? Foster, recommended by my most literary friend Sarahbelle, and so I feel connection with her as I open it up.
Acknowledging gratitude for all the interconnections that brought coffee beans into my home and enabled them to be ground and brewed, I feel special gratitude for the unique mug I drink from which symbolizes connection with two wonderful women in Florida, one who hand-built the mug and one who gave it to me. Those connections flare in awareness each time I use the mug. The connections among plants and humans that brought flour, salt, water and sugar into my house as ingredients in the toast and jam are many and far-flung: The sourdough itself traces back to one friend I haven’t seen for years but connect with in my heart every time I use the starter, and the sour cherry jam reinforces my connection with two dear friends the next mesa over. The plate is an anchor to Amy, whom I never fail to think of when I pull it from the handmade cupboard that links me to the Wood Monks who built my kitchen. I’m grateful for connection in all the ways it manifests in my little life.
