This Week in the Garden
Tag Archive | Wren
Balance
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.
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.
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.
The Cherry Tree
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.
Perspective
This week’s bread, one-quarter rouge de Bordeaux flour and the rest all-purpose, made another beautiful loaf. As it was cooling, I was craving cream cheese-olive spread, so I whipped up a batch, and enjoyed it on the warm heel and one slice of fresh bread.
Later that night I finally made the lasagna rolls I’d been planning for several weeks, first chopping and sautéing kale and mushrooms with a few minced garlic cloves.
Then the veggies get mixed in with ricotta, parmesan, and an egg, and spread over cooked (and cooled) lasagna noodles. What a juggling act that is! The noodles have to be cooked enough to be pliable, cooled enough not to melt the cheeses, yet warm enough not to have dried out.
Then each noodle gets rolled up neatly and nestled in a bed of marinara, topped with more marinara, and sprinkled with ample shredded mozzarella.
The result is a pan full of richly delicious single-serve lasagna portions, so delicious, so convenient. I froze some in pairs, but found that one roll made an ample meal. This was a five ⭐️ recipe, and I’m grateful to my vegetarian cousin for sharing it.
The past few days have finally afforded some time to spend outside for all of us. Biko is enjoying free rein in the whole yarden at last, and so grateful to be out of his round pen. He still has to come in overnight until temps stay above 40℉, but as soon as I put him out in the morning he ambles up to the spot that gets first light and sunbathes there until he’s warm enough to start his morning rounds grazing fresh grasses and weed sprouts. Wren reminds me each evening when it’s time to go find him. Even after all winter without this job, she hasn’t forgotten her responsibility, and seeks him with bounding alacrity as soon as I ask her to “Find Biko!”
I’m grateful for the right tools for the job, as always. After cutting back bunch grasses with the hardy little Sunjoe yesterday I warmed up enough to lose the vest, and then powered up the weed torch for the first time since I bought it last fall. This is a great little tool for weeding crevices and other hard to reach spots. I’m grateful for the energy and time to be able to work in the yarden for a little bit of each day between shifts at the desk.
This morning when I stepped outside after meditation, I got a little jolt seeing Topaz resting on top of Stellar’s grave. They were close. I’m sure I’m projecting, but there was a poignance to her lying there, where I’ve never seen her before. She’s still not too fond of Wren, and I think she, like me, still misses her big old dog friend sometimes. But maybe it’s just a cozy spot for a morning nap. And maybe I’ve just been feeling the loss of that great dog a little bit extra this past week, as I mourn the unexpected death of a bright young man whose mother I’ve been close with since before his birth forty years ago. I continue to feel the shockwaves of his parents’ and siblings’ grief a few thousand miles away and a week later. I’ve known a few friends over the years who have lost a child in various ways, and each time the magnitude of their loss has paralyzed me. I cannot imagine anything worse.
Now, with the wisdom of age, the sharp personal grief I experience for my friend is softened by an expanded perspective: As I hold empathy for this one profound loss for one family I love, I can also feel compassion for the thousands of mothers across the world who lost a child on that same day. Depending where you ask, between 16,000 and 30,000 people under age 40 die every day worldwide; one source reports that 14,000 children under age 5 die daily across the world. As the Buddha teaches in the Five Remembrances, I am of the nature to grow old; I am of the nature to grow ill; I am of the nature to die; all that is dear to me and everyone I love is of the nature to change and I will be separated from them. I am grateful for the (still tenuous) equanimity that I’ve found in reckoning with the truth of death and impermanence.
I’m grateful for the ineluctable return of Spring.
Springtime in the Rockies
Wren and I walked between campgrounds at the state park the other day. It’s been too blustery for comfort a lot of the past week, and it was windy that day. But we enjoyed this remarkable recreational resource nonetheless. The first of three bridges we crossed was this one over Iron Creek as it flows toward the reservoir. I was reminded once again, with gratitude, of my neighbor who orchestrated this trail so many years ago, a true legacy.
When big dogs lived here there was no tulip predation. But the past couple of springs have wrought havoc on my bulbs, because the deer have decimated the leaves as they grow, diminishing flowering; and then nipped the flowers if they even had a chance to open. So I’ve bought cages for some of them, and while it looks silly at least I get to enjoy the gorgeous colors as the rest of the yarden gradually greens up.
Last night I was grateful for a virtual cocktail with a new friend across the mountains. She suggested the Sierra Madre, a bourbon drink I hadn’t heard of and thoroughly enjoyed, with honey simple syrup and fresh lemon juice, capped with a float of red wine. The orange ice cube made it that much more elegant. I’m grateful for everything new about this happy hour, including my new habit of stopping at one small drink on the rare evenings anymore that I do imbibe alcohol.
My heart lifted today when the apricot burst into bloom, literally between morning and afternoon, and then evening light offered this exquisite image. I’m grateful for springtime in the Rockies.
Resilience
I am profoundly sickened by this report of the former president (convicted rapist, coup-plotter, insurrectionist, and defendant in four criminal cases) posting an image of President Biden bound in the back of a MAGA pickup truck. I literally lost my appetite when I read this. How is it possible that this madman continues to evade justice for dragging our country ever deeper into depravity with statements and actions that would have landed any other American in jail long ago? Seriously. How is it possible that this lunatic hasn’t yet been restrained?
Major media of all stripes continue to essentially ignore his vociferous threats to American freedoms no matter how explicit he gets. Voters wearing blinders of greed, ignorance, and hatred see him through some perverted tunnel vision that allows them to continue to support him. The man desecrated The BIBLE, for fuck sake, and some Christians still sing his praises. I can’t help but wonder whether my uncle the General would have continued to support him through this astonishing trajectory.
In the summer of 2016, when I was anxious about a possible Drumpf victory, I asked my Republican Christian uncle what he thought about the potential dangers of his presidency. My uncle said, “He’s a loose cannon, I’ll grant you that, but once he gets in office he’ll settle down and do the job right.” My uncle didn’t live to see that his naive vision failed to transpire. Would he have lost his moral compass along the way like so many of his fellow party and church members, if he hadn’t succumbed to a brain tumor? Would he have drunk the MAGA kool-aid? The fascist GOP candidate must be stopped in his march to destroy American democracy. His USA is not what the Founding Fathers had in mind. It’s time to lock him up!
Like many decent, hardworking Americans who truly believe in life, liberty, and the pursuit of genuine happiness for all Americans, and in the inherent value and equality of all human beings, my mental and emotional resilience is being put to the test. I’m grateful that mindfulness practice has made me more capable of handling the assault of the fascist ideology that has erupted like pus from the bowels of the Republican Party. But it still makes me sick.
I’m profoundly grateful for the solace of the forest, the rhythms of nature, the coming of spring; and for the community of kind and virtuous souls I’m fortunate to know in the neighborhood and beyond. I’m grateful for the teachings of the Buddha and the teachers who guide me on the path of peace. I’m grateful for the weekend celebration of Christ’s resurrection and pray that his preachings of peace and love will prevail in the hearts of his followers: that those who wear blinders now will see the truth of his light before it’s too late.
I’m grateful for variations on a theme: the Cheese Sandwich in a bowl. This cauliflower-cheddar soup recipe was so simple, so delicious; especially with the last toast from the tarragon loaf. I hope my appetite rebounds tomorrow.
A Quiet Week
It’s been a quiet week at Mirador, though one of endless interest and rich experience. It’s been a balancing act to hold all the simple fullness of every day at the same time as fatigue, both physical and emotional. But we’re up to the challenge! There’s been enough in my energy budget every day (except Friday) to get some fulfilling work done, enjoy the forest and the yarden, and share meaningful connection with friends and neighbors.
Wren always has plenty of energy. It’s a joy to wake to her enthusiasm for each day, and participate in her boundless curiosity. We enjoyed our first walk to the rim in a long time, appreciating the ice, a vivid young piñon sprout, and the first burst of Indian Paintbrush from the desert soil.
In the garden proper, at least a few rows of greens are thriving, though whether the carrots and beets will sprout remains to be seen. I’m grateful for the success of this experimental New Year’s planting, and gradually exposing the greens to unfiltered sunlight and precipitation, while still pulling their blanket over them most nights. This afternoon a couple of slow, melting inches of snow fell, enough to give them good moisture before I covered them in anticipation of a cold overnight. The hardy tulips are thriving.
We were able to enjoy a few nice meditations outside, with the cheerful songs of house finches, and inquisitive squawks and chips of northern flickers and mountain bluebirds. There’s a sense of sadness and loss, as I realize that bird songs are fewer than they used to be; and a sense of longing to be where there are more birds both in number and diversity.
I’m grateful for another successful loaf of bread, which I was able to share with a friend passing through town. In this loaf I mixed some dried tarragon, which gives it just a hint of herbal flavor. Above, after the overnight rise, silky and malleable…
… until the third fold out of the bowl, when the dough strengthens enough to resist the pull of hands, and shapes into a firm ball after the fourth fold. Ninety minutes later, it’s increased in size and smoothed its surface, all through the alchemy of microorganisms.
After the first twenty minutes in the Dutch oven at 450℉, I removed the lid to allow for continued expansion, resulting in another gorgeous loaf. Life’s simple pleasures. Throughout the week, the awareness of mortality has been front and center, as I taught a unit on Identity and Transformation, shared in gratitude for our friend’s miraculous survival, reckoned with my own attitude toward my body, and heard from cousins about their mother’s interment at Arlington National Cemetery. I was especially grateful during our monthly zoom this afternoon to learn more about my maternal grandfather, who was persona non grata as I grew up. I knew only two things about him: he was a dangerous drunk, and my mother was terrified of him. Her brother’s children were raised with a lot more information, which they shared with her sister’s daughter and me this afternoon; the first time either of us had heard more than a few words about him. Our grandmother never spoke of him to us, nor did our mothers.
Our male cousins were able to shed a new perspective on the silence. They had been raised to respect him, by hearing about his military accomplishments; and they knew some horrific things that befell him during World War I, which opened my heart with compassion in retrospect. How wonderful to receive this gift of perspective and some healing of generational trauma. Yes, he was scary and drunken as our mothers grew up; and though his wife loved him, she divorced him to protect the family. He suffered from PTSD long before it was named, back when it was called shellshocked. We learned today that not only had he been gassed, he’d been left for dead in a pile of bodies. When they went to move his corpse, he groaned, and was taken for medical attention. They had already cut his initials into his big toe to identify the body. Jesus. What we’re capable of, then and now. Not that much has changed in human aggression, except for scale and technology. I’m grateful for every peaceful day in my life, for every quiet week.
23,795 Days
I’ve so much to be grateful for. These little irises going strong through snow and cold and sun all week exemplify the fragility, beauty, and resilience of life. They show up day after day, year after year, just like the rest of us. Even as their blooms fade and their leaves grow tall, then brown and die back, their little bulb hearts keep beating underground all year, even when they lie dormant through winter.
After sharing the dramatic photo of tumbleweeds in Utah over last weekend, I noticed the new weedpile stacked up in the corner fence of the neighbors’ field along my driveway. Mostly weedy tall mustards, but that darker spiny blob toward the west is a tumbleweed… and there are several more along the fenceline. I can only be grateful there are not more, and then turn my attention to find gratitude elsewhere.
Like in this perfect loaf of sandwich bread. Because sourdough is a living thing, and bread is an art, I have yet to get utterly consistent results, but I continue to practice. I have to laugh at my attachment to my contentment ritual, which includes a cheese sandwich for lunch while watching one TV show, and then another show or two after the workday is done, with another meal or snack. So when I don’t have bread I can get a little flustered about what to make for lunch. When I don’t have TV, well, that was a new challenge last week. It worked out pretty well, as I had to focus on a project early in the week and spent the evenings on the computer. But the second day of no TV, the first day of new bread, I broke the mold and made a sandwich for dinner and streamed RuPaul’s Drag Race España All-Stars episode 5 so I didn’t get behind. I’m grateful for ample technological options in this first-world entertainment emergency.
I’m grateful always for drag queens, and to RuPaul who has brought this art form into the mainstream, introducing many of us who were raised in rigid, self-righteous, judgmental, narrow-minded and bigoted families and subcultures to the expansive, fabulous creativity, humor and diversity of the drag world. Any given week, I enjoy watching whatever current English-language Drag Race season is airing, and usually an episode from one of the many international franchises available. Once I finish España All-Stars I’ll start Drag Race Belgique Season Two.
Tonight I enjoyed the latest episode of the current season of the original Drag Race, an episode whose time has come. At last the drag queens are stepping up their political presence! In this episode (S16E10, available on MTV or for purchase on Prime), their main challenge was to write verses for and perform this song encouraging gay people and those who love gay people, as well as everyone else, to register and vote! It’s no secret that one presidential candidate will continue to advocate for LGBTQ+ people, and the other will persecute them mercilessly, implementing more hateful laws that will cause even more suffering. I repeat, if the sexual orientation of you or someone you love is anything other than straight, YOU BETTAH VOTE! And there’s only one viable candidate:
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen on another night, because I can’t eat a cheese sandwich for dinner every night, I made Tofu Musubi. I mixed Dijon mustard with a little water, and added some spices and baking powder to flour, then dredged the drained tofu slices in those and fried them until crispy. After cutting the Nori wraps to the right size I tried a scrap on Wren, and she loved it.
I was grateful I could text my Portland sister to remind me what I was forgetting in the construction of the delicious snacks and it was the Furikake, which I located in the tertiary spice cabinet. Then I scooped some Hoisin sauce into a little bowl and sat down to enjoy an incredibly messy supper listening to Radio Swiss Jazz. On account of no TV still.
Days continued to pass, and spring bulbs to open. Spring again. I got to thinking, Realistically, how many more springs might I get to experience here? And the number shocked me. Maybe more than ten, or maybe in the single digits. That got me thinking how many actual days might I have left, which also didn’t seem like many, and that led to wondering how many days I’ve been alive. I am supremely grateful for each of the 27,795 days of this one precious life so far.
I could start wondering how many cheese sandwiches I’ve eaten in all those days, but I’m not gonna go there. I will say, I’m grateful that they seem to be good for my teeth! Or at least, not doing any damage. I went to a new dentist this week, got a new set of x-rays as those haven’t happened since 2012, and got a kick out of the newfangled full-mouth x-ray, which shows no worrisome abnormalities in my mouth and jaw. Yippee! I’m grateful for a clean bill of dental health. (But yuck, look at all those amalgam fillings from the old days, which are starting to crack some of the molars.)
I’m grateful for another lovely sunset inside the kaleidoscope last night, and for a fun playdate for Wren this afternoon. The new neighborhood puppy has learned some restraint since his first encounter with her, and they had a blast chasing each other around the yard. She showed off all her favorite places, and then she showed off her long jump. We were down by the pond, Deb and I minding our own business, and seconds after she told me “He loves the water,” Oso ran right into the curly rushes edging the pond. Which led to him splashing into the water in the middle and paddling to the near side where we stood. He needed a little lift to get out. As we laughed he shook off and took off again. A few minutes later, Wren ran straight for the pond and leapt, clearing the full width of it. What was she thinking? Was she showing off? Was she teaching him? Was she trying to trick him into the water again? He ran after her, right up to the edge, and stopped; stood there for a few seconds puzzling out how to get to her, then ran around. And off they went again. May I find as much delight and gratitude in each of my remaining days as I have in the past five.
Snow Helpers
Wind continued to blow at 40 mph until after I went to bed last night after midnight, but still no snow. The forecast was for less than an inch overnight. Imagine my surprise when I woke at 8 to this view! I’m grateful for this bountiful moisture in early spring, our biggest single snowfall in several years.
Later I had to shovel a couple of paths for her, one to a pee spot out front, and another to her poop tree out back. I didn’t measure but it was well over a foot of snow, around sixteen inches before it warmed up and started to settle. I texted our snowplow guy who had to dig himself out first and then some other neighbors.
By the time he arrived the light deep snow had been melting for a few hours and become dense, wet snow, half as deep and twice as heavy. He tried to charge me $50 for plowing the quarter mile driveway, same as last time. “I can’t do that,” I scolded, “There’s at least twice as much snow as before.” I paid him $75, and then he shoveled a path from the front door to the wood pile, and brushed off the car. I’m so grateful for such a cheerful and kind snow helper.
Idle Rambling
In which Topaz leads the way. It’s Mud Season, and the pathways through the woods are half icy, half muddy, and half dry. So it’s a good time to follow Topaz on a walk because she hates mud and ice, so she finds the driest way through the forest. I’m grateful for idle rambling this afternoon, seeing parts of the woods and old juniper friends we haven’t visited all winter.
