I am the inconstant blogger, made so by equal parts busyness and laziness - the two-headed coin of my being.
How to explain the lapse since I last blogged? I have excuses, plenty of those, but no real explanation other than a lack of cohesive narrative in my life at present.
Fragments are all I have, impressions and fleeting glimpses.
A toad chirps and croaks outside my window at night and in the early morning. I wonder if he is the same toad I unearthed while vigorously hoeing weeds in the garden. I lifted him, his soft body impaled on a tine of the digger, and froze in horror. I gently shook him loose in the shade of the camellia bushes, and when I went back to look for him 20 minutes later, he had hopped away. It is fanciful to believe he is the same night singer I hear when slipping into sleep and as I swim up into bleary consciousness in the morning. But I like to think it is the same toad, trilling forgiveness for having been so brutally roused from his winter hibernation.
The garden itself is in transition from winter to spring. Slowly - and, yes, inconstantly - I try to bring order to the chaos. I pulled my carrots, surprised to find fat golden, purple and white fingers dangling beneath the lacy greens. I rooted out the baby beets, which taste both bitter and sweet and altogether earthy sliced into my daily salad. The sweetpeas are blooming, bless their pink and purple hearts. They smell like heaven. This weekend I will plant my tomatoes.
I helped host a baby shower and then a couple of weeks later held that new baby boy on my lap and breathed in his delicious baby smell. a different kind of heavenly odor from the sweetpeas. This weekend I will cook for his parents and take them food and hold him again.
One night on the sidewalk by Lake Ella, I saw the comet PAN-STARRS through a telescope and then found it in my binoculars, and I understood how people long ago were astounded and even terrified by such a sight. And then I looked through the telescope again and saw Jupiter with its bright moons all in a row, and I gazed at the milky knot of the Pleiades, and - last and best of all - I saw the Orion nebula where stars are born in a vast cloud of cosmic gas.
There was a party that seemed lifted from a dream - all flouncy petticoats and steampunk finery, where I wore a top hat and a sequined halter top and high heels and felt wicked and gay, although in the photos I look stout and a little shy. There was a bare-chested duo of young men who performed amazing feats of balance. There were saucy can-can dancers and lovely models in vintage clothes. There was sultry music and laughter, and outside there was a fire in a cauldron by the garden. It was a perfect party.
I drank too much wine with friends one night while watching "School of Rock" with them and their children, laughing helplessly and loving Jack Black and his baggy-trousered anarchy, happy to be in their family circle of baths and bedtimes and news delivered in snippets and spurts of their vacation at Legoland.
I am haunted by the photo posted on our neighborhood Facebook page of a cat with a terrible wound on its head. I know this cat, an orange and white tom who prowls through my yard with blocky insouciance and scraps with a grey and white male for dominance in the yards along my street. I assumed he was a stray, a member of what my friend Liz calls "the drain kitties," a gang of feral cats that slip like smoke in and out of the subterranean drainage system. Someone posted that he is in fact an owned cat but is prone to roaming and fighting, thus the wound. The grey and white male has not gone unscathed either - I have seen him limping through the back yard favoring one of his hind legs.
The storm that blew through with such drama and pyrotechnics early the other morning woke me from a deep sleep. I had left the living room windows open and the wind blew over a table lamp and some other items. The crash made me sit bolt upright in bed, heart hammering and unsure of where I was. I must have been dreaming of some calamity and the crash seemed to confirm that it wasn't a dream, that something real and violent was happening. Nothing was broken. I set the lamp back in place and curled back up under the comforter to fall asleep again as lightning lit up the white walls of my bedroom.
You see - impressions only, a bit of this, a pinch of that, not a narrative so much as a simmering soup with savory tidbits bobbing to the surface and slipping back under, obscured by the sheen of chicken fat and steam.
I know I will shake off this epistolary spring fever. For now, it's nice to settle into its dreamy cocoon, inconstant but faithful to this insubstantial pageant.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Light thickens
Even framed by electric poles and oak trees, the urban sunset is a glory from my perch on the front stoop. The underbelly of the bank of torn cotton clouds is gilded - first bright apricot, then lemon, then fiery magenta.
There's a soundtrack - doves chittering across the sky like rockets to their roost, the jingle of a cat's collar bell, a squirrel rustling busily in the water oak, snapping twigs and scampering to stash them in the nest it's building.
The clouds again - matte gray above, soft, glowing mauve below. A closer focus - the first sweetpeas of the season an unabashed spray of labial pink on the white fence, red mustard in the garden a glossy aubergine glinting with water drops from the sprinkler.
A catbird is mewing in the camellia bushes and a chickadee scolds the squirrel - they are nesting, too, in the water oak. A dog barks to be let in to dinner and, maybe, the chance to chase dream rabbits on the sofa, with soft woofs and twitching paws.
As the shadows lengthen, the basil puts out one last blast of scent, with a delicate undertone of dill. Sweat from the day's toil in the garden dries on my skin. I need a shower. But there is still a last gasp of sunset and there is good red wine in my glass. My book lies forgotten at my side as I read the twilight ode in the sky.
"Light thickens," Shakespeare wrote in the Scottish play. He meant it as an augur of dire deeds to come. "Good things of the day begin to droop and drowse; while night's black agents to their preys do rouse."
"Light thickens" - such a perfect way to describe the mutable light of sunset and dusk, so ephemeral and yet so sensual you can feel it like the brush of fairy fingers on your face. There was no ill omen in tonight's sky, and night's black agents are nowhere near, and not even a police car siren two streets over can break the gloaming's spell.
There is dirt under my fingernails and new plantings in the garden. Tomorrow, I will plant more. But just now, I will let the dusk settle around me like a gossamer mantle and toast the evening and the rising full moon with the last drop of wine.
There's a soundtrack - doves chittering across the sky like rockets to their roost, the jingle of a cat's collar bell, a squirrel rustling busily in the water oak, snapping twigs and scampering to stash them in the nest it's building.
The clouds again - matte gray above, soft, glowing mauve below. A closer focus - the first sweetpeas of the season an unabashed spray of labial pink on the white fence, red mustard in the garden a glossy aubergine glinting with water drops from the sprinkler.
A catbird is mewing in the camellia bushes and a chickadee scolds the squirrel - they are nesting, too, in the water oak. A dog barks to be let in to dinner and, maybe, the chance to chase dream rabbits on the sofa, with soft woofs and twitching paws.
As the shadows lengthen, the basil puts out one last blast of scent, with a delicate undertone of dill. Sweat from the day's toil in the garden dries on my skin. I need a shower. But there is still a last gasp of sunset and there is good red wine in my glass. My book lies forgotten at my side as I read the twilight ode in the sky.
"Light thickens," Shakespeare wrote in the Scottish play. He meant it as an augur of dire deeds to come. "Good things of the day begin to droop and drowse; while night's black agents to their preys do rouse."
"Light thickens" - such a perfect way to describe the mutable light of sunset and dusk, so ephemeral and yet so sensual you can feel it like the brush of fairy fingers on your face. There was no ill omen in tonight's sky, and night's black agents are nowhere near, and not even a police car siren two streets over can break the gloaming's spell.
There is dirt under my fingernails and new plantings in the garden. Tomorrow, I will plant more. But just now, I will let the dusk settle around me like a gossamer mantle and toast the evening and the rising full moon with the last drop of wine.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Oddments and shards, bits and bobs
Well, I meant to post a nice, long, juicy account of my gad-about weekend, but I got sidetracked. So I will just tell you that I have been skating on thin blue ice over black, icy depths and simultaneously hoping for the thaw.
That's a fancy-pants way of saying I have been blue, y'all, but I hope to pull out of it soon.
Things do seem to pile up.
My trusty vehicular avatar Lois has been laid up in the car hospital for a week now, awaiting major repairs that will cost a bundle I don't have. Thank goodness for my pal Aint Liz, who loaned me her car while she was out of town and can ferry me to work now that she's back.
Then there's the delicate matter of dollar bills, y'all. The less said about that, the better, except to say that if you allow people the opportunity to help - to give, to be generous - they will do so in a way that will humble you and make you glad to be part of this big, compassionate tribe.
And don't even get me started on my poor garden - my winter garden, which is usually my pride and joy. What the caterpillars haven't ruined the drought has starved - all compounded by a gardening style best described as benign neglect. Still, I am eating salad from that garden, and making smoothies with the collard greens, and I'm going to plant a fresh round of seeds this weekend.
And all along I have been thinking about my dear friend Mary Moon, whose mother passed last week. Mary has been sharing her feelings, her process, in her wonderful blog Bless Our Hearts. Reading her blog almost always leaves me feeling tender, but these posts have moved me to remember my own sweet mama's passing and reminded me of how tenuous life can be, and how precious.
It's OK. I'm gonna hitch up my big girl pants and keep skating, as long as my legs hold out and my heart keeps beating. And I will finish the long, juicy post soon, I promise.
Thank y'all for listening.
That's a fancy-pants way of saying I have been blue, y'all, but I hope to pull out of it soon.
Things do seem to pile up.
My trusty vehicular avatar Lois has been laid up in the car hospital for a week now, awaiting major repairs that will cost a bundle I don't have. Thank goodness for my pal Aint Liz, who loaned me her car while she was out of town and can ferry me to work now that she's back.
Then there's the delicate matter of dollar bills, y'all. The less said about that, the better, except to say that if you allow people the opportunity to help - to give, to be generous - they will do so in a way that will humble you and make you glad to be part of this big, compassionate tribe.
And don't even get me started on my poor garden - my winter garden, which is usually my pride and joy. What the caterpillars haven't ruined the drought has starved - all compounded by a gardening style best described as benign neglect. Still, I am eating salad from that garden, and making smoothies with the collard greens, and I'm going to plant a fresh round of seeds this weekend.
And all along I have been thinking about my dear friend Mary Moon, whose mother passed last week. Mary has been sharing her feelings, her process, in her wonderful blog Bless Our Hearts. Reading her blog almost always leaves me feeling tender, but these posts have moved me to remember my own sweet mama's passing and reminded me of how tenuous life can be, and how precious.
It's OK. I'm gonna hitch up my big girl pants and keep skating, as long as my legs hold out and my heart keeps beating. And I will finish the long, juicy post soon, I promise.
Thank y'all for listening.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Voices of the wandering wind
Earlier this week, the birding community was a-twitter with the news that razorbills had been spotted at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge and other areas along the coast, even as far south as Miami on the east coast and Naples on the west coast.
This is extremely rare - the razorbill is an alcid that normally prefers cold North Atlantic waters and doesn't usually venture this far south. I wanted to add the razorbill to my life list, so I rose before dawn this morning and drove through the early morning mist to the refuge.
I didn't see a single razorbill. It was, in fact, not a very birdy day at St. Marks, unless you count the Congress of Coots clogging every pond, pool and channel. They were everywhere in the hundreds, squonking and muttering and preening their tidy black plumage.
I figured I'd do my usual perambulation of the tower trail, just to see if the bald eagles were up and about and to check in on the little kestrel that patrols the Headquarters Pond. The wind was stiff, and as I walked, I found myself stalking sound and scent instead of sights on the trail.
A good steady wind gives a voice to everything it touches, and so my hike had a surround-sound soundtrack. It was a feast for the ear - the soft, surf-like roar of tall pines dancing, the hiss and rattle of the reeds, the shushing murmur of marsh grass, the cellophane crinkle of palmetto fronds, the creak of scrub oak branches. Off in the distance, I could hear an occasional deep "whomp" that sounded for all the world like heavy artillery but was probably the bow of a boat smacking the chop in the bay - the wind carried the sound across the flat expanse of the salt marsh with extraordinary clarity.
And the smells - the rich alluvial stink of the mud flats, the salty tang of the marsh, the exotic, spicy scent of dotted horsemint and cedar, a faint, funky mammalian musk. I love them all and sniff the air like a hound whenever I walk those paths.
I lazed my way around the trail and thought I might like to change up my routine on the way back, so I stopped to walk out on one of the dikes. I walked back and back into the seemingly limitless expanse of the salt marsh, with the wind in my face and the sun on the water and the coots, everywhere the coots, conducting their birdy business. I could have kept going all day, except for the two humongous alligators I spied about 50 yards ahead, lolling on a mud bank. Even the smallest gator looks big when you come upon it unawares, but these guys were really huge - at least 12 feet, maybe more, from tail to nose and as broad-beamed and heavily muscled as linebackers. I peered at them through the binoculars and crept marginally closer until one of the brutes lazily lifted his head and looked in my direction. He changed his position so that he was facing me and settled there to see what I would do.
What I did was back away slowly for a few paces before turning around and striding briskly back the way I had come. I got in my car and noodled my way home in a proper Sunday drive, slow and leisurely. When I got back to the wee cottage, I opened all the windows in the house to let the wind in - it had followed me home.
And then I set about making daikon radish pickles and watching football and doing the little chores left over from Saturday.
I'll bet I dream about alligators tonight.
This is extremely rare - the razorbill is an alcid that normally prefers cold North Atlantic waters and doesn't usually venture this far south. I wanted to add the razorbill to my life list, so I rose before dawn this morning and drove through the early morning mist to the refuge.
I didn't see a single razorbill. It was, in fact, not a very birdy day at St. Marks, unless you count the Congress of Coots clogging every pond, pool and channel. They were everywhere in the hundreds, squonking and muttering and preening their tidy black plumage.
I figured I'd do my usual perambulation of the tower trail, just to see if the bald eagles were up and about and to check in on the little kestrel that patrols the Headquarters Pond. The wind was stiff, and as I walked, I found myself stalking sound and scent instead of sights on the trail.
A good steady wind gives a voice to everything it touches, and so my hike had a surround-sound soundtrack. It was a feast for the ear - the soft, surf-like roar of tall pines dancing, the hiss and rattle of the reeds, the shushing murmur of marsh grass, the cellophane crinkle of palmetto fronds, the creak of scrub oak branches. Off in the distance, I could hear an occasional deep "whomp" that sounded for all the world like heavy artillery but was probably the bow of a boat smacking the chop in the bay - the wind carried the sound across the flat expanse of the salt marsh with extraordinary clarity.
And the smells - the rich alluvial stink of the mud flats, the salty tang of the marsh, the exotic, spicy scent of dotted horsemint and cedar, a faint, funky mammalian musk. I love them all and sniff the air like a hound whenever I walk those paths.
I lazed my way around the trail and thought I might like to change up my routine on the way back, so I stopped to walk out on one of the dikes. I walked back and back into the seemingly limitless expanse of the salt marsh, with the wind in my face and the sun on the water and the coots, everywhere the coots, conducting their birdy business. I could have kept going all day, except for the two humongous alligators I spied about 50 yards ahead, lolling on a mud bank. Even the smallest gator looks big when you come upon it unawares, but these guys were really huge - at least 12 feet, maybe more, from tail to nose and as broad-beamed and heavily muscled as linebackers. I peered at them through the binoculars and crept marginally closer until one of the brutes lazily lifted his head and looked in my direction. He changed his position so that he was facing me and settled there to see what I would do.
What I did was back away slowly for a few paces before turning around and striding briskly back the way I had come. I got in my car and noodled my way home in a proper Sunday drive, slow and leisurely. When I got back to the wee cottage, I opened all the windows in the house to let the wind in - it had followed me home.
And then I set about making daikon radish pickles and watching football and doing the little chores left over from Saturday.
I'll bet I dream about alligators tonight.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Sunday, cozy Sunday postscript
I suppose I should point out that the housewife thing is just a little domestic fantasy I allow myself. Jennifer and I are very happy in our chosen professions. It's just that in the home realm, we are mistresses of our own domains, and the tasks involved are those we set ourselves, goals easily achieved for the benefit of those we love and also for ourselves.
The soup is bubbling. Cooking the chorizo set off the smoke alarm, as it always does, so the windows are open to the damp Sunday air. The hawk has flown, finally flushed from his perch by the jays.
That is all for now.
The soup is bubbling. Cooking the chorizo set off the smoke alarm, as it always does, so the windows are open to the damp Sunday air. The hawk has flown, finally flushed from his perch by the jays.
That is all for now.
Sunday, cozy Sunday
I love waking up to the sound of rain on the tin roof - especially when I know it's Sunday and I can burrow back into the blankets and allow myself to emerge from slumber by degrees. When I finally got up this morning and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee, my to-do list for the day had taken shape. It looked a little like this:
1. Keep pajamas (or "soft pants," as my friend Kristin calls them) on as long as possible
2. Listen to all of To the Best of Our Knowledge on NPR
3. Read friend Eli's annual Year-End Letter, which arrived Saturday in the mail
4. Email Eli with profuse thanks for letter
5. Look at pictures taken Saturday at Mission San Luis' First Christmas event; download good ones
6. Mess around in the kitchen; prep for the coming week's meals; cook up a pot of caldo verde
7. Go see a movie (would require changing out of pajamas)
8. Read as much of the Sunday New York Times as possible before time to watch "Downton Abbey"
9. Try to stay awake through "Downton Abbey"
Not a bad little agenda for a rainy, chilly Sunday, I'd say. If I feel the need for some outdoorsy input, I can always read another chapter of Robert MacFarlane's "The Wild Places," or indulge in some backyard birdwatching through the kitchen window. In fact, I just had a staring contest through the binoculars with a young red-shouldered hawk perched in the walnut tree over my patio.
I don't mind narrowing my horizon to the kitchen window sill for a day - the transformative experience exists in the small spaces of my little nest just as it does in the expanses of salt marsh or the leafy cathedral of the piney woods. The window sill is in fact an altar - one of many in the house - with its own peculiar collection of totems and offerings.
I hope it rains all day. Maybe it'll wash the purple splotches of bird poop off my patio - blots left by the gluttonous, drunken robins that have been having rowdy berry-eating orgies in the cherry laurel tree in the back yard. My garden can use the rain (and it means I can postpone the grubbing, weeding and planting I was planning on doing today). I can use a quiet day of domestic devotionals.
I got plenty of people time Saturday at Mission San Luis, where my friend Chris was on duty in period attire with Henry, his big galoot of an English mastiff (the Spanish conquistadors traveled with war dogs much like modern mastiffs).
My pal Jennifer (Chris' significant other and Henry's human mommie) and I met up with some other friends and strolled around the grounds, which were bustling with living history interpreters and visitors.
So, today, the wee cottage and domestic pursuits that give me so much deep, deep joy. Jennifer and I agreed earlier this week that we could easily be happy as housewives, which seems a bit shameful to admit in this day and age. We are both products of the feminist era, with demanding, rewarding careers we love. Jennifer is a superb investigative reporter and writer; she is also a creative, intuitive and excellent cook who is happiest in the kitchen with the dog underfoot, kids racketing in the next room and a friend perched at the counter drinking her good red wine. I am.....well, I am whatever I am in the working world, but always a writer at heart. And I will get as much of a thrill cooking my Sunday caldo verde as I will from crafting a well-turned phrase for this blog.
The small obeisances of folding laundry warm from the dryer, of washing arugula from the garden for the week's salads, of tidying the jumble of books stacked by my bed, of washing dishes and all the myriad nest-fluffing tasks - they are so satisfying.
And now I'm going to go peek at the hawk again - he's still sitting there, impervious to the dive-bombing of the screaming bluejays. And then I'll start cooking that caldo.
Happy Sunday. Enjoy this cozy day. Blue skies will be back before you know it.
1. Keep pajamas (or "soft pants," as my friend Kristin calls them) on as long as possible
2. Listen to all of To the Best of Our Knowledge on NPR
3. Read friend Eli's annual Year-End Letter, which arrived Saturday in the mail
4. Email Eli with profuse thanks for letter
5. Look at pictures taken Saturday at Mission San Luis' First Christmas event; download good ones
6. Mess around in the kitchen; prep for the coming week's meals; cook up a pot of caldo verde
7. Go see a movie (would require changing out of pajamas)
8. Read as much of the Sunday New York Times as possible before time to watch "Downton Abbey"
9. Try to stay awake through "Downton Abbey"
Not a bad little agenda for a rainy, chilly Sunday, I'd say. If I feel the need for some outdoorsy input, I can always read another chapter of Robert MacFarlane's "The Wild Places," or indulge in some backyard birdwatching through the kitchen window. In fact, I just had a staring contest through the binoculars with a young red-shouldered hawk perched in the walnut tree over my patio.
I don't mind narrowing my horizon to the kitchen window sill for a day - the transformative experience exists in the small spaces of my little nest just as it does in the expanses of salt marsh or the leafy cathedral of the piney woods. The window sill is in fact an altar - one of many in the house - with its own peculiar collection of totems and offerings.
I hope it rains all day. Maybe it'll wash the purple splotches of bird poop off my patio - blots left by the gluttonous, drunken robins that have been having rowdy berry-eating orgies in the cherry laurel tree in the back yard. My garden can use the rain (and it means I can postpone the grubbing, weeding and planting I was planning on doing today). I can use a quiet day of domestic devotionals.
I got plenty of people time Saturday at Mission San Luis, where my friend Chris was on duty in period attire with Henry, his big galoot of an English mastiff (the Spanish conquistadors traveled with war dogs much like modern mastiffs).
My pal Jennifer (Chris' significant other and Henry's human mommie) and I met up with some other friends and strolled around the grounds, which were bustling with living history interpreters and visitors.
So, today, the wee cottage and domestic pursuits that give me so much deep, deep joy. Jennifer and I agreed earlier this week that we could easily be happy as housewives, which seems a bit shameful to admit in this day and age. We are both products of the feminist era, with demanding, rewarding careers we love. Jennifer is a superb investigative reporter and writer; she is also a creative, intuitive and excellent cook who is happiest in the kitchen with the dog underfoot, kids racketing in the next room and a friend perched at the counter drinking her good red wine. I am.....well, I am whatever I am in the working world, but always a writer at heart. And I will get as much of a thrill cooking my Sunday caldo verde as I will from crafting a well-turned phrase for this blog.
The small obeisances of folding laundry warm from the dryer, of washing arugula from the garden for the week's salads, of tidying the jumble of books stacked by my bed, of washing dishes and all the myriad nest-fluffing tasks - they are so satisfying.
And now I'm going to go peek at the hawk again - he's still sitting there, impervious to the dive-bombing of the screaming bluejays. And then I'll start cooking that caldo.
Happy Sunday. Enjoy this cozy day. Blue skies will be back before you know it.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Where the wild things are
I have completed my holiday trifecta of hikes at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge - Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day and New Year's Day. Each ramble was glorious in its own way - the refuge never disappoints.
Thanksgiving Day was breezy and birdy - the lighthouse pond was packed with ducks. Rafts of green- and blue-winged teal, widgeons, greater scaup, ruddy ducks and buffleheads bobbed and dabbled, while coots and moorhens muttered and squabbled. On the tower trail (my favorite walk), bald eagles patrolled, ospreys fished and a fleet of white ibis probed the muck, while a marsh hawk flew low over the flats, panicking the ducks and willets. The bushes were alive with yellow-rumped and pine warblers, flycatchers and phoebes.
On Christmas Day, the refuge was flaunting its winter finery, with tussocks of marsh grass gone tawny and slender rushes gleaming like bronze-tipped lances. The landscape was cloaked in a soft grey cloud that brought the colors - brown, russet, green, black, silver - into sharp relief. And as I walked the back portion of the tower trail, the cloud cover closed in and I felt I could walk into the mist and vanish, lose myself in a place between earth and sky. A kestrel perched on a dead tree, keeping a keen eye on me, his feathers fluffed out against the brisk air. A squadron of white pelicans sailed majestically overhead and on my way back to the parking lot, I surprised a big snaggletoothed gator by the trail - he hoisted himself partway up on his stumpy legs, then settled back into the muck with a reptilian sigh.
Today, I walked the coastal trail behind the lighthouse farther than I have ever followed it.
In the sand, I saw paw prints - bobcat and raccoon.
The ruddy bloom of glasswort flung a red carpet over the flats.
Going to the refuge takes me out of myself - and brings me back to myself. Robert McFarlane, in his wonderful book "Wild Places," talks about the peregrini - "monks, anchorites, solitaries and other devout itinerants" who sought out wild places out of a "longing to achieve correspondence between belief and place, between inner and outer landscapes." That's exactly what I am seeking on my rambles - a way to both ground my restless heart and set it flying free, skimming the tidal flats like a marsh hawk.
It is a good way - the best way, in this pilgrim's opinion - to begin a new year.
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