lodge fire
14 July 2012
Letters from the Outside, #61
Fireflies in the lilac bushes. Seafoam
oat fields, shining wheat. Flocked mullein leaves, daisies and wild
pea vine along the roadside. Galactic maps of linden buds. The
catalpa blooms and the grass is tall in Avalon. No surer sign of
summer than day lilies and chicory and knapweed. In september I will
have lived here six years.
Butterflies drink from the echinacea, red
pollen sacs amassing on the hindlegs of bees. This strong sudden
breeze is a blessing, a benediction. Tinfoil pans bang on tomato
cages. I plucked calendula petals today, to use in a balm. The
pumpkins and the volunteer squash have cross-pollinated and I dont so
much mind pulling up the squash as I fear for what its done to my
pumpkins.
I sit here and listen to the wind moving through the
trees. Everything in the garden except for the chamomile, calendula,
crucifers and beans is at least half the size it should be. You
drive around the cornfields here, and you see how stunted even the
corn grown by People Who Know What Theyre Doing is, some of it barely
clearing a foot this late in july. When youve been looking at things
from up very close for awhile and then set your gaze on the sky and
the clouds you can feel the miraculous clockwork of your eyes moving,
your mind expanding to take in so much space.
I spend a great deal
of my days pulling weeds with a spade and breaking the earth away
from the roots of the weeds with my hands, inch by inch. The straw
ive managed to put down helps keep the ground around the slow-growing
plants cool and loose. Its impressive how hot the earth can get
otherwise, like beach sand. The sky is a vast blue sheep pasture
during the day, and a twinkling glimpse into the marvel of the
universe at night. I think of the threshold season mornings when
topographic alchemy performs her magick on the damp vapor trapped in
the valley and ices the open air not very far above the ground, from
where it appears this dense, luminous fog and from the high roads and
ridges an opaque, undulating coverlet.
I have not been walking as
the roadside enjoys a south-easterly exposure for most of the day and
the recent heat is prohibitive, even early in the morning. I have
not been to see the chestnuts being born, reveled in the smell of the
black locusts, been delighted by the scarlet tanagers and indigo
buntings, stilled by the coven of crows among the oaks. Instead I
pull up weeds and lay down straw and wonder what fruits these dwarved
flora will bear, taking breeze-blessed breaks under the maple
listening to the wind roll through the far, tall trees which sounds
so much like the shore of the ocean. One is made from earth and
water, one from earth and air. Fire has a roar of its own.
Ive seen
very little at the feeder but finches in their admittedly impressive
array, and the hummingbirds, shining messengers of hearts-ease and
joy. Not many titmice or juncos. Just a strange summer all around.
The lightheat is an imperious forcefield streaming in at your heart
center, your own burning core, whereas cool moonlight is curious and
fey, dancing gently into the pineal eye. The lawns are turning
brown, but its been pouring in georgia and I wouldnt mind a few days
of rain to raise the table and slake the earths thirst.
Back across
the bridge, thirty-eight geese at the pond along the river and beside
the fen to play at gods and hatch and fly away. These river stones
across the seasons, always different in their moments and
incarnations, but always the same, like a moonrise or a sunset, a
spiral of becoming, rising and returning and passing away.
I stand
facing into the wind and gently shake a corn stalk to bless myself
with its pale, scented pollen. The ears are emerging, and I hope the
generous falls of visceral pink silks announce cobs of sweet seed
larger in proportion to their spires. Will all the fruits and grains
and vegetables be runted? The eternal optimist, I think, perhaps
these smaller specimens will be concentrated in their flavor, hard
won under this unrelenting sun.
The wasps are building a nest in the
cow skull on the table where I sit beneath the maple tree, so I move
to the shade of the leaning spruce to read a letter (when I opened
the mailbox to receive it a butterfly fluttered out. The world is
full of such encouraging portents) and watch the garden cope with
another days ample portion of summer light and heat. The round bales
along the road shine in their plenty. Whatever else, its been a
banner year for hay.
I discover three grand, heady, sweet
strawberries waiting to be thoroughly enjoyed in the grassy patch in
the corner of the garden. Just the smell of them reaffirms my faith
in the world conspiring to make of me a wiser, wilder, happy woman.
This letter composed, as always, over many many days, little notes taken along
the road. And that road winds along into all the future nows until
we find ourselves across the creek from each other, waving
neighborly.
We love you.
03 July 2012
"Goldfish that are confined in small aquariums stay small. Those that spend their lives in ponds get much bigger. What can we conclude from these facts? The size and growth rate of goldfish are directly related to their environment. I'd like to suggest that a similar principle will apply to you Librans in the next ten months. If you want to take maximum advantage of your potential, you will be wise to put yourself in spacious situations that encourage you to expand. For an extra boost, surround yourself with broad-minded, uninhibited people who have worked hard to heal their wounds."
this week for libra, via freewill
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