“The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.”
~John Updike in “September”
“I had a dog
who loved flowers.
Briskly she went
through the fields,
…and easily
she adored
every blossom
not in the serious
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that blossom
the way we praise or don’t praise –
the way we love
or don’t love –
but the way
we long to be –
that happy
in the heaven of earth –
that wild, that loving.”
—Mary Oliver
Why do we not feel the joie de vivre, the ebullience and fullness of every moment? What makes us hide ourselves rather than join the walk in the garden in the cool of the day? What makes us choose this blossom or that, this tree or that, this fruit or that, judging good, better and best? What has happened to wild loving appreciation of the heaven of earth?
We gave it up for one taste. Lost heaven and regretted it immediately.
Now joie de vivre awaits, beyond this, above this. Invited, all expenses paid, unearned, back to the way we long to be.
It’s loving that wild.
“Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
A rainy summer yields abundant shade-loving blossoms. Continuous cloud cover and plenty of moisture may subdue a summer mood but not in the case of begonias, fuchsia, and impatiens. Their vivid colors are happily chanting playground rhymes, when not singing arias, reciting epic poetry, and laughing uproariously while partying hardy into the night.
If they were fragrance instead of colors, they would be a perfume shop full of perfectly coiffed matrons who trail scents behind them. If they were tactile instead of colors, they would be plush velveteen cushions topped with purring cats with switching tails. If they were taste instead of colors, they would be spice and pepper-hot to the point of tears.
Their reckless blooming abandon is enough in itself to make me weep, without noisy parties, chilis, heavy scents, or ruffled cat fur needed.
No sun required. No tropical temperatures. No promise of 18 hours of daylight.
They simply have enough of what they need to give all they’ve got. All I need to do is show up, open my eyes and believe.
After death, willing or not, the body serves,
entering the earth. And so what was heaviest
and most mute is at last raised up into song.
Wendell Berry
When abundant grasses in our hay field were hit hard with heavy rainfall today, they collapsed under the weight of the moisture. Thousands of 3-4 foot tall tender stems are now lodged and flattened in undulating waves of green, bent over as if to embrace the earth from which they arose. If the rain continues as predicted this week, the grass may not recover, unable to dry out enough to stand upright again. It is ironic to lose a crop from too much of a good thing– heavy growth does demand, but often cannot withstand, a quenching rain. The grass simply keels over in community, broken and crumpled, unsuitable for cutting or baling into hay, and will melt back into the soil again.
However–if there are dry spells amid the showers over the next few days, with a breeze to lift the soaked heads and squeeze out the wet sponge created by layered forage–the lodged crop may survive and rise back up. It may be raised and lifted again, pushing up to meet the sun, the stems strengthening and straightening.
What once was heavy laden will lighten;
what was silent could once again move and sing with the wind.
A sunny spring day lured us outside for yard and garden prep for the anticipated grass and weed explosion in a few short weeks. We’ve been carefully composting horse manure for over two years behind the barn, and it was time to dig in to the 10 foot tall pile to spread it on our garden plots. As Dan pushed the tractor’s front loader into the pile, steam rose from its compost innards. As the rich soil was scooped, thousands of newly exposed red wiggler worms immediately dove for cover. Within seconds, thousands of naked little creatures had, well, …wormed their way back into the security of warm dirt, rudely interrupted from their routine. I can’t say I blamed them.
Hundreds of thousands of wigglers ended up being forced to adapt to new quarters today, leaving the security of the manure mountain behind. As I smoothed the topping of compost over the garden plot, the worms–gracious creatures that they are–tolerated being rolled and raked and lifted and turned over, waving their little bodies expectantly in the cool air before slipping back down into the dark. There they will begin their work of digesting and aerating the tired soil of the garden, reproducing in their unique hermaphroditic way, leaving voluminous castings behind to further feed the seedlings to be planted.
Worms are unjustly denigrated by humans primarily because we don’t like to be surprised by them. We don’t like to see one in our food, especially only part of one, and are particularly distressed to see them after we’ve digested our food. Once we get past that bit of squeamishness, we can greatly appreciate their role as the ultimate recyclers, leaving the earth a lot better off once they are finished with their work. We humans actually suffer by comparison, so to be called “a worm” is really not as bad as it sounds at first. The worm may not think so.
I hope to prove a worthy innkeeper for these new tenants. May they live long and prosper. May worms be forgiving for the continual disruption of their routine. May I smile the next time someone calls me a worm.
Barnstorming 