It's Her corner now.

Years ago I decided, with permission from the landlord, to take matters into my own hands and create a garden in the little plot of land by the parking lot entrance to my office building. (See my previous blog post from Feb. 14, 2012 to read what happened to it.) Shortly after the nefarious gas meter and limiting stanchions arrived, city workers dug up the adjoining sidewalk for more work.  In doing so they flipped the long, heavy boulder I had placed at the patch’s border over on its side directly onto my four year old and lovely lavender, crushing it. I imagined the sound of her sturdy branches cracking when it happened just like my heart when I first rested my horrified eyes on her.

Not long after, some new tenants contacted me about working the garden. “Have at it”, I said, finished with the fight. That first year, they cleaned it up, pushed the boulder off the lavender (which although a bit worse for wear, with amazing resilience actually came back to life) and added pretty new plantings. They thanked me for my graciousness at letting go of the plot so easily. I told them it was easy only in a heart-broken kind of way. Another lesson in how one thing must die so another can live in the garden. You know. Like in life. 

This year, care for this plot has fallen away completely. No one has done a thing.  The lilac is badly in need of pruning, weeds are thriving among scant perennials. I notice I avert my eyes. I have hardened my heart to protect it. It’s too sad. But on a recent sunny day, I couldn’t help notice the lilac was full of burgeoning buds, some of them beginning to flower. Who can resist the scent of a lilac? So I walked over to get a snoot full. And then I saw it. In the back corner where the boulder used to live. The Thistle.

There she was, spiny and spiky in all her threatening beauty. Already close to two feet tall.  Not yet flowering.  Not the light spring green of the advancing season, but the deep rich green reserved for dinosaur kale and broccoli crowns. The thing is, she is so strong, so present, so defiant that for the first time in many moons, I derived pleasure from this garden.  Perhaps it’s because, when it comes to this particular plot, so rife with my forfeiture and loss, I relate to her prickles. They are similar to the bristles surrounding my guarded heart. Her blatant thorniness in our-have-to-be-polite-world brings relief.  Her unapologetic sharpness broadcasts “Look all you’d like, but touch at your own risk!” 

It could just as easily have been Dandelion that grew in that spot. That Thistle found her way here, that she found this neglected soil hospitable, that she is taking up space as boldly as any showy nursery purchase, repairs my faith in renewal.  And more, shows me how wildness takes root when we give it room to appear.

Moon and I are in relationship. I am in love with her and she follows me wherever I go and especially when I am in the car and someone else is driving and I look out and find her amid the stars. She sails along beside my window, keeping up.

She smiles at me in Diana’s bow, bathes me when she is Full, and asks me what I am doing up so late as to see her in the night sky as a Crone. She used to flow from me, leaving my body on sticky red and heightened everything, but now she has decided to hang around.  I believe this is her way of letting me know she loves me even more as time goes on. Loves me so much she can’t leave me. I hold her inside, feeling her love.

  

Moon and I have been friends for a very long time. We know one another well. She remembers the day I was born and I remember the first time I noticed I could sometimes see her during the day. She watched over me as I grew and I looked upon her buttery beauty in Autumn, her icy stare in Winter, her milky face in Spring and her bright spotlight in Summer. 

I walk her luminous path. Moonlight shows me exactly where to go so I needn’t be unsure. The way always beckons. Sometimes it narrows and I must watch my step. Sometimes it is so broad, it encompasses all I see. Touched by moonglow, my hair looks more silver than it is, my skin like the fairies have kissed it. I chase mystery. I believe magick. I marvel at beauty once hidden in the harsh light of the sun.

Moon and I make great dancing partners. But she always leads. That’s okay. She is one of the few I am so enamored of that I will happily follow. Sometimes the dance is pure romance and I swoon. Sometimes the steps are tricky and fast and I must practice. Often we dance to music only we can hear.

I tell everyone I know about her. Can’t keep quiet. Her rhythms are too seductive, too wise, too important to keep to myself. I was one of those women they called Lunatic dancing in her light. I was one of those women who refused the call to worship the sun and stole away at night to do its opposite. I was one of those women who honored her bodies’ ebb and flow as a holy thing. I am still.

When I die, I want to float up there to be closer. Dance over to the other side and check it out. Dive into her craters and snuggle in for the ride. Get drunk on her milkshake and tell jokes that make her laugh so hard, she can barely catch her breath. And those still on the earth will perceive it as the music of the spheres. 

Homecoming.

I believe it is more than a drop of Faery in my soul that keeps serving up my luck! This time it was a retreat that combined the comforts of home with the splendor of nature at a time when I dearly needed it. The intention was to excavate through Soul Craft (Bill Plotkin's extraordinary work) for some answers to pervading questions; what are my soul gifts, what is the best way to bring my work to the world, how shall I find my way back into healthy relationship with my body, this preciousl vessel of my soul? For three days and nights I did not interact with anyone but myself and creatures of the avian, insect and flora variety. Hearing only their voices amid only my own delivered solace such as I don't ever remember. I followed each impulse as it arose leading me progressively deeper inside myself.

My eyes flew open as dawn broke the first morning I awakened there. This is unusual as I am not a morning person. Wearing only my skin, I stepped outside to greet the land. Immediately, the shining, waning crescent of the Crone Moon stopped me in my tracks as if She suddenly called my name! I stood spellbound in this encounter for a while, drinking Her in, until the chill persuaded me to return inside and slip back into the still warm luxury of my bed and the safety of slumber.

Just past the garden, fenced against the deer, and before the beckoning forest, is a huge, green meadow. That afternoon, when the sun had burned the clouds away, gold flooded every grassy blade. Within seconds the winged ones came to life. Between the hummingbirds and the butterflies and the dragonflies and the bees, I stood rapt, watching this vector ballet danced to the symphony of nature's deep silence. They swooped and meandered and circled me and one another, and before I knew what was happening, I joined in.

I used to dance ballet when I was young. And now the steps were dancing through me as if I'd never stopped, my body remembering choreography I had long forgotten. I felt free and graceful and beautiful and I couldn't remember the last time I had danced like this, with such abandon, allowing the memory of my muscles to move me, unabashed, undaunted and with complete joy. The spirits of the flora in the garden, and the orchard, and the forest gave audience, all of us delighting in the proceedings. The vectors flew closer and closer past me as I danced, and I curtsied and bowed to them all. And when the dance was through, I felt as if a part of me who had been missing for a very long time had returned; a spontaneous Soul Retrieval, a welcome reunion, a recollection of a long forgotten treasure.

I've been moving from one thing to the next with a dancer's ease since then. The low flying resentment I didn't even know I was feeling for all the work there is to do has evaporated like that afternoon cloud cover. My renewed appreciation for the beauty and the harmony I strive to create and bring to life's party has blossomed. And despite all the bells and whistles of our noise polluted world, I can still hear that symphony's deep and beautiful silence within me.

Bumblebee Slumber

I wait till twilight to harvest the fragrant lavender because of the bees. I am not afraid of them like some people, although I do have a rather traumatic childhood memory of my arm completely swollen and hot to the touch after I got stung by two of them at once; one on my thumb and one on my forearm. I have come to find that bees will leave you be if you return the favor. But during the sunshine hours, the long, graceful lavender stalks bob up and down as the bumblebees move from one to another. It’s more that I don’t want to disturb them as they gather pollen. Bees being so precious and all.

This lavender is over 13 years old. She used to grow in the small apartment garden I tended. I dug her up and moved her here with me and she was one of the first things to go in the ground. She transplanted well and now she is woody with age and prolific in production. Each year at this time I watch the purple of the blossoms and the golden yellow and fuzzy black of the bees in their drowsy dance together.

But now the air chills with evening and the scant light remains. The lavender is motionless. The bees are gone. So I take my clippers and begin. I grab a handful of the stalks and cut. I breathe in the familiar fragrance that soothes me. I take them to the garden table and arrange them for my drying wrack, cutting the stalks the same length, securing them with a rubber band and hang them with a bit of wire. On the next round, I notice something. Two bumblebees are clinging to their own lavender blooms. They are sleeping. I cut some more. Pulling the loose stalks free causes the ones holding them to move, but the bees don’t. Still they cling, regardless of swinging through the air.

Soon I have six bunches drying and just one more to harvest. I have to cut these one by one so I don’t mistakenly take the bee beds. I have to get closer to see in the growing dark and my face comes nearer to the bees than I would ever allow during daylight. But there is nothing to worry about because they are out. They look so cute. I sing them a lullaby as I snip the few remaining stalks. When I am finished, only those two remain. The bees have found their bed for the night. Their perfumed beds in my garden. I imagine they have passed out from too much nectar, and wisely decided the hive was just too far to fly to this intoxicated. I imagine I can hear them snoring.

Fruit of Wisdom

(Don't know why I wrote this in August but haven't posted it till December but there it is. Maybe I need to EAT some of these fruits of wisdom!) Apples! This is the ‘on’ year when they are bountiful. A few weeks ago, I made my becoming famous apple sauce from the fruit of wisdom on my back yard Transparent Apple tree. One of the few trees already here when I moved in. The only plant, it seemed, anyone had ever taken any interest in, pruned and cultivated for a lovely pink umbrella when blossoming, easy for picking when long after flower gives way and grown fruit. I had never heard of Transparent Apples, but my old Betty Crocker Cook Book told me they are best for making sauce and pies. Duly noted. I canned 28 jars when all was said and done. Cinnamon. Light brown sugar. Fresh ginger. Yesterday, I canned 18 jars of Apple Chutney from the Akane Apple tree in my front yard. This tree was a housewarming gift. Bright pinkish red and celery green. Snow white flesh. Tart. Perfect for chutney. Vinegar, brown sugar, onion, raisins, tumeric. And this morning, I took the last (except for the one I always leave on the branch in gratitude) of the Akane apples from the other housewarming gift in my back yard. They will become my Apple Jack Liqueur. Vodka, brandy, sugar, star anise, cinnamon stick. Months to infuse. A year or two to mellow after straining. One night of happy, thirsty friends to consume. What a great sense of accomplishment and respect for nature. No waste. Mine are not the apple trees you see on other lawns, bees low and humming contentedly over rotting fruit. Mine are the carefully watched over; too soon and the only thing ripe is your sour belly, too long and they become fodder for worms and earwigs. Pounce when the time is right, drop all other ‘to do today’ items on your agenda and spend the day with the smell of apples in your nose, the sight of browning skins in your compost, the fan blowing to counteract the heat of all that cooking in Summer. I find I am never happier than when I am in the garden and there is no end to the soothing my soul receives as I process plants in preparation for gustatory goodness. Harvest time delights me. My clippers at the ready in my back pocket. Out comes the ladder to reach those high apples knowing no matter how carefully you pick them, some will fall. The sweet, sure sound, the thick thud of fruit meeting earth. The weight of the crop in my largest bowls, and then some. The anticipation of all those jars containing preserves. A heartfelt tree hug. A taste of summer relished in winter.

They Paved Paradise

Recently, I went to work and noticed that a new pipe had been attached to my office building. It snaked around the entry doorway, stopping right above the water spigot that sits just to the left of the lilac bush I planted several years ago. This beautiful variegated lilac, that gives the world such fragrant raspberry and white colored blossoms late Spring, is rooted in a little plot of land that I got permission from my landlord to turn into a garden.

"Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder what that’s for?"

It had been no easy task, turning this dry bit of land that somehow escaped becoming a part of the parking lot it stood beside into the lush garden I am now happy to see each day I arrive. It had offended my eyes to walk past this abandoned place on the way inside, and every single time I did, I imagined what I’d do to it to make it beautiful. Once permission was obtained, I set aside a day and went to work. The hardened soil of this four by twelve foot plot was bereft of nutrients, more rock and clay than anything else. I pounded it to crumble the clay and added compost and weeded and dug up the few spindly St. John’s Wort plants that managed to subsist there. In their stead, I planted perennials: black mondo grass, lavender, a few rows of lilies and a bunch of dahlias, white, red and black tulips for the Maiden, Mother and Crone and tons of daffodils and crocus and grape hyacinth for the Spring. Early Summer each year, I would add the vibrant color of annuals like marigold and sapphire lobelia. Other tenants thanked me for taking the time and doing the work to create such visual beauty.

More recently, I pulled up and parked. And there it was. The pipe was now connected to a huge metal meter box attached to the building wall just above my completely torn up garden! I caught the eye of one of the two strong, young men by the utility truck across the street who came walking over as I asked what was going on. He was very polite. And handsome. And I remember thinking there was a time when he would have had trouble keeping his eyes from resting on my shapely bosom. Instead, he looked me directly in the eye and called me “Ma’am”.

“We’re putting in a new gas line for the building.” There’s been a lot of construction going on in this neighborhood and the preparation for the newest building on the block had clearly begun.

“How long will this process take?” I asked.

“Oh, we’ll be done by the end of the day. After we finish putting the cap on it, we’ll just need to place the guard poles. We should be finished soon. Are you the owner?” he asked.

I wish.

“No, I’m just a tenant. But I've been keeping this garden for close to a decade now and there were about a hundred bulbs planted here for the spring. It’s heartbreaking to see it all torn up like this, especially because I didn’t know anything about it and I would have dug some of them up and saved them for replanting once the work was done!”

He actually bowed his head. “I’m sorry for your garden, Ma’am”, he said.

Later, when I left to go home, three bright yellow, four foot tall eyesores of guard rail accosted me. They now stand at the front edge of what once was my garden, an obvious precautionary measure against cars backing out of their spots. And apparently against gardeners, too, who will find it next to impossible to reach between, or get behind them, to work the land and evoke nature’s beauty.

We are past Imbolc now and signs of Spring are appearing in all their verdant splendor. I am grateful that the lilac stands unharmed and underneath it, sweet green from the un-interfered-with bulbs are emerging. On the other end of the plot, the lavender somehow managed to make it through. But in between, mangled shoots struggle up through new clay beside the stanchions, and the gas cap, and the new rat trap unfortunately placed right on top of where my giant yellow tulip- the one that has given me three babies over the last couple of years-resides. Who knows exactly where the underground gas line actually is and how many bulbs have already met their death.

I can’t actually say they paved paradise and put up a parking lot, but I can say they marred the paradise I created in the parking lot. As the season lengthens, I’ll be watching to see what rises to the surface. After all, Nature is resilient, and hopefully all is not lost. Nature is resilient because she is flexible. She reminds us that nothing endures forever and only the fools among us believe otherwise.

Yule!

It’s 11:36 on this cold Winter Solstice morning. At the Summer Solstice the sun would be reaching His zenith in the sky right about now, reaching the reason we call it ‘high noon.’ But it’s the other Solstice today, the one where the sun barely skips over the tops of the old pine trees in my neighborhood, slanting His light into my window. Should we call it ‘low noon?’

The frost has not melted on the grass still in shadow. Sunlight will not vanquish that shadow today. He is too weak. At twilight, only about five hours from now, He will sink below the horizon into the realm of the unborn, for the longest night of the solar year. And in that lengthy darkness the Cosmic Mother will labor to bring the new born Sun King to birth. She will journey to the edge of death to bring life. And we will gather in circles of loving community to hold vigil, to rekindle our own light, to mark this earthly holy day.

Tomorrow will seem just as short a day, really. But we will know in our hearts that daylight will linger for a few moments longer. We will nurture and protect our rekindled flames as we would any newborn, with tenderness and love and welcome, dreaming of the future, grateful for beginnings.