As winter continues its seemingly endless temper tantrum here in the Northeast, signs of spring, although rare, are starting to show themselves. The one I look for with the most anticipation, or I should say "listen for," is the return of the birds that flew off for warmer climates before the first snow flake hit the ground. There is nothing more beautiful to wake up to in the morning than a robin's song outside of your window.
Part of the anticipation of the birds coming back is the eventual debut of the newest members of the family. I have a front row seat at my window as the moms with their new offspring come to the feeder and enjoy whatever bounty I have put out for them. The little ones sit on the railing with their tiny beaks open, crying away while mom flies to the feeder, gets some seed, and flies back to put it in their mouths. No sooner has she given them some then they are crying for more and she is off again to the feeder. They hop and flutter up and down in excitement as she continues her back and forth delivery system. I notice that even the smallest of them can execute some pretty remarkable feats of aviation although they are not steady enough for a steep climb or or deep dive. They are learning, day by day, from the time they break out of their shells until they take their first tentative step out of the nest and onto a nearby branch. One step at a time, one flutter at a time.
We are like those little birds. Something new and exciting is calling to us, especially for those of us who have put off our dreams and passions to "be an adult," and follow all the rules. Now the scent of spring is in the air and we feel that pull, that intoxicating aroma of newness and possibility. We want to dive off that branch before we've learned how to flutter our wings. All it takes is one unfortunate plunge and we're left saying to ourselves, "see, they were right. It was silly to think I could do this at my age." Nonsense! First you learn to hover. Then you fly a few steps. Then you fly to the end of the branch, then to the next branch, then to the next tree. Before you can sing, "Rockin' Robin" you are in the air, and isn't the view well worth the wait?
These can be the most exciting, the most rewarding years of our lives. We are old enough to know better, and young enough to try. So unpack those Florida suitcases and pull out your wings. It's time for flight practice! And so it is.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Mud Season
The snow and ice are melting. The ground is starting to thaw - you can actually see brown underneath. Wait! The temperature dipped below freezing overnight and there is a thin dusting of snow this morning - which changed to rain in the afternoon - which refroze overnight again. Welcome to the Ides of March or, as we call it here in the Northeast, Mud Season. Only the foolhardy do not keep a pair of boots beside the door and give up all hope of shampooing the rugs for at least another few weeks.
This is a very hard time for the gardener in us. There is really not much you can do in the garden right now. You can do a little bit of clean-up from winter like picking up pieces of downed branches and raking up the leftover brown leaves and foliage from autumn. With the chance of below freezing temperatures overnight and ground that turns to mush during the afternoons all you can do is look out of the window and plan ... or is it?
What you can do is start your seedlings indoors. A few packets of seeds, a seed tray, some potting soil and a window that gets good light, or a grow light, and you can start nurturing the garden that you see in your mind's eye, the one you have been dreaming of all winter. Over the next 6-8 weeks as you keep them warm, moist and well-lit, just the smell of the soil and the feel of it on your hands brings a sigh of contentment to your lips. If you are still in need of a shot of spring, visit your local garden supply shop which has been tempting gardeners since right after Valentine's Day with garden equipment, green houses and the heady aromas of hyacinth and daffodil bulbs that have been forced for the Easter season.
If winter was the time of planning and dreaming, mud season is the time to start taking baby steps in the direction of your dreams. Take those ideas and visions out of your head and put them on paper. Make a sketch. Do some research online. Start your seedlings. Want to write a book? Start with an outline, a plot line, or even just a working title. Visit an art store and look at the rainbow of paint colors. Go to a craft shop or yarn store and sink your hands into the luscious bins of soft, inviting fibers and textures. Choose the "seeds" that will grow into what you desire and then nurture them, keep them warm and well-lit (meaning, keep your attention on them). Little by little you'll begin to see little sprouts come up: a word, a phrase, a chapter; the first brush strokes; the first row of stitches. Before you know it, the time will come to take the tiny plants out of their seed trays and put them out into the world to grow into beautiful things.
So what are you waiting for? Put on your boots and get out there!
And so it is.
This is a very hard time for the gardener in us. There is really not much you can do in the garden right now. You can do a little bit of clean-up from winter like picking up pieces of downed branches and raking up the leftover brown leaves and foliage from autumn. With the chance of below freezing temperatures overnight and ground that turns to mush during the afternoons all you can do is look out of the window and plan ... or is it?
What you can do is start your seedlings indoors. A few packets of seeds, a seed tray, some potting soil and a window that gets good light, or a grow light, and you can start nurturing the garden that you see in your mind's eye, the one you have been dreaming of all winter. Over the next 6-8 weeks as you keep them warm, moist and well-lit, just the smell of the soil and the feel of it on your hands brings a sigh of contentment to your lips. If you are still in need of a shot of spring, visit your local garden supply shop which has been tempting gardeners since right after Valentine's Day with garden equipment, green houses and the heady aromas of hyacinth and daffodil bulbs that have been forced for the Easter season.
If winter was the time of planning and dreaming, mud season is the time to start taking baby steps in the direction of your dreams. Take those ideas and visions out of your head and put them on paper. Make a sketch. Do some research online. Start your seedlings. Want to write a book? Start with an outline, a plot line, or even just a working title. Visit an art store and look at the rainbow of paint colors. Go to a craft shop or yarn store and sink your hands into the luscious bins of soft, inviting fibers and textures. Choose the "seeds" that will grow into what you desire and then nurture them, keep them warm and well-lit (meaning, keep your attention on them). Little by little you'll begin to see little sprouts come up: a word, a phrase, a chapter; the first brush strokes; the first row of stitches. Before you know it, the time will come to take the tiny plants out of their seed trays and put them out into the world to grow into beautiful things.
So what are you waiting for? Put on your boots and get out there!
And so it is.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Sap Rising
Lately my mind has been returning again and again back to the peaceful country town I lived in where I found myself in the soil and the seasons along with the flowers and vegetables. I have been taking you with me as I wander back every few weeks. However it is only fair that I share with you the fact that this little town, which I often refer to as "Mayberry North" - yes, there is a gazebo in the town square - is famous all on it's own.
Marathon, NY, is nestled in a valley about an hour south of Syracuse on the banks of the Tioughnioga River, a tributary of the Chenango River. The name comes from a Native American word meaning, "meeting of waters." Along with it's lovely countryside, friendly people and fertile farmland, the area is known all over New York State for something else - maple syrup! In fact, the annual Maple Festival draws crowds from all over New York and Pennsylvania in late March or early April. You can enjoy all the many wonderful products made from maple syrup ( mine is maple ice cream) in addition to crafts, food, music, a civil war encampment, demonstrations of wood carving, quilting, rescue dogs, hay rides and even helicopter rides over the river and beyond.
Every year when I thought I could not go through one more cold, grey March day, when I felt like it was all I could do to drag one foot in front of the other, I would wake up one morning to the sight of those shinny pails nailed to the trees outside of my home. Yes! The sap was rising! That was the official sign that spring was only a few weeks away. I can remember pulling on my boots and coat and walking around the village peeking into the pails. Drip by drip the pails would fill.
Day after day the men would come around in an open bed truck and empty the pails into big drums that they took back to the little building on the opposite river bank affectionately known as The Sugar Shack. There, day in and day out, 24 hours a day, the local folk would do what their fathers and grandfathers before them had done for generations: build a roaring fire under the vats of sap and keep it going until all of that wonderful nectar had transformed itself into luscious, golden maple syrup. The smell from the chimney of the Sugar Shack could be inhaled all over the village and it was only the strongest among us who could resist the need to head down to the local diner for a short stack of pancakes dripping with butter and our very own maple syrup. Sitting back with a hot mug of coffee in hand, the phrase, "life is good," really took on meaning.
As we grow older, we come to a point when the kids are gone, the job is gone (or soon to be), and we are merely going through the motions, dragging one foot in front of the other because the alternative is just not acceptable. Then one day we feel a shift, a subtle movement ... our sap is starting to rise. Not a lot at first, but little by little something is rising inside of us that needs to come out: an idea, a new awareness, a knowing. Drip by drip it starts to take shape. Sooner or later we wake up knowing that the pail is finally full and it is time to make it into something to nourish our souls. It is Spring. The buds are on the trees. The robins have come back. A new life is being born, maybe the one that was always there but just never got cooked until it was done. Now the question is, will you bottle it up and put it on the shelf, or will you pour it out for all the world to enjoy?
Isn't it time to sit back with that cup of coffee, smack your lips, and declare, "life is good?"
And so it is.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Stepping On The Path Of Courage
I had originally intended to write a totally different blog today on a totally different subject, but very often life takes us down a different garden path and the learning starts when we gather our courage and take that first step.
I, along with millions of people around the world, have been watching the unfolding events in Rome as His Holiness, Pope Benedict, takes his leave. Although I was raised in the Roman Catholic Church, I chose a different path over 40 years ago that has led me to where I was meant to be. However, things like faith, love and courage blur the lines of religious differences and surely this week we have been witness to all three. It is that last one, courage, that got me to thinking as I sat down at the computer this morning.
As we get older, it takes courage to be willing to let go of those things that we have done or believed in for most of our lives. Change is always hard, but change, like the seasons, is a part of life. The garden needs to sleep in the winter so it can come back renewed in the spring. The things of our past sometimes have to remain in the past so that there is room for new things and new adventures in the here and now, and the opportunity for more in the future.
It took a great deal of courage for this holy man to take a step that no one has taken for the last 600 years. It took great faith and love for his church for him to be willing to break with the traditions of the past to make way for something new. He took his first step on a new and different path. Who knows where it might lead?
When people tell me they are having trouble growing something in their vegetable garden that they always had success with before, I will ask them if they are still planting it in the same spot as they always did. I tell them that rotating their crops is healthy for the soil and the veggies. If that doesn't work, I tell them to consider letting that piece of the garden go fallow to give it a chance to renew and replenish itself. If all else fails, my best advice is to pull out the veggies and plant a meditation garden ... and don't forget the stepping stones.
And so it is.
I, along with millions of people around the world, have been watching the unfolding events in Rome as His Holiness, Pope Benedict, takes his leave. Although I was raised in the Roman Catholic Church, I chose a different path over 40 years ago that has led me to where I was meant to be. However, things like faith, love and courage blur the lines of religious differences and surely this week we have been witness to all three. It is that last one, courage, that got me to thinking as I sat down at the computer this morning.
As we get older, it takes courage to be willing to let go of those things that we have done or believed in for most of our lives. Change is always hard, but change, like the seasons, is a part of life. The garden needs to sleep in the winter so it can come back renewed in the spring. The things of our past sometimes have to remain in the past so that there is room for new things and new adventures in the here and now, and the opportunity for more in the future.
It took a great deal of courage for this holy man to take a step that no one has taken for the last 600 years. It took great faith and love for his church for him to be willing to break with the traditions of the past to make way for something new. He took his first step on a new and different path. Who knows where it might lead?
When people tell me they are having trouble growing something in their vegetable garden that they always had success with before, I will ask them if they are still planting it in the same spot as they always did. I tell them that rotating their crops is healthy for the soil and the veggies. If that doesn't work, I tell them to consider letting that piece of the garden go fallow to give it a chance to renew and replenish itself. If all else fails, my best advice is to pull out the veggies and plant a meditation garden ... and don't forget the stepping stones.
And so it is.
Friday, February 22, 2013
The Tree of Life
I've spoken before about the small town I used to live in where I discovered my love of gardening, and where I learned alot about myself and about life while digging in my back yard. However, there was quite another adventure going on in front of my home as well.
The house I lived in, which was built back in the late 1800's, sat on the banks of a small, lazy little river. Every morning I would rise to a view of herons and beavers, ducks and geese, and even an occasional otter who was especially entertaining in the winter when he took to sliding down the embankment on the ice. Across the river on the opposite bank was a stand of trees bordering on a field which the town used for assorted festivities. One tree in particular caught the eye of my oldest granddaughter who spent a great deal of time with me when she was very little.. She named the tree Grandmother Willow after the character in the Disney movie of the story of Pocahontas which she was obsessed with at the time. The tree was not a willow, of course, but what would be the point of telling her that? In the spring and summer we would pack a picnic lunch and go visit Grandmother Willow on the river bank. My granddaughter would pick flowers for her, or bring her presents of cookies, leftover veggies or any other treasure she deemed appropriate. We communed with the local wildlife: bunnies, woodchucks, birds of all varieties, and squirrels of every color and size. Most of all, we learned some very valuable lessons from this formidable old lady.
We learned that trees do not worry about whether they are the biggest or the most important. They aren't jealous if another tree produces fruit while all they can manage are acorns. They don't gloat if one has brighter colors in the autumn than another, nor do they laugh at each other when their leaves fall to the ground and leave them bare and exposed. What they do is demonstrate the cycles of life, from birth to death and back to birth again, with a clarity and a purpose that defies humans. There they stand, year after year, sometimes for hundreds of years at a time. They provide homes for birds, animals and insects and food for all of them. They give us shade in the summer, wood for our stoves in the winter, and cleaner air to breathe just because they are there. They don't ask to be rewarded, thanked, or gloated over. They go to sleep in the winter, dreaming their dreams of spring secure in the knowledge that when they wake up, their branches will be adorned with little green buds that will leaf into a magnificent canopy of leaves to shelter us all. They witness wars, natural disasters, and the evolution of every species on the planet. Most of all, they are a constant in our lives, something we can turn to whenever we need reassurance that the world we love is still here.
A few years ago we returned to our home town for a festival. My granddaughter, who is now 19, was anxious to show her boyfriend Grandmother Willow. When we got to the place on the river bank where we used to picnic, her face fell. All that remained of her beloved tree was a broken, dried-out stump. Old age and Mother Nature had eventually caught up to her and she went down during the previous winter. My granddaughter was devastated. What could her real Grandma do? I gently brought her attention to the sprouts and new growth that were coming out of the old girl's stump and around her roots. "Those are her children and grandchildren," I told her. "They will carry the story of this place, just like you will carry it to your children and grandchildren. She goes on in them and in you."
Trees have a lot to teach us. Spend some time with one. And if someone calls you a tree-hugger, take it as a compliment.
And so it is.
The house I lived in, which was built back in the late 1800's, sat on the banks of a small, lazy little river. Every morning I would rise to a view of herons and beavers, ducks and geese, and even an occasional otter who was especially entertaining in the winter when he took to sliding down the embankment on the ice. Across the river on the opposite bank was a stand of trees bordering on a field which the town used for assorted festivities. One tree in particular caught the eye of my oldest granddaughter who spent a great deal of time with me when she was very little.. She named the tree Grandmother Willow after the character in the Disney movie of the story of Pocahontas which she was obsessed with at the time. The tree was not a willow, of course, but what would be the point of telling her that? In the spring and summer we would pack a picnic lunch and go visit Grandmother Willow on the river bank. My granddaughter would pick flowers for her, or bring her presents of cookies, leftover veggies or any other treasure she deemed appropriate. We communed with the local wildlife: bunnies, woodchucks, birds of all varieties, and squirrels of every color and size. Most of all, we learned some very valuable lessons from this formidable old lady.
We learned that trees do not worry about whether they are the biggest or the most important. They aren't jealous if another tree produces fruit while all they can manage are acorns. They don't gloat if one has brighter colors in the autumn than another, nor do they laugh at each other when their leaves fall to the ground and leave them bare and exposed. What they do is demonstrate the cycles of life, from birth to death and back to birth again, with a clarity and a purpose that defies humans. There they stand, year after year, sometimes for hundreds of years at a time. They provide homes for birds, animals and insects and food for all of them. They give us shade in the summer, wood for our stoves in the winter, and cleaner air to breathe just because they are there. They don't ask to be rewarded, thanked, or gloated over. They go to sleep in the winter, dreaming their dreams of spring secure in the knowledge that when they wake up, their branches will be adorned with little green buds that will leaf into a magnificent canopy of leaves to shelter us all. They witness wars, natural disasters, and the evolution of every species on the planet. Most of all, they are a constant in our lives, something we can turn to whenever we need reassurance that the world we love is still here.
A few years ago we returned to our home town for a festival. My granddaughter, who is now 19, was anxious to show her boyfriend Grandmother Willow. When we got to the place on the river bank where we used to picnic, her face fell. All that remained of her beloved tree was a broken, dried-out stump. Old age and Mother Nature had eventually caught up to her and she went down during the previous winter. My granddaughter was devastated. What could her real Grandma do? I gently brought her attention to the sprouts and new growth that were coming out of the old girl's stump and around her roots. "Those are her children and grandchildren," I told her. "They will carry the story of this place, just like you will carry it to your children and grandchildren. She goes on in them and in you."
Trees have a lot to teach us. Spend some time with one. And if someone calls you a tree-hugger, take it as a compliment.
And so it is.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Confessions Of An Artistic Wanna Be
Fast forward about 40 years. I was visiting a dear friend who paints. I told her the story about my art teacher. She was fuming. "I wonder how many other students she robbed of the joy of painting by her narrow-mindedness," she said. She asked me if I liked to paint. I told her I did and even enjoyed sitting down with the grandkids when they came over and painting with them. "How does painting make you feel?" she asked. "Happy, content, like a kid again," I replied. "Then paint," she commanded! "It doesn't have to be a masterpiece. The joy is in the doing, not the finished product." I went home and started painting for me. I could probably submit them in a children's art contest and no one would be the wiser. It doesn't matter. What matters is that it brings color and feeling into my life and that is all that counts.
As it happened, right about that time is when I discovered gardening and it was there that my artistic talents blossomed along with my flowers. That is where all the longing for color, form and function came together. One was just practice for the other.
Never deny yourself the joy of creating just because you are holding yourself to someone else's standards. It can be painting, writing, gardening, sewing, anything at all. In addition to not being the world's greatest painter, I am also not the world's greatest knitter, yet every year my grandkids get new scarves, or slippers, or leg warmers complete with mistakes. Love doesn't need to earn artistic awards. Besides, imagine how grey and boring our lives would be without the joy of moving from imagintion to creation.
"Use those talents you have. You will make it. You will give joy
to the world. Take this tip from nature: the woods would be a very
silent place if no birds sang except for those who sang best."
Bernard Meltzer
Gee, I just got a mental picture of a robin sitting on a branch singing Spring into being. Quick, where did I put my paint brush? Why don't you grab one, too? Or a pen, or whatever your tool of choice is, and create something beautiful?
And so it is.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Faith In A Seed
The other day I was standing online at the bookstore waiting to pay for my purchases. As always there were plenty of things displayed to snare the unsuspecting customer with last minute things they didn't know they wanted but had to have. I was no different. There on the counter was a stack of tiny pink boxes that said: Friendship Garden Starter Kit. In each box was a tiny pot, a tiny peat pellet, and a tiny bag with a few seeds in it. I had my choice of primrose, forget-me-not, and a few others. However I was intrigued by the name of one I had never heard of:: Love In The Mist. The picture on the box was of a little blue flower. I stared out of the window of the store at the grey, cold day, and then back at the box. I picked it up and held it in the palm of my hand. Holding it there, I knew I had to have it.
Right now it is sitting next to me as I write this post. We on the east coast are bracing for what has been described as a serious blizzard. They have changed the ETA of this storm several times. The latest is that it should be starting this afternoon and will reach its peak overnight. It is so grey and foreboding outside my window. The bird feeder is blowing back and forth in anticipation of what it to come. There are no birds anywhere, not even the crows who are unusually hardy around here. So I think maybe now is the perfect time to open the box and start my seeds. I need to feel spring in the palm of my hand.
Henry David Thoreau wrote these words: "Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders."
I, too, have faith in a seed. For all the years that I was fortunate enough to have a large, homey garden to play in, I knew that if I did my part - preparing the soil, pulling the weeds, watering and feeding - the seeds I held in my hand would fulfill their promise to grow and bloom into something beautiful. Now that I have my little apartment-size garden on my front porch (subject matter for another post in the future), those seeds are even more precious to me.
I believe the same thing about our dreams and intentions. If I do my part, if I plant my seeds in good soil, feed and water them, and pull out the weeds that represent those thoughts and ideas that no longer serve me, I am prepared to expect wonders. There is nothing I cannot grow including a postage stamp-sized garden. I can grow a new career, a new hobby, a new relationship. I can grow wonders.
The snow is starting to fall lightly and softly, almost like a mist. How appropriate as I open the box that says, "Love In The Mist" and hold the seeds in my hand.
And so it is.
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