After dance class on Saturday we went with friends to the big woods north and west of town, National Forest wilderness area, little creeks, big rivers, farmhouses, high and winding roads through the firs and oaks and maples, the world flush green. More wildflowers than I could name, yellow lupine, shooting stars, bleeding hearts, wild irises. We found the gravel road and then the narrow trail and hiked back along the riverside towards the rushing sound of water.
The air feels like June already, sunny and bright but cool in the shade, precursor to the humidity of July and the dry wind of August. The waterfall churned a swath of frothy white rushing water tumbling down the cliff 40 feet. Twenty different kinds of moss and lichen covered the rocks and trees and branches. A hundred different shades of green, from purple and blue to silver and yellow, all lit with a halo from the waterfall mist in the sunlight.
We sat on the rocks until the weight of the world slipped from our shoulders and we remembered to breathe again. Something there is in the churn of water followed by the smooth green glide in the deep black pool at the base of the falls. The shadows and sound of wind in the tall trees. No words are needed.
Sunday I waged war on blackberries and cleavers in my yard. Cleavers is nasty. They look innocent and pretty, sort of like sweet woodruff or lady's bedstraw with fringy pale green leaves, but they climb up plants and choke them, and they have microscopic barbs so they grab skin, hair, clothing. Where they touch my skin they raise welts if I don't wash my arms and legs soon after contact. I hates cleavers I does.
There is a running joke that any real estate that lists "berries" in the for sale advertisement means a high-maintenance property sold by conscientious people. Blackberries here will grow fifteen to twenty feet tall, with bramble stems as big around as my wrist. In the hills they often grow intertwined with poison oak, which makes for a nasty combination. Big deep scratches that itch and fester and ooze. I did battle with them Sunday, and thankfully we don't have poison oak, and I came away with only minor scrapes and one small puncture when a thorn poked through a seam in my glove.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trimming roses, which is no easy task in itself since our lot has about 40 rose bushes. Some are polite, others are crabby old thorny things. All of them are going full tilt boogie right now with the blossoms. I felt like putting a sign up in the corner of the yard saying "Steal my roses please" because I filled seven vases (no I FILLED seven vases) and took ten roses to our neighbor and I didn't even get to five of the plants in the yard's far corner. This is a good year for the roses.
We also puttered some in the garden, ogled all the strawberries & raspberries & loganberries. We ate three artichokes and a green salad with our dinner. The fava beans and spinach will be ready soon, and the garlic and potatoes and tomatoes and corn and cucumbers and peppers and all those delicious things S is growing for us to eat.
We also looked at bugs in the yard, the damsel flies and jumping spiders and lady bugs and hover flies and honey bees and small predatory beetles, worms as big around as my thumb. I watched an electric blue wasp munch on about ten aphids and it tickled me greatly. We drank sweet tea in the evening and laughed a lot and I remember dancing and taking off all my clothes and getting called a jay bird and by then the sun had set & the waxing moon rode low in the darkened sky.
At midnight we lay on our backs in the clover and looked at the indigo sky with wispy high clouds and the stars and planets and wondered why people stop doing the things they loved to do as kids, looking at the full spectrum of our conscious perceptions, the infinitesimal and the infinite. I hope I'm never too old to watch bugs, or lie with the spinning earth beneath my back while watching the heavens.
The air feels like June already, sunny and bright but cool in the shade, precursor to the humidity of July and the dry wind of August. The waterfall churned a swath of frothy white rushing water tumbling down the cliff 40 feet. Twenty different kinds of moss and lichen covered the rocks and trees and branches. A hundred different shades of green, from purple and blue to silver and yellow, all lit with a halo from the waterfall mist in the sunlight.
We sat on the rocks until the weight of the world slipped from our shoulders and we remembered to breathe again. Something there is in the churn of water followed by the smooth green glide in the deep black pool at the base of the falls. The shadows and sound of wind in the tall trees. No words are needed.
Sunday I waged war on blackberries and cleavers in my yard. Cleavers is nasty. They look innocent and pretty, sort of like sweet woodruff or lady's bedstraw with fringy pale green leaves, but they climb up plants and choke them, and they have microscopic barbs so they grab skin, hair, clothing. Where they touch my skin they raise welts if I don't wash my arms and legs soon after contact. I hates cleavers I does.
There is a running joke that any real estate that lists "berries" in the for sale advertisement means a high-maintenance property sold by conscientious people. Blackberries here will grow fifteen to twenty feet tall, with bramble stems as big around as my wrist. In the hills they often grow intertwined with poison oak, which makes for a nasty combination. Big deep scratches that itch and fester and ooze. I did battle with them Sunday, and thankfully we don't have poison oak, and I came away with only minor scrapes and one small puncture when a thorn poked through a seam in my glove.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trimming roses, which is no easy task in itself since our lot has about 40 rose bushes. Some are polite, others are crabby old thorny things. All of them are going full tilt boogie right now with the blossoms. I felt like putting a sign up in the corner of the yard saying "Steal my roses please" because I filled seven vases (no I FILLED seven vases) and took ten roses to our neighbor and I didn't even get to five of the plants in the yard's far corner. This is a good year for the roses.
We also puttered some in the garden, ogled all the strawberries & raspberries & loganberries. We ate three artichokes and a green salad with our dinner. The fava beans and spinach will be ready soon, and the garlic and potatoes and tomatoes and corn and cucumbers and peppers and all those delicious things S is growing for us to eat.
We also looked at bugs in the yard, the damsel flies and jumping spiders and lady bugs and hover flies and honey bees and small predatory beetles, worms as big around as my thumb. I watched an electric blue wasp munch on about ten aphids and it tickled me greatly. We drank sweet tea in the evening and laughed a lot and I remember dancing and taking off all my clothes and getting called a jay bird and by then the sun had set & the waxing moon rode low in the darkened sky.
At midnight we lay on our backs in the clover and looked at the indigo sky with wispy high clouds and the stars and planets and wondered why people stop doing the things they loved to do as kids, looking at the full spectrum of our conscious perceptions, the infinitesimal and the infinite. I hope I'm never too old to watch bugs, or lie with the spinning earth beneath my back while watching the heavens.
<< Home