Opening the Way

I have not posted anything to my blog in while. I know that is a cardinal sin of blogging, especially if you want your blog to be read. But, I think not hearing someone speak for a while is refreshing. To me, it means they have a life, which they are engaged in living, and they have taken a pause to gather some new experiences.

The last time I published, I was excited about planting the tulips. I didn't make it outside that day and wound up waiting. This past Saturday, on a rare-of-late sunny day whim, I donned some tennies, a hat, and a sweater and cleaned up the garden beds.

There had been a freeze the night before, so all of the south facing dahlias were dangling limply and oddly looking both wet and icy at the same time. They were covered with buds, but I knew their season was over so I sheared them all.  On the east side of the house, I gathered the last of the garden fruits, that is, exactly eleven tomatos, two small eggplants, and two turning red bell peppers.  There were also three fat, spiky cucumbers.  The cherry tomato plant was also covered with small, green tomatos which I left behind because they were weeping from the prior night's freeze.  A few other items were left on the plants, too, which I cut down and left to return to the ground.

On the other side of the house -- the west side -- I pulled out several of the gladiolas that had bloomed and were now laying wildly about, some of them pushing other plants in various directions.  The glads did not bloom as long or as hardily this year as last; maybe I planted them too late afterall.  In place of the dahlias and the all along the west and north sides of the house, I planted tulips.  Maybe I had a hundred bulbs total, but I don't know if they will all bloom.  Last year, I planted one here and one there and another over there, so they stood lonely in the ground like strangers on the street.  This year, I planted them in groups.  I hope they bloom in the spring; they will be so pretty.

I was thinking about how this planting and waiting is so exciting and peace giving and easy in the garden.  Even though so many things can go wrong -- not enough sun; not enough rain; too much wind; a late freeze; poor soil; and so on -- I have a faith that the plants will come.  If not all of them, enough of them will grow to make my efforts worth while.  And all winter long, I just wait.  I know that I have planted the seeds or the bulbs and they will come.  Patience is imposed on me.  If only waiting for daily connections, periodic occasions, or life events could be so peace giving.  If planting the seeds for them could be so exciting and full of firm expectation.  If only the patience imposed on me could be as easy . . . maybe I would be more content and more settled.  What do you think?

Hooray!

At last! The sun has finally returned! 

Today I will plant the tulips and participate in a cosmic convergence of last years bulbs, today's work, and next year's glorious blooms, merging the past, present, and future in one activity.  I believe that there is an invisible lifestream that flows throughout the universe.  I am like a living raft flowing along with the sometimes calm, sometimes swift current.  My acts of conduct are the rudders I use to help control my direction.  When the current is calm, there is a hidden danger of laziness and I must challenge my self to paddle forward.  When the current is swift, there is a hidden danger of overconfidence and I must use all my skill, knowledge, ability, and determination to maintain a measure of control over my direction.  Any singular act of conduct -- no matter how small -- affects me.  In accordance with the holographic paradigm, the entire universe is affected, too. 

There is a destiny that exists by means of the natural laws of our environment.  Fire is hot and can incinerate.  Water is wet and can saturate.  Wind dries and can desiccate and obliterate.  If I throw myself into the fire, I am destined to be burned.  If I jump into the water, I am destined to get wet.  If I stand naked in the wind, I am destined to get cold.  But I have the power to change many outcomes by examining my surroundings, analyzing my options, and making informed choices.  I move my glass away from the edge of the table; I wear my safety belt when I drive the car; I remove myself from bad association.  I keep on asking: What should I do next?  What can I give?  How can I serve?  Is there something that I can share? 

Even the singular, simple, humble act of planting is a giving service of life and beauty.  I am so grateful to have the opportunity to choose.  Living consciously, thus, my life now can be better and better.  As for all the rest that is beyond my control, I will wait on YHVH. 

Checkin' Ya'll Out

I spent some time today looking at a few blogs.  There's so much fun stuff.  So much variety.  Some spooky stuff.  Some sad.  (The blogs I've seen that seem like spaces for people to be who they can't be to everyone they know in "real" life.)  There is an infinite variety of everything, yet much of it is variation on a theme.  So be who you are, but don't hurt others in the process.  That's my little preachy word for this morning.

Beyond that, I am please to announce that the sky is beginning to look relieved and thoughtful like the cover of a postcard.  (What are those tufts of heavy clouds called?)  The coolness is more autumn-like and tolerable and I feel like I can exhale.  (And unhunch my shoulders from the daunting coldspell.)  Maybe I'll get those tulips in the ground afterall.  What are your plans for the weekend.

Rain Quintet

The rain has become relentless.


This evening I attended a jazz set; in fact, it is going on right now. A quintet of sounds surrounding me in three dimensions. Light percussion: the delicate yet forceful spray of icy rain pellets pushing against the house with the force of rising and falling winds.  Bass: the immodest syncopated thumping of the rain falling everywhere inside the rain gutter.  On piano: a two chime improv entering from the front porch.  Special guest: tenor bamboo "cluk-clok-clok".  I hear the low whisper of guests in the rush of the rain as it pushes from the gutter and into the grass.  An unidentifiable scat of other sounds in low tones brushes past my ear.  Undecipherably fantastic, I hear it all.  Yet, I crave simple silence. I listen involuntarily to what I don't want to hear.  And again, sleep evades me.

My garden is frosted and wilty.  My mind is dull and dreamy.  I am leaving them both behind, unkempt.  I want to drift away in forgetful sleep under the warmth and weight of my feather blanket, but winter is entering me now.  I am becoming pain all the time.

I can't escape the raw truth outside.  The storm sounds soothe me and hurt me as I am suspended between awe and agony.  Do you ever feel this way too?

Slug Transformation

When I came home late last evening, a huge slug was beginning a climb up the side of the house. I took a photo, but am having a problem uploading pictures to my blog. But that's not the largest problem. It seems, based on the way I have been feeling these cold, dark mornings of late, that I am transforming into a human slug. Tucked away under many blankets, even the eternal impulse to move seems to have died out as I lie there like a corpse. Is that the reason why I keep brewing that morning cup of coffee?