What were they doing?
Oh, you know, just trying to see if they can make the tent fly . . . and fly away with it. I think they were hoping to make their way to India?
They ran back and forth in front of the front door so many times — I couldn’t stop laughing. At first Harry was chasing them, but he ran out of energy before they did and lay down to watch in the shade!
Pyramid Point holds a particularly special place in my imagination. It reminds me of the way John O’Donohue speaks about the power of landscape:
“I think it makes a huge difference when you wake in the morning and come out of your house — whether you believe you are walking into dead geographical location, which is used to get to a destination, or whether you are emerging out into a landscape that is just as much, if not more, alive as you but in a totally different form. And if you go towards it with an open heart and a real watchful reverence, you will be absolutely amazed at what it will reveal to you. And I think that that was one of the recognitions of the Celtic imagination: that landscape wasn’t just matter, but that it was actually alive. What amazes me about landscape — is that landscape recalls you into a mindful mode of stillness, solitude, and silence where you can truly receive time.”
It’s time to transplant the seed babies outside into the garden. They are not really babies anymore. At first they grew slowly. And then, overnight it seemed, they shot up and now we have sunflowers and cucumbers, kale and tomatoes — bursting out of soil blocks. Our plants need more space to extend their roots. But I almost don’t want to move them outside because I like hanging out with my babies in the thick greenhouse air. I love the watering and nurturing. Watching them grow.
This reminds me of sending my children to school. I like to be close to them. I like to hear their voices and watch them explore and create. I like to nourish them. I know it is exciting to go out into the wide world and test one’s wings. But for how long is it healthy to stay together wrapped in the warmth and protection of the greenhouse?
He is reaching —
to bring the world close.
Arms out. Open.
The sweet love between my little brother and his little boy.
The air was heavy
We felt it coming —
. . .
Dancing in the raindrops
Going to sleep
with their windows open;
to the sound.
. . .
I go into their rooms later
to close the windows
and find them sprawled out,
dreaming of rain.
Kneeling down on the freshly mulched straw path, I am watering a garden bed of seedlings and seeds. Ellen has crawled under the row cover (blanket-like fabric we use to keep plants warm at night and protected from insects). She is singing.
“Mama, scientists have proved that music helps plants grow,” she informs me.
I believe her. Especially when hand motions are included with the song.
I’m watching him hold his boy. Our boy.
18 years ago Jeffrey and I came here together for the first time. It was May and the lilacs were blooming. We had just met.
That summer he would take pictures of me and us with his old film camera — using a single roll of black and white film. There was never a summer as full of innocent, carefree love as that summer . . . but all these years and adventures and jobs and babies later — we still go back to the lilacs together.