In Their Midst

Ubiquitous dandelions!

ground cracked or sodden,

temperatures soaring or chilled

(not a winter chill!)

in parks and lawns,

back alleys and roadsides ~

beside this sidewalk

one magenta tulip buds 

valiantly in their midst.

“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”

~ Henri Matisse

Dreaming

June, 2016

When the soil is turned

whether garden or field

an earthy bouquet emerges with leafy echoes 

of tractors or trowel,

blackened knees and hands,

and tender new plants ~

fresh food for our bellies,

fresh flowers for our tables.

“In spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”

~ Margaret Atwood

Dad's Old Trowel

Dad's Old Trowel

The trowel was old. Scratched and worn from years of digging deeply into hard scrabble soil, rich loamy soil or soil so filled with rocks it sharpened the edges of the blade every time it was used. Matt remembered the day his dad brought it home. It had a green painted handle and a shiny shovel end - he learned to call it by its proper name. A blade, much tinier than his dad’s big shovel that he used to dig the big holes. He had no idea why he had kept this old and rusted tool in with the rest of his garden tools. Matt often used it. The shape of its blade was not one of the many modern shapes, but wide enough to start a good sized hole for the spring time tomato plants. His dad’s trowel did have a depth gauge on the back. Matt was standing on a stool beside him on his workbench the day his dad scratched all the levels and inches on the back of it. He was curious, because it looked like he was damaging that shiny surface, and all the kids had been told never to damage any tools. To keep them as much in their new condition as possible. Here he was going against the rules he had laid down. Patiently, he explained that he wanted to measure the depth of a hole for particular plants. His dad said he could have driven back into town for one that already had neat engraving, but that would take too much time and a few more dollars. He had wanted to get planting.

Well, it wasn’t spring time and his tomatoes were ripening nicely. The old trowel had grabbed his attention. He kind of compared it to wanting to dig deeply for a work project that had been assigned to him. But how deeply, he had yet to figure out. Matt had no gauge like the one on the back of the trowel. He certainly couldn’t go out to the garden and dig out all the information he needed. Matt pushed back the wide brimmed straw hat he always wore in the sun. Like his dad, he pulled out a big red kerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. Well-worn blue jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, his garden ‘uniform’.Taking the trowel with him, he decided that he may not be able to dig up any answers, but thick weeds choking out some of his garden needed rearranging. A big swig of water refreshed him. Hot sun, butterflies and birds beckoned. Work needed to stay at work. He needed to get outside and dig some real soil.

“To forget how to dig the earth and to tend the soil is to forget ourselves.”

~ Mahatma Gandhi

Glory Be

Glory be to these faces

turned up to the sun

while roots knit them fast to the soil.

Delicate stems bend with the wind

nodding a gentle welcome to 

birds, bees and passersby 

“Always have something beautiful in sight, 

even if it’s just a daisy in a jelly glass.”

~ H.Jackson Brown, Jr.

Shelter

When a great tree falls, roots rip from the ground, crumbling soil 

falls away.

A wonder of homes for bugs, critters and creepy crawly things appears ~ a tangled curiosity of old growth twisted and broken but still sheltering life.

“Happy is the house that shelters a friend.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Urban Elders

Urban mushrooms grow wild ~

yet take advantage of 

soil, sunshine and a wee bush.

“Nature alone is antique, and the oldest art a mushroom.”

~ Thomas Carlyle

Newness ~ 1

There is always a stirring when spring is just around the corner. Here in Victoria, snowdrops blooming and daffodils in bud remind me, just in case I may have forgotten. On the prairies, spring always felt much farther away with winter winds and snow, reminding me to just be patient. 

That stirring to plant, to get my fingernails deep in the dirt, to get out in the garden or fields is not a new feeling.  Wherever I have lived, once adjusted to the climate, I have felt it's depth, the longing to be part of the earth. For many of us, living on our own, in a suite, in the middle of a city, where patios and window sills are our only gardens, it can take a good bit of creativity to respond to the coming of spring. 

I’ve accepted a challenge to avoid buying anything new for this year. Of course, this must be tempered by good judgement. Spring time does put a bit of extra pressure on this ‘avoiding newness’ challenge. But for the sake of beauty and soul satisfaction, I was willing to use some good judgement. After all flower pots and patio containers need new seed, new plants and some, a bit of new soil. Starting with these little violas for my window sill, I have bought and brought some lovely newness into my home. 

The deer had a lovely munch on the bush outside the window!

Awakening to the newness of each day opens onto many possibilities. Granted, we don’t always jump out of bed with enthusiasm. As our eyes open, our feet feel each step, we are slowly able to reshape the morning to fit our our desires. For today, my stirring to plant was satisfied by these little violas for my window sill.

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

~ George Bernard Shaw

Tending the Soil

Tending the soil in any garden, and providing protection from stormy weather, will help plants so they can blossom and grow strong.

Epilepsy, untended, grows stronger and more destructive to all in the family.

Learning that I was powerless over the fact that epilepsy resided in my brain and that I was NOT powerless over how I managed that condition, was a turning point for me as a parent, and an individual.

As a parent with epilepsy,

once I knew of my responsibility for the self care,

I learned what I could about 
managing my epilepsy,
minimizing my risk of seizures and,

that self care always came first ~ 

for birthday cakes and balloons

being a den mom with a Beaver troop

or going to gymnastic events or water polo

and so very much more during the ‘raising kids’ years.

Epilepsy had to sit quietly within - there was work to be done, fun to be shared

Epilepsy is merely a part of me

like any other part of me,

and deserved my attention then and now,

just as my children have deserved my attention.

Information abounds about epilepsy and

epilepsy has long been seen as something that children have.

But those children grow up to become parents, and

there are those of us whose epilepsy didn’t show itself until we were parents.

Ask questions of any health care professional that you can about whether you need to do anything 

differently, 

more carefully, 

with more planning

and how to enlist family members in this crucially important endeavor.

An online resource I have recently located is, 

http://www.epilepsy.com/

for common sense information about epilepsy and parenting.

“Trust yourself.  You know more than you think you do.”

~ Benjamin Spock

Holograms and Intuition

Stifled, boxed in,

no room to breathe or grow.

Looking for doorways or windows showing the 

next road or path to take.

Restless, 

searching for expansion,

not mere distraction, 

but deep rich soil to plow.

And the box?

What is it made of ?

Steel?

Cardboard?

Tissue paper?

My own thoughts of limitation and political correctness?

This last seems hard as steel,

thick as concrete till I reach out ~

my hand pushes through a noisy, frightening hologram of 

should's and shouldn’ts

do’s and don’ts

destroying the box completely

leaving me feeling lost and alone

no sign posts to direct or barriers to caution.

Is this a do or don’t issue?

Do I rely on my intuition for learning and practice,

stepping forward to gather gems along the way?

“Intuition will tell the thinking mind where to look next.”

~ Jonas Salk

It's only a Teacup

A tiny porcelain teacup

lay buried in the yard,

lost from a lovely tea set.

This lovely yard had seen

tiny cars, a fire engine

action figures and marbles,

all unearthed from beneath weeds

around the old tree trunks, and

under hedge and bushes.

One pink high heeled slipper

probably belonging to a Barbie doll,

was found once,

but that was two years ago 

between front fence and sidewalk.

Now this little porcelain teacup,

banded in mauve, emerged

as if by magic, from loosened soil 

in an old bed of daffodil bulbs

inside the fence.

There are stories inside this little teacup ~ 

of fine ladies picnicking on the grass and 

calling to the boys playing across the lawn

while the breeze blows from the west.

“Play gives children a chance to 

practice what they are learning.”

~ Fred Rogers

Through the Screen Door

Coming in from the garden tonight,

my red garden clogs on the deck,

my face, arms and hands 

covered in fine black silt,

I stood at the sink running warm water 

from a tap and watched graying water

swirl down the silver circled drain.

Thoughts of the old pump at the edge of the porcelain sink at the farm flowed from memory.

It was a cast iron pump on the small counter to the right just inside the screen door.

After he left his coverall's outside,

Dad came in to wash up for meals, 

and at the end of his farming day.

He pumped cold water from the cistern, 

a splash at a time, into a basin in the sink, 

tossing gray soapy water outside when he was done.

Coming in from the field, Dad was covered

in fine black prairie soil from his long day 

plowing down a spent crop in fall - or weeds sprouting in spring - 

on the broad flat acres pioneered by his father.

His forehead, still white, 

where sun was thwarted by his cap.

Owl eyes where his glasses had perched on his nose.

Streaks of dirt in the creases and lines in his skin.

Are these memories accurate in their detail?

I can't go back to any of those days to find out.

We all remember details a little differently.

What I do know is that

today my skin looked a little like my dad's.

I only used a little hand garden fork 

to turn over the soil,

keeping stray weeds from the fence

on the small patch of black dirt,

while his equipment was for a bigger purpose.

Washing fine black west coast soil 

from my face, arms and hands,

I took a short trip through the screen door

to the old pump standing at the edge of memory.

"True nostalgia is an ephemeral 
composition of disjointed memories."

~ Florence King