AFTERMATH

August is sliding in to homebase after giving us quite a rocking month of weather, politics, financial rollercoaster rides and here in western Maine...bugs. Hurricane Irene never did come to our barnraising because she had downsized in plenty of time but she sure brought the flooding rains and did a little pruning of green wood with her 40-50mph breezes. Lucky for us, the trusses weren't delivered until Monday...during the aftermath of Irene. The first attempt was aborted because our street was underwater at the intersection of Rte. 26 but by noonish, you could see the pavement and the delivery was made. Timing is perhaps one of the lessons learned as one aquires wisdom. I recall myself setting the departure date for our honeymoon trip 28 years ago. Unfortunately, I was not yet in sync with Stephen and the job he was finishing took longer than planned. By the time we left, I didn't even want to go anymore. Nuff said about my flexibility. Somehow...timing was about my time or no time at all. We both complained a bit about how long the order date was from delivery but now that we are on the other side of the whole issue, it couldn't have been more perfect. Had the trusses been delivered sooner, the urge to get them up might have been strong and we'd have had the whole roof to worry about during all the media hype for the hurricane terrorist that they made her out to be. In the calm after the storm, I had a banner day for birds. First, in the flooding by a small pond nearby, I caught site of a great blue heron standing majestic and alert for frogs or whatever he could find. Then, upon return to our house, we got out of the car and heard the cacaphony of ravens overhead. Sure enough, they were on to a huge hawk...probably a Northern Goshawk and we watched mesmerized by the interaction and antics of the hawk versus 4 ravens. That was just prior to delivery of the trusses. Then, after they arrived, a beautiful bald eagle was circling overhead as I picked up branches that had been blown from the Hydrangea and the Birch and Pine. The sky was blue with billowy clouds racing by in a strong breeze and everything feeling poised for change. Today, the neighbor brought his logging truck by...and he and his son and our friend Greg all came by to help set the trusses in place. It's been a long time since Stephen was a roof monkey...in fact, before his surgery. Seeing him up a ladder in the peak of the trusses made my stomach roll and I realized just how anxiety keeps me from participating in dangerous looking activities. As a person who has had balance issues and ear pressure issues all my life...I tend to shy away from heights because they give me vertigo. But there he was...and breathing with the best of them. It's been 15 months since Stephen had his quadruple bypass surgery. His recovery was complicated by a paralyzed phrenic nerve and a partially collapsed lung. Last year at this time we were both crying while we harvested potatoes...he because he couldn't breathe and me because of watching him struggle. Today, I watched him climb a 20 foot ladder with his nail gun and yep...i was anxious...but he's never been 60 before and his physical limits have changed. Makes me wonder if there isn't some Fox News in my head telling me how horrible everything is going to be and how dangerous everything is and how we should all lock ourselves in the prison of their fearful hype so we stay safe and bored to death. The journey through his surgery was slow and long but it wasn't as horrible as some told me it would be. And Irene was so much less of a madwoman than expected. Perhaps we can as a species, settle ourselves into our Greater Selves to experience the calm of the eye rather than tune into all the hot air wind bags spinning their fury and fear on a foundation of maybes...and in that calm place, affirm the perfection of Earth's imperfection. Sssh. The Pileated woodpecker is laughing and beating a rhythm on a tree while the builder hammers away, chuckling to himself about how good it feels to take a deep breath while I watch and marvel at how much can change in a moment of time.

RENASCENSE

Wow. August is winding up to whirl and swirl in a tropical wind and rain as Irene comes up the eastern seaboard to remind us all again just who is boss. When you give yourself to the garden, it's quite clear how small and feeble the will can be when pitted against the Will of Mother Nature but oh how powerful is the will that works with nature and how rich is the harvest. August brings the celebration of our wedding anniversary and this year marks the completion of 28 years together. For a person with commitment-o-phobia...thats not too shabby. This is my second marriage, and Stephen's too. My first wedding was a June affair with a catered reception and lots of yellow and orange flowers...my favorite and colors of the sun. The rightness of the wedding did absolutely nothing to change the wrongness of the coupling, and when my second chance rolled around a tiny breakfast ceremony in my parent's garden followed by a potluck bash at a friend's home was a much more harmonious environment for our vows. Funny...I was certain and willfull about the first event and scared silly for the second. My fear was the fear of repeating my stupidity. I was gun shy and where I was blissfully ignorant for the first event...I was all too aware of my talent for self deception for my second wedding and consequently, fearful from a lack of trust in myself. As I look back now, I appreciate more, my choice of reading for the service. I chose to read an Inuit prayer..."The great sea has sent me adrift...it moves me as the weeds in a great river...Earth and the great weather move me, have carried me away and move my inward parts with joy." At the time, I didn't totally understand why I chose that one particular verse to read any more than I could determine whether or not our marriage would succeed. I knew only that it was the perfect description of how I felt moved by my love for Stephen. We chose to go to the sea for our anniversary this year and stay in a B and B farm near Popham Beach. Stephen called it a honeymoon...and it was actually. It was relaxing, refreshing and nourishing to spend time alone together by the ocean and especially fun because we were allowed to bring Miss Sadie Hopkins, our puppy nearing 1 year old, with us. Her first trip to the beach was hilarious...comical and amusing as she had her first experience with waves and sand and revelling in the rolling around on dead crabs. As usual, though...the highest moments of our getaway were the ones that weren't planned. The pinnacle was a drive up the auto road of Mt Battie in Camden. I have written since the age of 12...mostly poetry until I moved to Maine. My poet mentor was Edna St. Vincent Millay, along with Emily Dickenson and May Sarton. I was given a biography of Vincent by the Unitarian Church in Salem on Children's Sunday...it was called Restless Spirit, and I ate it up. In fact I read it multiple times. The photo here is a picture taken from the spot where Edna St. Vincent Millay, lay down to watch the sky and open her heart to Infinity as she wrote about her mystical moment in the poem entitled "Renascence". She was experiencing a rebirthing and as I gazed out to the far horizon over Penobscott Bay after spending 2 days at the ocean, I was moved by the infinite wisdom of the words I read at my wedding. I'm glad I took the plunge. Even though I was reticent and fearful, hesitant and maybe even ambivalent, I am aware now and so much more tolerant of not knowing. Getting married...having children...writing...and making a garden...they all have something in common. They are all leaps of faith. No guarantees...no outcome that is right or wrong...just what YOU make of it...me and the Great Weather. No. It didn't all go as I wanted. It didn't all go as I planned and it certainly didn't happen as I expected. But somehow the dance I did with Stephen and the Great Weather for 28 years...well it worked out. It has nourished and sustained me as any garden and I am hugely grateful. Leaving space for the unknown...it's a tradition in lots of tribal arts to leave a place unfinished so the spirit can enter and the creation can have a soul. Funnily enough, I resisted the drive to the top of Mt. Battie because it seemed like too much driving for the dog. Resistance isn't my most creative urge, but it is part of myself that I need to get a grip on at long last. I'm amazed that so many moments of my life that I become resistant and stiff towards...well they become some of my finest moments. This year I happily submit to renascence...to the unknown, to infinity and beyond...let the great sea send me adrift. Here's hoping Irene's wallop is just a dollop.

FULL MOON EVE

Last night I dreamed I was gazing up at an exquisite full moon that was special because it hung so low in the sky. Today, when I sat for a meditation, i felt that whole huge silvery moon emanating out from my heart just like it was when it was shining luminesence in my dream. Somehow, the outside had come inside and the inside had moved outside and well, it clearly was all connected whether it was inside or outside. Today, I looked at Facebook update statuses for my news. It's always news I can relate to because it is whats happening in my world of friends. Here, I use the term friends to mean people I know...not necessarily well and we may not be especially close but we are all connected by this thread of internet weaving us together despite geographical location. I enjoy it. My friend Arla had posted this video on her status and I opted to sit quietly for 13 minutes and watch it with my full attention. Most folks know Eve Ensler for her now famous play "The Vagina Monologues". Arla is an artist healer who works with incarcerated women, women survivors of breast and other cancers as well as just us hung up creatives who can't quite get rolling. I had the remarkable oppurtunity to work with Arla on a Breastplate project that opened my awareness to just how deeply I had been affected by the social/media concepts of beauty and body as I grew up. I had no idea how negative my self appraisal of my body was until I did this project. It was a plaster cast of my torso full on front. I was thrilled, embarrassed, self concious and all kinds of descriptives because I had, over time and with my negative notions, created a breastplate of energy defending my soft underbelly. Fact is, I have huge breasts and I don't care for them. They are hangy and sweaty in the heat and they are a weight that sometimes hurts my back. As a young girl, I was mortified by the wolf whistles of men on construction jobs and always suspected any boy who was drawn to notice me was simply interested in my breasts. I was usually right..so I never perceived my full cups as a strength. If anything, they kept people from seeing ME. My awareness opened when the plaster was removed from my body and I began to work with it. During that time, Stephen and I were having our heart troubles both in our relationship and in our health. I remember the night I had to sand the cast of my breasts. I used a fine sandpaper and as we women chatted and worked, I realized that I was begining to appreciate the soft curve of my breasts and how my belly stuck out a little after delivering 2 large boys. It dawned on me that Stephen actually might appreciate my landscape and love it rather than just be fixated on it. I knew that only because I was, in lightly rubbing the shape of my body, opening up to the possibility of loving it myself. And learning to love myself was an integral part of moving to the mountains of Maine. My soul was hungry for this landscape and I have given my all to my mother Earth. Eve Ensler's "Suddenly, my body" is an intense, remarkable piece. It is the truth. As I harvest vegetables from my garden, I feel the hungry children in Somalia...and the children of Japan eating irradiated food because the Big Wigs fear losing money more than the lives of their children. I see the ridiculous posturing of politicians from the White House to the local elementry schools and I remember sanding my breasts...praying for understanding and direction, given how far off course we had drifted. This is a potent piece. Eve is a brave soul for putting her perception into words, as is Arla, for teaching Body-nature as a way of healing women. I am humbled by how much more powerful is the voice of the artist in speaking straight truth where the politicians and money-mongers speak empty words and unconcious crowds want to believe, so they vote for them and everything continues to sit encased in grime and oil and coal dust, in cancer and in lies while impotent committees waste time bickering over semantics and blame. I have found the softness of my torso...a love of my landscape and a healing in my garden. I am one blessed cookie and I give thanks with every cell of my being. Mmmmm. The moon rises over the mountains.

ACCEPT, EMBRACE, CELEBRATE

I went right to work this morning...picking black raspberries. I picked 3 quarts in the quiet of the morning under a blue sky with bare feet and braless. Not such a good idea. Had to dress in long pants and boy was it hot but those blackberries are well armed and several scratches is getting off pretty easy. I love when the berries are so ripe and ready that they just fall into my tub with barely a touch. August is what gardening is all about. The weeds have officially taken over but it's time to turn my attention to picking and putting up. One thing leads to another and before I know it, I've picked squashes, lettuces, cucumbers and taken garden photos and played frisbee with Sadie. I've mowed the garden paths and as I move from one activity to another, I realize that it's up to me to say...stop. Seems simple enough...but I have worked hard all my life. I enjoy the feeling of working hard and accomplishing much but my body wants me to slow down, to stretch, to relax, and to be present. It doen't want to be driven by my mind all the time. This is an odd time of life. I'm a beginner at being an elder and an old lady at being childlike. I find myself rushing around like I did when my family was young and everthing I did for myself was done on stolen moments. I'd steal a half hour here to write or a walk in the woods or an hour there for reading a book. It all had to be done between laundry and cooking and cleaning and working and chauffering and appreciating and listening and reassuring someone else...usually Stevo and the boys but I did jobs too...ones that paid me money. Now I'm unemployed by most peoples standards though I feel like I'm working as hard as ever. It's just that I'm doing what I want. How is that a problem? It isn't really. It's the old habit of thinking I have to work 24/7 to get where I want to be...the mental rut of expecting not to be able to have time to do what I want to do. I've been juggling activities for so long to create space for myself to play, that I have lost my ability to play right when I have all the time in the world to do just that. Ironic. I'm so accustomed to having a problem with myself, to fenagling time for myself, to sacrificing my desires so others can have theirs...that I don't know how to handle this new developement in my life called ME. It's actually pretty funny. I watched the bees in the borage today. They are busy and buzzy and yes they move from flower to flower but there is nothing hurried about them. I watch my little dog Sadie with her friend next door. She is fully present in her play...and I marvel at her joy. I peruse my garden and I hear a critical voice commenting on the number of weeds and the way I can do it better next year and I see that boarding the brain train is not going to get me where I want to go. The mental habit of busy busy busy is just a habit that comes between me and my enjoyment of life. This is where I am. I have not achieved all I'd hoped to in my life but I have done my best. For whatever reason, here I am. Hopping on the heart train headed for a big juncture called Acceptance. Funny. That was the name I gave my very first journal way back in the 70's...and here it is again. So here I am at this garden of Paradise after a lifetime of work in effort to get here and what calls on me is one of the most difficult jobs yet...getting off the train and enjoying the arrival...embracing and celebrating the lifestyle I have created and making a joyful use of the time I have created for myself. I can stop seeing the problem and with a tiny tweak, see that I have actually lived myself into the answer. I'm reminded of the quote by Rilke...from a passage that was read at Stephen's and my wedding ceremony where he reminds the young poet to "learn to love the questions themselves ...that one day you might live into the answers." This passage lives inside me...and now to the task of savoring the blessings of my life's journey.

A LAMMAS GIFT FOR THE GODDESS

I love turtles. Always did...always will. When I was a kid, if you went to the Barnum Bailey Circus at Boston Garden, you could buy a chameleon or a turtle for 99 cents. My sister and I had turtles for our first pet. We used to have races on the bedsheets early on a Sunday morning while my parents slept. No one ever worried about Salmonella. The turtles occaisionally got lost. Once we lost one and found it months later under the downstairs carpet and it was still alive. I live with the guilt of putting my turtle outside for a sunbath and then forgetting about him. When I returned, he was dead and all that was left of his eyes were black circles. It was one of the many lessons I recieved from the natural world. Stephen and I always stop to help a turtle cross the street. I guess it's my karmic debt to the species. I actually kind of love snapping turtles too. They remind me of dinosaurs and for all their feisty agressiveness, they are fun to watch in their element. We used to walk the railroad tracks in Marblehead to a little pond where we fished for snappers. We used chunks of meat for bait and the turtles were so big that catching and releasing them was a rush of adrenaline. They have punctuated my life. My new guilt has come with a growing interest in sea turtles. When we went to Antigua we swam in a bay with them and got all excited when we spotted their heads breaking the surface for a breath. I recently read that a sea turtle had washed up dead on a beach and biologists had found 317 pieces of plastic in its belly. Now, as I bring in my garden harvest, I feel guilt about my dependency on plastic bags. My prefered preserving technique is to blanch and freeze because the vegetables taste better than ones stored in jars and there is more texture because you don't have to boil them in a bath for 20 minutes. I can't believe how many plastic bags must be being thrown out in our society and the fact that the plastic doesn't ever go away is especially bothersome. In fact packaging has become ridiculous. I am aware that anything I can do to cut down on my consumption is a help. I've used my 4 pint berry boxes twelve times already and I'll use them more...so I've taken to washing out my plastic bags and hanging them up around the kitchen to dry. I chuckle to myself because my sister and I always laughed at my mother who hangs her plastic bags on the rungs of the kitchen stools and places the stool over the heating register to dry them. I always thought mom took her Scottish thriftyness a wee bit too far. Now I try to be more like her. So here it is August 1-2nd. It's Lammas...the Celtic Celebration Day for blessing the first fruits of the harvest. It's a day of mixed feelings for me because Lammas 1995 was my father's last day of life on Earth. His favorite thing was to mess around in his garden, especially toward the end of his life when most human beings became "assholes" or "horsesasses". Dad became downright ornery toward the end of his life though he always exuded joy while he created in the kitchen. As I write these sentences, I am aware that I celebrated him today, unwittingly. I worked in the garden and then made up a new recipe for spinach squares with my harvest. I picked berries. I puzzled over my compost piles and it dawned on me that what is missing for my compost, is movement. My piles are so big and heavy that I never turn them. Heavy shit. A layer of manure in spring is great for the garden but dressing the plants with compost would certainly help. I bought my garden a gift for Lammas...a big black recycled plastic composter that tumbles and I thought wow...what a cool way to celebrate first fruits and give back to the Earth some of the energy that she gives me in the form of my garden veggies. I felt like I found a missing key...and it is something as simple as a container for my waste so my waste doesn't go to waste. And that makes my mother feel better too. I'm not sure how I went from turtles to compost...but there you have it. Happy Lammas...and Dad, I miss you...your smile, your hearty laughter and your warm hugging arms...but you were with me today, here in my heart where the turtles swim and the plastic gets recycled.