Virginia

Eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and the air is softly warm after yesterday's punishing heat. Farmers' Market. Picnic tables under the trees and there is shade even though the morning sun is still slanting in from the east. 

Guitarist properly amped and the play list is every song I love and new ones I haven't heard but fall for immediately. Is it something in the coffee? It's only a decaf latte. 

Young families and old, singles and couples, patient and waiting as lines form at the coffee stand, the fish taco vendor, and the crepe truck. There is no hurry here, nobody is yelling, nobody is running, everyone is soaking in the calm of a communal morning with genial strangers. Tables shared, but nobody seeking for conversation, particularly. Resting in the abundance of fresh fruit, vegetables, handmade soap, blue eggs from exotic chickens resting alongside the brown and white.

Of all the definitions of “engage,” the one that most attracts me is the intransitive verb “to come together and interlock .” Sounds a little sexy, doesn’t it?

So many things out there in the world that I am longing to be engaged to, and with. One of them is writing. Too often I push it off into a corner to wait.

Waiting enrages writing. It becomes first irritated, sitting spikily in the corner of your mind, its edges becoming ever sharper, poking you for attention. If you don’t engage you are risking those points burning themselves to ash, and then you have consequences.

ONE AT A TIME

What will you do with this bright day that glares through the south window and makes you open your sleep-sanded eyes?

(You only get one at a time.)

All night the wind tossed the garden, and the dust is giddy with it. See it whirling and sparkling in the light?

Dust to dust.

Make a space, as you must each day that suits you well. If you feel hot and scratchy in this suit, make another.

Cool your skin with shade and scent of blossom.

Gather scattered leaves and petals, knowing absolutely that the effort is futile.

Karen had been planning her escape for two weeks, sneaking small packages of supplies and hiding them in grocery bags in the trunk of her car. Clothes for herself and baby Charlie, disposable diapers, drinking water, and food that needed no refrigeration were the last things in since those were the things she would need to access constantly. She was pretty sure she had plenty for three days of travel, and that would be more than enough to get her to the cabin. Thankfully she didn’t need food for the baby, since she was nursing him and he wasn’t old enough to need anything else.

The sun was not yet up, but the sky made a pale blue and gold backdrop for the bare, black branches of the trees still holding water from the rain of the last week. She had to move quietly, holding the sleeping baby close to keep him warm in the morning chill. She couldn’t warm the car before they left, the noise of the engine would surely wake Esther and Bill.

It was a chilly afternoon in the fall. I was about seven years old, and my grandmother had invited me and some of my church friends to her house to start a group for girls of my age that would meet once a month. We were to have some fun, some snacks, and do a little project as a contribution to the community. The one I remember was using old Christmas cards to make gift cards. We cut pictures from cards with pinking shears and used them for covers on small folded pieces of construction paper. We then punched a hole in the corner and put a bit of ribbon through the hole so that the gift card could be tied to a package. I'm not sure what happened next with those little cards, but I do remember that the creative process was very satisfying to all of us. We were somehow now drawn into an adult world where what we contributed would make a difference.

Holiday Hustle

Some people finish their holiday shopping in August, or even on December 26 for the next year! It works well for them. It would not work well for me because I have to confess that I love the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, and yes, even the chaos.  

I don't mind the last-minute wrapping, or even the hunt for that present I know I bought but can't find because I put it somewhere "safe."

And here is my second confession. Sometimes I start Christmas music before Thanksgiving. I have to be bold when I do that because as many of you know, there are those who are totally opposed to early Christmas music. This does not make sense to me, but I am tolerant and I try to respect their wishes.

If you research the phrase "old chestnut" you will see that there is a literary explanation that an "old chestnut" is a tale that has been told so many times that it is no longer funny or interesting. If you research how long chestnuts stay fresh, you will find that they must be stored under very precise temperatures, and even then will not keep long. 

When I was a kid, I remember telling my father a joke that I had just heard and thought hilarious. I think it was probably a knock knock joke, since I couldn't have been more than six or seven. His response was "oh, come ON Viriginia, THAT old chestnut?!" It was a phrase I continued to hear from him on and off for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I feel like climbing into my linen closet and curling up by the ironed pillow cases and the bar of scented soap. It is probably the only place in all of my living spaces that is, at the moment, quiet and serene.

 The rest of the house is in turmoil. That's the only way to describe it. Since we lost the tree in the backyard, our guardian of traquility and calm, I have been unable to get a grip on any of the chaos not only in the back yard, but also in my house. I sit and look at all of it, sometimes feeling that if I can just envision order, it will be done. I know it requires effort that goes well beyond looking, no matter how intense or analytical the looking may be.

Today my garden is in shock. The Maple Tree is gone, and all that remains to remind us is a stump. Everything that grew in its protective shade has either withered completely, or expressed grave trauma. The grass that was lush and green beneath the tree turned brown overnight. The bed of rosemary and lavender was buffeted and branches broken in the process of removing the eighty foot tree; there was no way to avoid that.  

And today I have done further damage to the rosemary and lavender as I try to reorder, prune back, and encourage new growth. It is going to take some time before we can see real signs of recovery. The light is so different now. There is so much more of it, and in this hot hot California summer, it can burn new growth and damage old growth, too.

Today I have been trying to capture our one-hundred-plus-year-old tree with my two-year-old camera. I can't do it. And I realize as I try one angle and another, one frame and another, it isn't the camera's fault.

The tree was here long before we were here, long before this house was built, and there are so many dreams and hopes caught in its branches and feeding those green, green leaves, that no one lens, no matter how technologically adept, can catch it.

But the tree is struggling to survive. It is dropping branches it no longer has the strength to hold. Those greenest of leaves unfurled slowly this year, and they are smaller and not nearly as profuse as in the past.