Pie

Someone woke early and carefully rolled out the dough. She filled it with apples, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, and rhubarb. And sugar, the perfect amount of sugar. It baked perfectly, not a hint of black on the crust. The smell of warm berries filled the kitchen as it cooked. She waited. She washed the dishes, sipped her coffee, let the dogs out to run.  When it was cool, she carefully placed it in a box and carried it over to the barn. She set it on a shelf next to the pumpkins and squash. There was no guarantee that someone would find it, buy it, bring it home. I savored it after the kids went to bed, all the while wondering who this stranger was? This person who wakes and bakes and leaves a perfect pie on a shelf, just in case someone needs sweet comfort on their way back from nowhere.

Daddy

You don’t look at the stars anymore
But I wonder if you did
What would you see

Can you lose your mind
But keep your soul

And how cruel
that your heart…
Just beats

Is it scary in there?
Is a hug enough?

And I miss you

But I will love him anyway
Even though
You are already gone

Petal Party

Looking back over all the photos I took (but did not post) this spring… I see that this year, tulips were my muse. Not the tulips I usually pay attention to – fists of tightly clenched petals, full of expectation. Instead, tulips as they slowly opened up and faded away. Graceful wilting petals that captured the sun, flew like birds, defied gravity, and finally fell the ground like party ribbons after the celebration ends.

Counter-Clockwise

I finished physical therapy last week. It was not the triumphant exit that I imagined. Instead, I left feeling… undone. Apparently health insurance covers leisurely strolls, but it cannot justify jumping for joy. That I must do on my own.

So this morning, I set out with baby girl for a walk. My favorite walk – the one I have only been able to take one time since November. I always go the same way, figuring that one quick steep hill at the end is better than a long, slow climb. But with this foot, everything is gradual. So today, I walked around the other way.

The air was warm and the view was green. There were rocks to play with and wildflowers to photograph. Bluebirds skimmed the river while the geese dove down with their tufts in the air. I noticed what grew on the other side of all those trees. Baby girl sat on my lap, sucked her thumb, and watched the ducks. And I fell in love with a foxglove.

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”
~T.S. Eliot

After All

My family is a mishmash of new hope and broken dreams. Sometimes I wish that I could promise my kids that bad things don’t happen to good people. But then I hear them laughing. They are playing together, enjoying each other, and we give them extra time, just because. And somehow I think there is a special kind of freedom in knowing, too.

Progress

Week 7 post-surgery. And I’m finally turning a corner.

The week didn’t start out so well. My physical therapist wanted me to draw the alphabet – big swoopy capital letters – with my toe. I could barely manage a lowercase l. Then he wanted me to engage my thigh muscle. And I couldn’t find it. For someone who has done yoga for 12 years, not being able to find your thigh muscle is like not being able to chew.

But then, we talked about patience. About how healing from an achilles repair is a waiting game, and how important it is to keep exercising. So four days later, I can almost draw big swoopy O’s with my toe. I can bend my foot forward and back – not completely, but a lot more than 5 degrees. And although I’m still on two crutches, I have permission to put my foot down. Albeit gently.

It’s time to celebrate small victories. Woo!

Daffodil Watch 2010

Hey everybodeeee! I almost have snowdrops…

The crocuses are coming…

And I have stalks!! Daffodil Watch 2010 has begun!

What’s your guess?? I am predicting early blooms this year, based on our strangely mild winter weather. (I know that sounds very strange to all you mid-Atlantic folks, but it’s true.)  How about April 1?

2009: April 2
2008: April 8
2007: April 21
2006: April 3

Please play along! Get out there and look for signs of spring. Post pictures! And let me know what you see.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

—William Wordsworth, 1804

Cleansing

I carefully remove the cast for the first time. I stare at this unexpected incision that is now permanently part of me. It is beautiful as far as incisions go, and it will heal nicely. But to me it is still rough and crude. I refuse to touch it. But I want it to get better, and I really just want it to feel clean.

So I rinse it gingerly. Unbidden, all the other unexpected events of the last five years wash over me too. Not just the emotions, but the understanding that we all put a time limit on grief – both our own and others too. It makes me tired. It makes me want to cry. So I turn my attention back to the incision and will it to heal. The miracle of water washes away some of the dark spots, but it does not make it shrink and mellow before my eyes. Only time will do that.

So I move up my leg and scrub the YES away. Not just with soap, with my fingernails too. That works. I let the water rush and pour over my atrophied leg. I rub the muscles in my calf and foot. I wiggle my toes. This is going to take a while, but the healing starts now. And this time, I will still stand on my own two feet, but I will stop carrying the weight of the world of my shoulders.

Dear Weatherman,

“This is an intriguing storm…”

Sigh. You have obviously been paralyzed by fear – don’t overhype! don’t underhype! – and now resort to colorful language in lieu of snowfall amounts and hourly estimates.

Yes, there are trends in barometric pressure and air currents, but there are also a million little things that can knock the most perfect estimates off track. I know that, and I don’t expect perfection. That’s what I love about the weather – it is both predictable and unpredictable at the same time. I’ve accepted that I’ll never know what is really going to happen until that very moment, but I always liked your guesses. But now I’d rather open my computer and watch the radar loop. Why do I suddenly trust Intellicast so much more than you?

You see, I kind of wish that you would stop the whole bumbling goofball act, as if being a class clown is the only way to excuse your mistakes. It just makes me sad, because I kind of love weather, and I look to you to teach me about it. I hate that you have been reduced to a news patsy.

So how about this: Go back to percentages instead of proclamations. Keep track of how accurate you really are. Make a game of that if you must. I don’t expect you to be right all the time, but I’ll be satisfied if you can prove to me you’re right more than you’re wrong. And when you do make a mistake, educate me, don’t grovel to me. (I love weather, remember?) I can always forgive a mistake, but don’t ask me to excuse a trend of stupidity just because you’re funny.

Birds

There is nothing like a cardinal in a snowstorm. He is so much fatter than he was a month ago. The juncos are too. But the finches and chickadees are still small enough to hold in the palm of my hand. I always expect them to hide when the snow comes, but instead, they congregate. I wonder about them the same way that I wonder about the trout in the river – don’t they get cold? Never mind that their feathers keep them warm. What about their toes? And yet they bounce from feeder to tree, and disappear in an instant when I quietly open the door, camera in hand. They are not meant to be captured, only remembered.