A Perfect Rainy Monday

Raining...again…today.  I wanted to be outside raking winter’s debris from the yard, but it’s raining again today.  I look out the window and can see work, which needs to be done.  I can’t see past my list: rake, trim, stake and repair.  The list nags at my brain.

My internal critic wants me to be out there getting stuff done; ticking off another chore from the list.  It’s not a good way to begin the day.

But, what’s this in my yard?  

A pair of mallard ducks have landed.  They waddle up the gravel path to the paved driveway.  It, too, needs work, as the frost has pushed and heaved the driveway into humps and depressions where puddles of rainwater pool.  I wonder if the ducks are looking for a drink from a puddle, but no.

They are looking for something else, necks outstretched and clearly searching.  Ah, they’ve found it, but what?  I can’t see anything but dark pavement, but they are rushing to a flat spot near the puddles. They appear to be eating something.   Heads down, heads up and shake. 

I can’t see anything from inside and know if I open the door to get closer, they’ll fly.  I grab the camera and wind the lens out and watch.  Worms.  Thin pink earthworms are lying on the pavement after the hard rains.  And the ducks are eating them, bending down and sucking up the worms, like children sucking up spaghetti noodles, one at a time.  

I hear myself laughing. What a delight!

I laugh at the ducks.  And at myself for fretting over my list.  Everything has its time and its purpose. The world does not end because I can’t rake today.  

This day is already perfect, just as it is full of rain and worms.  The ducks are relishing the opportunities this day offers, just as it is. 

I will too.

words and photos are ©copyright 2009-2014 Carol Steel

Where the Fence Ends

Where the Fence Ends

Where the fence ends, a doe with her yearlings and fawns cross into my yard, over the crusted snow. Inside, I grab my camera. The doe looks at me, ears to the side, turning, listening. She stamps, huffs air and flags. Then leaping, they all disappear, leaving photos of brown blur.

I learn to be still; to wait by the window.

If they notice me now, I think they must know: I mean no harm, so they continue browsing, crab-apple, cedar, needles of yew. But, as I see their dark eyes seeing me, I feel such longing to escape this barrier of window and walls, to burst outside, breathe winter air, and run where the fence ends.


Photos and words are copyright 2011-2014 Carol Steel

Peony and Ant

 

 

 

 

We have peonies and we have ants...boy, do we have ants. The peonies are about to bloom and the ants are busy. 

 

There is debate about whether ants are needed to help the double buds break open, by eating away the nectar-glue that coats each one.  Some say no; some, yes.  I don't know.

 

I do know when the ants show up, within a couple days I'll have peonies in bloom at the back of the garage...a display that forces me to stop whatever it is I'm doing.  Stop and stare.

 

Peonies are extravagant: lush blooms, opening and opening, scenting the air, nodding under their own weight in colours difficult to describe.  Generous with full-bodied loveliness; layers of petals, each one a different tone, each layer coaxing, "Come closer."

 

The blooms make me remember summer barbecues with my great-aunts; each auntie wearing an ample hat to protect against the sun, each hat festive with silk and velvet flowers, delicate, handmade, often peonies.   Make me remember the first grown-up dress I ever wore, a satin the shade of the inner lip on the palest pink peony we grow.  Make me remember the gardens of my childhood with peonies spilling over their cages and filling the yard with perfume; peonies floating in a crystal dish on the table, lending elegance to our ordinary suppers. 

 

And if an ant crawled to the tablecloth, my grandmother would shrug, capture the ant and remove it.  "You have peonies, you have ants,"  she'd say.  

 

Just life, this mix of irritant and perfection.

 

Words and photo are copyright 2011-2013 Carol Steel.

 

 



Gardening and Weeding

I've not written on my blog this week.  I've busied myself with other writing and with working in my garden.  Well really, working on the weeding.

This house came with overgrown gardens.  Boy, were they overgrown.  We've struggled with taming them and have now worked out a truce of sorts, where we weed until we're tired out and then we sit around admiring what we've accomplished and drink a glass of wine. 

Taming them is work requiring a bulldozer. 

It's good to have a garden that demands we rest in between attacks on the weeds.   We've learned to enjoy them more because we can relax and pace ourselves and can accept that our gardens are just wild old things.

Perhaps we are becoming wiser or perhaps we simply like sitting on the porch with a glass of wine...

As I Gather my Clothes for the Day

As I Gather my Clothes for the Day

I am caught at the window

by a slant of light,

by these oak leaves turning to gold.

The sunrise is singing the morning awake

with songs that melt on my skin

and underneath their spreading spell,

I breathe the buttery light

and dream of becoming the same,

dressed in mist and leaves and dew.

I stand long and long at the window

breathing the dazzling day.

As the skin of my life loosens,

I spark and ignite, burn,

and flow shimmering

into this welcoming light.

 

Photo and poem are ©copyright 2011-2013 Carol Steel.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall*

My knees don’t like the rain, though they now give more accurate predictions of the weather than the meteorologist.   Aging is less fun as I pass the six decade mark; at least the physical aspects of growing older are less amusing.  Gravity is not my friend and some body parts are missing and others, wearing down.  Each day, I grow more curious about what will accompany me into the future and what I’ll relinquish.

And yet aging bears gifts.  I am more patient, more focused on fewer priorities, have a deeper wisdom and have let go of needing to force what I know into the ears of others.  And I have lived long enough to recognize there are cycles in my life.  There is a kind of balance between the dark times when all is painful and waiting and the fecund times when all is green and growing.  Life, all of life seeks balance. 

Me, too.

After passing through four years of depleted energy levels, depleted to dangerous levels resulting in back-to-back illnesses, I have come to a place of stillness and inner focus.  There is time now to spend loving my husband and family and friends, time to cuddle the cats and to garden.  There is time to stop for a while as my life comes back to healthier balance.  There is time for me to write, to stare out the window and to gestate inside.

My family genetics lead me to hope that I might live into my mid-nineties.  How encouraging that is in terms of becoming a skilled poet and writer.  There are still many years in which to learn the craft, to hone the skills, to practise and to write.

I’ve learned I can give myself sweet permission to do what I need and want to do.  So now, I write every day, sometimes wearing my magenta bathrobe until noon.

And I know that no matter what happens in my life, whatever it is, it will begin and it will end, just like the rain. 

 

NOTES:  *“Into each life some rain must fall” is a quote from the poem, “Rainy Day” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.   The line is also the title of a 1944 song performed as a duet by The Ink Spots, featuring Ella Fitzgerald and Bill Kenny.   Words in colour will link you to another website with additional information, if you click on them.

 

My Cats are Smarter

My Cats are Smarter

My cats are smarter than I am.  They pay attention to what they need.  They don’t do things because they “should.”  They don’t do things because they feel guilty.  They don’t do things because they imagine others expect them to do so.
 

 

 

Cats pay attention to their bodies.  They sleep when they need to sleep.  They hang around with others when they want to be near.  They take time to be alone.  They ask for affection.  They take time to look out the window, to watch the birds, to just be and they are Okay with all of that.  They eat and play and run when the mood strikes.  They make time to groom and to care for themselves.

How is it that a cat is so much wiser than I am?

Finding Truth

 

 

Finding Truth

Experiencing cancer took me into a time both strange and scary.  Before I knew my exact diagnosis from my surgery results, I faced the reality of having an illness that might kill me.

I have been lucky.  My apprehension of the illness, my experience of pain and my endurance of radiation treatments are all behind me now.  I have been lucky.  The surgery removed the malignancy; the radiation gave assurance against recurrence.

While I was in the midst of this, I recognized the insignificance my everyday concerns and worries.   I recognized a need within myself to refocus my energies, to pay attention to what nourished my essential being, to avoid that which drained and diminished me.

The illness made inner wisdom easier to hear, as my world shrank, as I conserved strength and tended to my own health.  I recognized that when I am well, I tend to say “Yes” to requests to help, to organize, to participate.  I find it difficult, nearly impossible to say “No.”  My compassion, my need to be needed, my guilt, my desire to be unselfish propel me to share in activities which seem to require only a contribution of time and a bit of energy.  The truth is more often that these involvements take far more time and energy than advertised.

I know this and yet, again and again I allow some unwise part of myself to whisper “Yes,” even though I know that I give time and energy to tasks, to people, to relationships that deplete me.  I cling out of guilt or an assumption that I am responsible for the job, the person or the relationship, that I must take on the burdens or the choices of others, that I am essential.

One of my oncology nurses told me that no one is irreplaceable.  We are each like a finger dipped in water.  When the finger is withdrawn, the water resumes its shape with no trace of where the finger once was.  Truth and wisdom.

I am at home recovering, still tiring easily and needing all the energy I have to help myself heal and gain strength.

I have clarity about what is right for me and what is wrong for me.  I am re-learning to value my inner wisdom, to trust my perceptions, to count on myself.  And I am learning to say “No” to situations that I previously acquiesced to out of my need to be liked, to conform, to be valued or out of a fear of reaction from others.  I am learning to say “No” to what is wrong for me or is the wrong timing for me.

Surviving, becoming healthy are my priorities. 

I trust these lessons will echo through the rest of my life helping me to stay on my pathway, to discern the wisest choices and the best uses of “Yes” and “No,” to find my truth.

The Ideal World

Sometimes, the way I think the world should be, isn't the way it is.  This is true more often than not.  But, what of it?

Well, for a start, it's good that the world isn't the way I fancy it should be.  What a poor world it would be, if it was limited to what my imagination could conjure.  For another, different perspectives stretch my views and opinions, and kick-start my thinking to travel into expanded horizons.

I like it when ideas and opinions are constantly stretching and expanding, especially when it happens to me.  I like the challenge.

For example, if I didn't know buttercups as weeds, would I see their sunshine and welcome them into the corners of my lawn?  Would my perspective change?

What if I appreciate the white delicacy of the flower heads of goutweed as much as I do the blooms of Queen Anne's Lace?  They sway the same dance in the summer breezes, in different spots in the yard.  Why is one a blessing and one a curse?

Is the feathered horse tail peeking from behind the columbine any less endearing than the feathery leaves of coreopsis?  If I don't perceive buttercups, goutweed and horse tails as plagues in my garden, will I be able to allow myself to enjoy their beauty and to spend less time weeding?

Perhaps the way I think about the world and how it should be needs to be more flexible, to be more accepting of the way the world just is.

If weeds are perceived...well, yes, as weeds, though not without their own charms, could I spend less time on them and more time on writing?

And wouldn't that be better for me?  Wouldn't it be better to change what I can, to accept what I cannot change and to be wise enough to know the difference.  Wait, I think I've heard that before...

Perhaps it's time to pay attention.

And to start writing...

Bedroom Project

When you buy a home, how long does it take to get everything the way you want it?

What I want evolves as I live in a home and become used to its secrets and seasons.  Tastes and uses for rooms vary.  Simply living in a home changes what one needs and wants.  The innate feeling of a space sometimes calls for transformation.

We have a spare bedroom with two sunny windows and pine bookcases, an antique desk and a welcoming bed, a rocking chair and spaces for the cats.  It is the last room to be re-done after our move here. 

We can’t decide what to do about the wallpaper border at the top of the walls, and the ancient wallpaper stuck half-way up the walls.  We want it gone, but it doesn’t want to go.  We soak it, peel it, score it and steam it.  It will not leave!  We ask the local wallpaper store for suggestions; beyond what we have tried, they have nothing.  And there is always their cautiously worded question, “How long has this paper been on the walls?”  The staff looks down at their feet and scuffs with their toes, when we reply, “Well, as long as the house has been built.”   That being 60+ years, they then announce that sometimes, old paper and old glue cannot be removed.  Further, the plaster walls underneath the paper would certainly be damaged if we press any more water into the paper attempting to remove it.

So, plan B.

My husband carefully, with much measuring and swearing puts wainscoting and trim over the lower half of the walls to cover the impervious wallpaper.  We paint the wainscoting to match the wide baseboard and rounded window frames. 

What about the wallpaper border next to the ceiling?  We paint the upper half of the walls and purchase a wider wallpaper border to cover the stubbornly resistant older one.  We are warned that this new border will have to be pasted to the wall to adhere properly, as the normal glue on the back of the border isn’t meant to stick to anything but painted walls.



We get out all the supplies to deal with the new border.  Table, small foam brush, can of glue, water, smoother thingy, different cloths for different tasks, measuring tape, sharp knife, scissors, and chairs upon which to stand. We discuss how to do this, read the directions on the can (many warnings about not getting glue on anything else but the wallpaper), measure, measure again, discuss which side is the top and which the bottom of the trim  (no conclusion reached, so just pick one).  Have coffee and more coffee, then toast and snacks to help with decisions.  I suggest wine, but my husband warns, “No, that won’t be good.”

Finally, we are off and pasting.  By the end of the first strip, we decide that even though the can warned not to put too much paste, we put too little and have to re-paste the first strip.  Muttering, but philosophical, we settle on hanging the border…first…on the wall that shows the least. 

Wise decision.  Old plaster walls are not necessarily straight.  Muttering turns into frustration.  After a very long and sticky time, the first strip is on the wall and looking fine covering the old wallpaper border.

But, what’s this?  The first four feet are doing a slow-motion peel off the wall.  Quick!  Hold the paper, get more glue, there, there, and there…OK…OK.  Now with many cloths, wipe off excess glue before it does all the horrid things warned about on the can.

Drinks of water, and much stress-filled discussion.  How can we improve what we are doing?  Suggestions flying.  Realize my best suggestion is to make none.  Things flow along better after this discovery.

Second strip does indeed stick better with copious amounts of glue spread on by husband-in-charge.  We are both feeling very confident after this and give ourselves the luxury of another coffee and standing about to admire the job, now half complete.  Going well!

Third strip.  The plaster walls and ceiling seem to be totally out of whack, nothing is straight.  Nothing is working.  The border wants to travel up onto the ceiling if we try to keep it in line with the second piece of border.  My arms are tired from holding up wallpaper border.  Husband-in-charge is into full scale swearing and nearly falls off his chair.  After heated discussion, we cut off the offending piece of border, leaving the section which seems to be behaving properly.  I want wine, now! But, no…

Time to sit and determine what needs to happen next.  I remember to be quiet. Since walls and ceiling are far from straight on this second half of the room, “we” determine that cutting the paper into the corners will help, and it does.  We finish the room a touch more than three hours after we started.

It looks good, if you don’t examine it too closely.  The colours are attractive and well-matched.  There are a few places where the edges are not quite glued as much as needed.  That is easily fixed with tiny sponge, eye shadow applicators, dipped in the last of the glue, and dabbed under the offending edges.

The bedroom is complete and ready to welcome guests and admirers alike.  

Caveat:  If you perceive that the border is upside down or notice that it isn’t perfect, you’d better keep those thoughts to yourself, if you’re expecting a welcome and a glass of wine!

And, this room?  This room is staying this colour, with this border, until we move!

Sleep? What's That?

Do parents of young children ever get enough sleep?  The answer would seem to be, "No." 

I still remember being so tired, I was able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, when my children were small.  They had erratic sleep patterns, often woke in the night, stayed awake for long stretches and didn't nap during the day.  Years of sleep deprivation; remembering makes me weary, even now, thirty some years later.

We have grandchildren visiting.  No naps today, except for parents, grateful for grandparents' extra help, so they can rest.

Brightly coloured leaves dropped into our yard (ours, plus contributions from neighbours) to cover the lawns.  We'll rake them into piles later, make them ready for leaping and jumping and shrieking with delight--once the parents awake.

The parents are escaping this evening.  Because they are here, they'll have the rare opportunity to get out by themselves and to experience a quiet, elegant meal away from home, without the company of persons under three years.

Luxury!

I remember those times, too.  The beauty of an evening together without any children, and the bonus of free babysitting.  Hope they enjoy their time together being a couple again, as much as we used to appreciate escapes by ourselves.

It is important to have balance between being a couple and being a parent, especially when there isn't enough sleep to go round.

This photo is mine.

Cleaning for Company

The sun is pouring in the windows, lighting this room and revealing all the places where I missed the dust while cleaning, getting ready for company.   I’m chuckling to myself over this, as I suppose floating dust motes and missed dusty spots will grab the least attention from anyone who is arriving soon.

They are solely interested in seeing each other.  When family members “from away” come home to visit, no one is appalled at whatever level of housekeeping I have or have not accomplished.

They’ll burst through the door, hug everyone and start chatting with each other,  delighted to spend time with one another, after having been so long apart.   The adults will gather in the kitchen, share laughter and wine, cheeses and fruits, and later a huge boisterous dinner. 

The children will tear off upstairs to investigate all the toys that await them in our den.  They’ll occupy themselves with games, trucks, cars, building blocks, dolls, playing grocery store and keeping house, stuffed bears and dinosaurs.  Not one will say, “Oh, but Grammy, you missed a bit of dusting here!”

So impractical to worry about cleaning!  I suppose I have to admit that I do it for myself, so I will feel better.  Silly!  The only person who cares is me.  But part of me believes that caring is shown in preparedness and tidiness.

Each person here will spend the time visiting, eating, laughing, sharing stories of “Remember when?” or “Guess what?” or just enjoying being home again.  No one will say, “My goodness, what a sparkling house this is!”

When they leave (after staying…always it seems, too short a time), I’ll tidy again.  There’ll be finger prints and spills, sticky places and cat hair, crumbs and crunchy spots, laundry and dishes to wash.

What will I be doing?  Cleaning.  So yes, is it silly to do it beforehand…so it seems!

This is a wisdom that I have to re-learn many times!

I remember a comedian (I can’t recall which one) saying that she never cleaned before company came; she just wiped off her kitchen counters and sprayed some furniture polish into the air and a squirt behind each ear.  Everyone always thought her house was fresh and spick and span.  Their sense of smell fooled their eyes.

 I wonder where my furniture polish is.

Shediac River, New Brunswick

At the Shediac River, Saturday's breezes and the bright sun

created intriguing changes on the river.

The wind wrinkled the river; nothing reflected

in the pulsing ripples except the sunlight.

                 Later, the wind settled and

                   the sun's angle changed;

                      the Shediac River 

                        became like glass.

Sometimes life is like the river, full of hot air and waves, throwing off the flow of your day.

At others, the day is so smooth; all you need do is look,

to really see what is reflected clear and bright, back to you.

And sometimes, what is reflected back to you is crisper

and more in focus than what

you thought you saw

and understood before.

All photos are mine.

Signs of Autumn

Signs of Autumn

September ends.  This month flew by, full of warm fall days and cooler nights.  Leaves are changing colour as the gardens succumb to rest.  The hummingbird feeders are inside until next spring and the birdbath is seldom used anymore.

Wisteria leaves are starting to turn golden, then drop.  The red begonias are nearly done; another chilly night or two and they'll be gone.

Rose petals fall, making mulch-weeding a sweetly fragrant, almost pleasant chore.

After the wet summer we had, I am busier than usual outdoors catching up on gardening, readying for fall, thinking ahead to next spring and enjoying the balmy days, the ripened seeds and fruits, the perfect dream blue skies and refreshing promise of autumn in the air.

Divergent Philosophies

A line of ancient maples separates two properties.  On one side, a stately home built in the mid 1800's is transformed into an Historic Inn, a Bed and Breakfast.  On the other stands a house of similar vintage, now under renovation, undergoing changes and modernization.

On one side, the maples have reached a height of five stories; on the other, two have been cut down, reduced to three-foot stumps.  That hasn't satisfied the owner's need for change, for tidiness.  Someone hacked at the stumps, burnt them, sought to eradicate them completely.  Yet the two stumps still stand, glisten in the rain, releasing a smell of charred wet wood.

Prickly rose hips, barberry bushes and snowberry shrubs surround the scarred remains.  These bushes hug and shelter the stumps, as the great maples once sheltered them.

On the Inn side of the maples, there are curving beds of fading Black-eyed Susans and Coneflowers with deer roaming the yard and the orchards searching for autumn's rosy windfall apples.  On the renovation side, I see an electric fence, a tidy vegetable garden, manicured lawns and construction rubble.

As I walk, the rain thumps on my scalp and slides down my face.  I hear the buzzing happiness of hornets in the rotting apples, watch the deep-eyed deer, who in turn are watching me.  They are wary, yet continue to nibble at the apples or to rest.  Are they wondering from which side of the fence I have come, meandering into their orchard and yard?  Am I a chopper of maples, burner of stumps, caretaker of electric fences and tidy gardens?

I hope my answer is clear in my stillness, my respect, my awe at their quiet brown skin and delicate steps, apparent in my heartache over the destruction of old trees, my love of wet rose hips and bright red barberries.

A line of ancient maples separates two properties.  On one side is reverence for life in its wildness; on the other, there is a need to keep things out, to keep things in and to cut things down.  And in the middle, an electric fence with a sign "Do Not Touch-Warning High Voltage-Injury May Occur."  It seems to me, injury has already occurred...

Such divergent philosophies on each side of a shared property line of maples.

Gardening Mistakes

Have you made mistakes with your gardening decisions?  Our house is built on a steeply sloping 120 foot by 150 foot lot, creating a large lawn to mow with a hand mower.  The slopes make it impossible to use anything else.

We expanded flower beds and added flower beds to reduce lawn mowing.  Next, we had the brilliant idea of mulching the whole 120 feet across the back of our property, where it meets the street.  We planted Russian Cypress because it flourishes on slopes and therefore reduces mowing.

For a few years, all went well.  This year there was too much rain in the spring and summer, rain that washed the mulch down the slopes, making it easier for weeds to grow through in the thinner places and allowing ants (despite our diligent efforts) to begin chomping away at the cypress roots.

Now, we have mulch, Russian Cypress and weeds.  The weeds have gotten the upper hand.  Look at this.  There is a cypress struggling to escape the tangle of thistles, clover, dandelions, greenery that my Mum calls “cow cabbage and horse tails”, plus some other unidentified green weedy thing with three-foot roots snaking along under the mulch.

I‘m embarrassed that I’m behind with my mulch weeding, way behind, half-way to my knees behind.  Three hours yesterday and three more today made a slight dent in the weeding, even though I pulled out four very large bags of nasty stuff.  It will take that much time again to wrestle out the rest of the lurking unwanted.

What am I getting at here?  Just this: In our efforts to reduce lawn mowing and save work we have managed to increase the hours of yard maintenance instead of decreasing them.

The lesson is to think more carefully about changes to the yard, ensuring that a brilliant idea doesn’t end up as a major gardening mistake.  Maybe next year we’ll replant the grass…or buy more mulch...

One surprise and delight was finding a tiny bright toadflax or butter-and-eggs herb in all this messiness! Yes, I removed it too, I know it's a noxious weed.

As usual, any words in red will take you to another website with additional information,

 if you click on them.