Wild Berries

      _{As a child I’d walk with Nana and Grampop}

_{on the trails behind the cabin.}

_{In the heat of summer}

_{we’d find the bushes}

_{laden with tart wild berries.}

_{We collected them as we walked,}

_{one for the basket,}

_{one, two for my mouth.}

_{Dappled sunlight fell on our faces and hands}

_{as Nana exhorted me to restraint}

_{during the harvest,}

_{“We have sugar and cream}

_{back in the cabin.”}

_{As a child I’d watch Mom-mom}

_{stir the boiling elderberries}

_{Pop-pop had gathered for jam.}

_{I watched him squeeze the cooled berries} 

_{through the cheesecloth,}

_{the purple-black juice tracing}

_{the veins on his forearms.}

_{I once asked to have some berries}

_{before they went in the pot,}

_{“No, girl. They’ll give you a bellyache.}

_{They need the heat.”}

_{As a woman I moved to the woods}

_{with my husband and children.}

_{I remembered the wild berries,}

_{searched my property}

_{and found none.}

_{I called the berries in the wilderness.}

_{They did not answer.}

_{There were sour years,}

_{Years of pain and quarrel,}

_{Years of heat and squeezing,}

_{Years when I so desperately wished}

_{I could speak with my grandparents,}

_{the men and women who}

_{had survived Depression and War}

_{and broken promises.}

_{I wanted}

_{to sit at their feet and ask,}

_{“Where is the sweetness?”}

_{In want of quiet and healing}

_{I returned to the wooded paths,}

_{inhaled the piney air,}

_{let the brook water wash my toes,}

_{dried my feet on the moss,}

_{listened to the birdsong,}

_{warmed my face in the leaf-filtered sunlight.}

_{When my heart was at rest}

_{the berries were waiting for me.}

_{They whispered,}

_{“We have come.}

_{We are here,}

_wild

_{and free.”}

Friday 55 & Da Count-Camano Dawn

FRIDAY 55

Mountains,

sky,

and water

scheme together.

They whisper

their incantation

that rises with the sun,

envelops me like the mist

roused from its rest,

rolling along the water,

ascending

as dawn draws it

to the clouds.

The earth inhales...exhales.

Its spell is cast--

the beguiling look

of a lover waking,

smiling,

reaching,

whispering, 

"Stay..."

DA COUNT

Yeah, I actually got up before dawn to take these pictures while I was in Washington.  Me, the girl who hates mornings.  It was worth it.  Just.so.gorgeous.

Mom's Garden

This weekend I grabbed an opportunity to go visit my mom.  She's quite the gardener so I always enjoy a stroll around her yard.  She kept apologizing that this week seemed to not be one with so many blooms but I found her zinnias quite lovely.  I can't grow them at my house partly because our yard is so heavily shaded and partly because I have a black thumb of death.

I liked this tall one that stood out from the rest too.

Mom has always been enchanted by butterflies.  When Calypso was in kindergarten she had a whole unit on the life cycle of butterflies and told my mom all about it.  Then we found a mail order kit where you could raise a certain species from eggs to butterfly and gave it to Mom for Christmas that year.  Ever since she has been hooked.  Now her garden is full of plants intended to attract butterflies.  She has also planted a big section of various types of milkweed for Monarchs.  She checks the leaves daily to look for eggs so she can take them inside away from predators and raise them before releasing them.  Now she's the one doing demonstrations on the life cycle of butterflies.  Anyway, this weekend she had me looking for the eggs too.  I found about five including this one.  They are smaller than the head of a pin.  See it?

When they hatch you need a magnifying glass to see the caterpillar but they grown pretty quickly and Mom keeps them supplied with fresh milkweed leaves.  This one was about a half inch long.  Eventually, after molting about four times they create the chrysalis (what most folks mistakenly call a cocoon).  No pictures of that stage since all the ones Mom has are eggs or caterpillars right now but when you see one you get the idea of what they are called Monarchs. There is a delicate ring of tiny "gold" beads that form a crown on the chrysalis.  I hope to get a picture of one later in the summer.

I was lucky enough to catch a Monarch on one of Mom's bushes even though it was quite windy and hard to focus.  There were about 3 other species of butterflies on the largest bush but up too high for me to capture with my lens.

There were also a number of these busy visitors too.

Friday 55 & Da Count-Thunderstorms

 *image from here

FRIDAY 55

A little girl hovers close to her mother,

clinging as the lightning flashes.

Daddy enters the kitchen,

takes the girl's hand,

leads her to the back porch.

She settles on the step,

flanked by Daddy and dog.

Between her protectors

she watches bolts dance over cornfields

to the music of raindrops,

 the rhythm of thunder.

DA COUNT

I didn't always like thunderstorms.  They used to scare me but one of the untarnished happy memories of my Dad from childhood involved the setting above.  If Daddy wasn't around I ran for cover when the thunder started but if he was there I felt safe and even enjoyed the show from the back porch theater.  Eventual;y, I got to where I liked them whether he was there or not. 

Mr. Lime likes to sit on the porch and watch them too so our kids have grown up enjoying them rather than fearing them.  That's not to say we're going to stand out in a field holding a metal rod during a storm but from a safe vantage point we relish them.

It's been beastly hot the last couple of days and the AC in both the car and the house is dead.  A nice thunderstorm rolled through and cooled things off so I am counting that and the happy memories they bring back.

Friday 55-Bird on a Wire

*image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/shannonspage/4027447640/

"Chick! Chick! Chick-a-dee!"
Cried the little prophet clad in feathers.
He looked down on the cars
wedged together in the highway crawl.
He screamed at so much metal, glass, and concrete.
For lack of AC my window was down.
I heard the handful of a creature
call in wild fury,
"Look! Look! Look at me!"

Slice of Lime-A Quiet Spot

Yesterday was not a good day around here. The last few days have brought more frustrations and unwelcome news. I'll spare all the details. I'm just not in the mood and I'd probably wind up saying some very nasty things. Among all the other crap, yesterday I found out I didn't get the job. I had a lovely little pity party for myself. There was crying and a refusal to be consoled. I bet you're sorry you missed it. I was asked what the next step is and I said there is none because every time I take one forward lately I get knocked back six steps. I loose less ground by refusing to advance. Really, it was my finest hour. Later my cousin called and listened to me cry the blues. After that she told me to rehydrate and take a walk. Those seemed like manageable steps so I took them.

I'm told some folks are ocean people and some are mountain people. Personally, I rather like the parts of the California coast where ocean and mountains met, best of both worlds and all. But I grew up escaping to the low mountains of the East Coast and I still find comfort in them. A forest cut by running water is about perfect to me. The ocean and the plains have their own magic but they don't comfort me when I feel beaten. They make me feel exposed. The forest lets me slip away quietly among the trees to find a quiet spot where I can hide for a bit.

I went to the woods because trees are good listeners too. They don't judge you. Somehow even the ones that tower over you don't make you feel small in a shameful sort of way. They spread out their branches as if to shield you from too hot sun or too heavy rain. They whisper softly. I didn't go planning anything other than to wander a while and sit but there was solace and wisdom there. I thought it would be better to share that than to continue my whining. I pulled out my camera phone to do so, so excuse the poor picture quality.

The quiet spot. Well, ok, the water just drowns out the nearby highway noises. Good enough for me.

I can think. No interruptions. No demands. Just sit and listen and think. Wallow a little if needed. I told you, trees don't judge.

The old hemlocks suggest it's time to stand. Here's a hand. Get up now. Walk among my friends. It's been a while since we had a visitor. We're glad you came.

But I've fallen and I can't get up.

Holler for help if you have to.


Sometimes you'll grow crooked before you grow straight but you do what you must to get the water and light you need to live.


Your support system might look at bit odd to others but if it keeps you standing that's the important part.


It would be nice to have someone to walk with you on the trail but they won't always be either patient enough or energetic enough to go at your pace. Sometimes you have to walk by yourself.

Eventually, you'll have to make some choices.


You can't sit in one spot forever unless you want a moss covered butt.

Friday 55 & Da Count- Andrew Wyeth's Winter Corn

Winter Corn
Andrew Wyeth
1948

Sprouts poke through earth,
children eager to heed the sun's instruction.
Lanky summer youths in fine array
beckon in the breeze,
"Come dance, come play,"
before yielding a golden harvest
in the softening autumn light.
Battered, chapped,
winter sentries
wearily hold formation,
waiting to be felled,
their remains shrouded
beneath a chenille blanket of snow.

DA COUNT

I was thinking last night of what to post for either a 55 or a count today and though there is always much to be thankful for I was feeling kind of bereft of inspiration. What few ideas I had felt forced. I got up this morning and perused the headlines. I was sad to see that American painter, Andrew Wyeth, has died. I am by no means well educated in art but I have always liked his works. I enjoy realism and portraiture so his style and subjects appeal to me in that way. He's also a son of Pennsylvania and spent his life outside of Philadelphia not terribly far from where I grew up so even when he turned his eye to landscapes and still life work it was often a vision that was familiar, just seen through an artist's eye.

I decided to flip through an online gallery of his paintings to see which one spoke to me for a 55 since it's been a long time since I wrote one inspired by a work of art. I got a little lost in the gallery, hence the lateness of this post. So many were utterly captivating but the corn whispered to me. Corn fields very much give me a feeling of being home. I love the way they change the landscape over the course of the year. Now you may really laugh at this but, I love that corn is a New World crop. It just plain belongs here (not to say it can't go anywhere else).

This all seems kind of stream of conscious I suppose but I guess it boils down to this: corn is home, Andrew Wyeth is home. The beauty of the natural world and the art of man are home for me. Home is where your soul finds rest.

Weird Wednesday-Little Helper

I like to hang out my laundry to dry. It saves using electricity and it smells so wonderful. Yesterday as I was reaching into the bag for a clip I though ti felt something soft and squishy. I recoiled and looked inside to find a little helper.




I wasn't sure how he got in there but it was an awfully long hop to the ground so I took him out gently and sat him down safely. I'm not sure if that's a look of disgust or gratitude on his face. What do you think?