Look Up

"Life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things, blue waves whitened on a cliff, soaring fire that sways and sings, and children's faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup."

On a timeless summer afternoon when I was ten, I lay on my back on the lawn and gazed at the sky.  Feathery white clouds drifted lazily across the clear, brilliant blue.   As I stared, I began to feel dizzy, and a tickling sensation teased my stomach--the kind of feeling one has just before the climax of a carnival ride or upon suddenly looking down from a great height.  It seemed as if I were looking down instead of up--that the blue of the sky was the ocean far below me, and the clouds were islands, and I was slowly falling toward them.

Our world today is so filled with action and sound bytes.  We seem to feel that in order to truly live, every moment must be spent in some kind of activity or competition, in  both work and play.  What ever happened to the silent moments, the solitary contemplative moments?  Are we afraid of losing the momentum of our lives if we just stop for a moment to think and to wonder?

One can feel awe in simply taking the time to look up.  See the patterns of leaves as treetops sway in the breeze.  Enjoy the contrast of countless shades of green against an azure background.  Look for faces and shapes in the clouds.  Wait for graceful dances of flight from birds and butterflies.  Listen to the different sounds the wind makes as it sifts through deciduous trees or conifers.  Let your mind wander where it will.

Had I not looked up, I would not have seen the silent aerial spirals of a flock of pelicans; I would not have seen the clouds that looked like dancers or overlords;  at night, had I not looked up, I would have missed the shooting stars, and--using a telescope--I would not have experienced the awe of seeing the rings of Saturn through my own eyes.

As young children, we are encouraged to use our imaginations, to dream.  When we get older, we are often scolded for daydreaming.  I believe that some daydreaming is essential to us no matter what age we are.  On more than one occasion, I have advised my children:  it's all right to have your head in the clouds now and then--as long as your feet are on the ground.  After all, aren't poems and stories, art and philosophies, inventions and advances the blossoms from the seeds of daydreams?

Writing this, I am sitting in solitude in my backyard.   The sounds that accompany my contemplation include bird chirps, waterfall, a soft whisper of breeze through ashes and pines.  Looking up, I see the treetops washed in the gold of the setting sun.  How gracefully the branches sweep against a cloudless, evening-blue sky.  I encourage anyone--particularly young people--to NOT be afraid or mistrustful of solitude and silence.  Lean back, look up, and daydream.  Fill your cup with wonder.

Father's Day

"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was."--Anne Sexton

It has been almost ten years since my father passed away, and yet hardly a day goes by that I don't still think of him.  He was not a man of great stature; he had neither fame nor great fortune.  No one will ever name a building, a park, or a holiday in his honor.  He did not lead armies or nations, patent inventions, cure diseases, compose music, or write poetry.  That doesn't matter.  What matters is that he was my father, and I loved him.

And so, on Father's Day, I remember my father Nick S.:

Dad had a wonderful sense of humor.  He told stories that made others laugh--often at his own expense.  He enjoyed a harmless prank now and then, and smiled even wider when a prank was carried out on him.  His regard for humor was so great that even when he told us of his past--particular of his wartime experience as a P.O.W. in Germany--his stories highlighted moments of laughter.

Dad loved to sing.  Every Sunday and church holiday, he would be in the choir loft at church singing bass.  At home, he broke into song inspired by mundane acts of ordinary days.  Helping us to put on our shoes or overshoes, he would sing, "Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right here."  Waking us in the morning, he would lustily bellow his version of reveille:  "You've got to get up; you've got to get up; you've got to get up in the morning!"  At local talent shows, he entertained audiences with his rendition of the German nonsense song "Schnitzelbank."

Dad loved kids, and not just his own.  For many years, he was the town's most remembered Santa Claus.  Even when children recognized my dad's face through his false whiskers, they didn't feel let down.   Nick S. simply was St. Nick at Christmas time.

Dad had a strong work ethic.  All my life, he worked as a school janitor, but he went about his tasks with dignity and pride as if his job were as notable as that of an executive.  In addition, he took on occasional odd jobs to support the family:  construction and remodeling work; erecting grain bins; digging graves and caretaking at the cemetery.  No job was too menial if the work needed to be done. 

A quotation attributed to American priest and educator Theodore Hesburgh says that "the most important thing a father can do for his children is love their mother."  Dad loved Mom, and that love enveloped his chilren and his grandchildren, who also treasure sweet memories of their grandpa Nick.

Happy Father's Day, Dad--whereverywhere you are.

Juneberry Blues

It was a long time ago, when peas tasted sweeter—Unknown 

I don’t remember the young student in my writing workshop who wrote that sentence, but I do remember the sentence.  “When peas tasted sweeter” is a wonderful phrase, sensate, euphonious with assonance and consonance, and its tone is sweetly nostalgic without being overly sentimental.  It is a phrase that demonstrates the pleasant selectivity of memory. 

At this time of year, I take pleasure in remembering another taste—not the sweetness of fresh peas, but the sweet-tart taste of fresh juneberries.  It has been far too many years since I have purpled my fingers and lips with just-picked juneberries.  

Mom used to pick juneberries, and she preserved them in pint jars so that we might enjoy the flavor throughout the summer and well into winter.  Wearing sturdy shoes, jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and hat, she stepped carefully through the coulees and brambles, and plucked the berries, filling several 3-gallon pails.  Unfortunately, a very severe case of poison ivy one summer ended her juneberry picking days. 

The first summer I fell in love, I hunted for juneberries with my friend, whose brother made my heart race, my face flush, my dreams flower.  When he mentioned that there was nothing he’d like better than a fresh juneberry pie, we were determined to find some, even though the peak of the season had already passed.  On a fairly steep grassy slope, we found several bushes that had not been picked clean by birds, and we managed to fill a 3-pound coffee can with berries—certainly enough for one pie—until I slipped on the smooth grass and lost my footing, the can flying out of my hands.  How disappointing to confess to my friend’s brother that I had lost all but a handful of the juneberries, that because of me, he would not have his juneberry pie. 

Some years later, my dad located a spot where we might pick juneberries.  I went with him, and we did manage to pick almost a pail full.  I don’t remember the taste of those juneberries as much as I remember the experience of berry-picking with my father--the last time we did such a thing together.  That was a gift in itself, and is one of my most treasured memories:

ediblelandscaping.com

 

         Keepsake

         The last time we picked juneberries,

         my father blazed a path

         through bramble brush and coulee draws        

         making smooth my way,

         then filled his pail and half of mine.

         "This should last," he promised,

         the last time

         we picked juneberries.

 

Since that time, I have not had access to wild juneberries, so I decided to plant some in my own backyard.  They have been a very slow-growing shrub, but they blossom profusely every year, and as soon as I see the tiny berries form, I begin to think of the delicious pie I might make.  Invariably, however, the red, red robins come rob, rob, robbin’ me of my share, plucking them green from the branches.

All I want is to pick a pail of juneberries, to have enough for just one pie, and if it’s a keepsake moment for me, I will treasure the memory--and the taste--for a long time to come. 

Woman with a Hoe

If you tickle the earth with a hoe, she laughs with a harvest.--Douglas Jerrold

In the 19th century, a painting by John Everett Millais entitled "Man With a Hoe" inspired poet Edwin Markham to write one of his most popular poems.  Also titled "Man With a Hoe", this poem acknowledges the burdens of the common laborer.  The first four lines indicate the misery of his lot:
          Bowed by the weight of the centuries he leans
          Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
          The emptiness of ages in his face,
          And on his back the burden of the world . . .



Man With a Hoe--John Everett Millais
http://bloodyparadise.wordpress.com/the-hoe-in-art-and-history/





If I were a visual artist, I would create a drawing of someone I vaguely remember from my childhood:  a woman with a hoe.  If her name was ever known to me, it is gone from my memory, and also gone are the people I should have asked.  I know nothing of her life, her family, her story.  I simply remember seeing her more than once in two very specific locations:  her garden and the church.  In both places I noticed her babushka-covered head bowed as she murmured words I couldn't understand.

All I know is something my mother told me, that the woman in the babushka went to church every morning, where she mumbled her prayers in German, her first language.  The words she mumbled in her garden, however, were not prayers, but German curses as she called upon God himself to damn the tenacious weeds.  Did her hoeing "tickle the earth?"  I don't know, but I have a feeling that Earth or God or the cosmos did smile a little at the delightful irony of her piety in the morning and profanity in the afternoon. 

I am not a poet laureate like Edwin Markham was, but I have written my own tribute to this immigrant woman with a hoe from long ago:

          Cultivation
          The woman in the black babushka
          kneels in church each morning,
          mouthing fervent devotions, 
          prayers for rain and forgiveness
          and just one more day in her garden,
          where she wields her hoe
          like a battleaxe.
          "Du Gottverdammtes Ding!" she curses,
          hacking at roots that bind and twist
          all the way back to the old country.

I hope she reaped a bountiful harvest.

Let's begin . . .

If you have a library and a garden, you have everything you need.--Cicero

Welcome to Margaret's Word Garden.

It is a rainy Sunday in May.  I would love to be outside, digging up the earth, planting seeds and seedlings, trimming, weeding, and adding to the aesthetic appeal of my little corner of the world: my backyard Eden.  Instead, I can only look through rain-rippled windowpanes as slow jazz plays in the background.  No other music accompanies rain, it seems to me, as well as a little Davis and Coltrane.

This rain is very welcome, especially since this part of the state has endured drought conditions for two years or more.  Right now, the grass is a rich, emerald green, and tiny buds on trees are slowly unfurling in paler shades.  I see blossoms just beginning to appear on my pear and plum tree, cherry shrubs, honeysuckles, and chokecherries.  Some of these trees and shrubs are planted in a circle in my yard.  They are still young, but someday they will create a ring of privacy in what I call my "meditation garden"--a personal outdoor sanctuary where I may go to read and write, think or pray, dream or remember.

I remember my mother's gardens. Every year she planted an array of vegetables:  peas and beans, carrots and parsnips, tomatoes and peppers, corn and squash, parsley and spinach, broccoli and cauliflower, lettuce and cabbage and zucchini.  In addition, she raised melons and strawberries, and her flower beds offered a color palette of tulips, peonies, petunias, pansies, and lilies.  I remember her planning and planting her garden at age 85, and that is when I realized that there is probably no act as symbolic of faith and hope as the act of planting a garden.  Does anyone plant without hope of harvest or without faith in tomorrow?

Tomorrow promises more rain, so there will be no gardening for me tomorrow either, but that is all right.  I have my library--my garden of words--to delight my senses.

Here are two of my favorite books from my library garden: