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Monday, May 18, 2015

Lilac Love



Growing up, we had a pink lilac by the back door and when it bloomed, I’d stand under it, trying to surround myself in its perfume.  My parents planted two more on the property border, one deep purple and one white.  My brother and his family live in that house now, and while the lilac at the back door long succumbed to some disease or my mother’s change in floral taste, I’m pretty sure the two on the border are still there.  I can see myself, at ten, or fourteen or twenty-one, reaching up to pull down a purple branch and burying my nose, enveloping myself in a scent that still conjures New England stonewalls, wet rain, and grass Kelly green in its newness. 

The first house my husband and I bought came with a lilac bush, a cutting transplanted by a generous neighbor before we owned the place.  For six years I waited for it to bloom but in one of life’s ironies, its first set of buds appeared about the time we locked that door for good and relocated, forty-miles up the highway. 

When we moved into our current home, someone dear gave us a lilac as a housewarming.  We planted it at the corner of the house, where we thought we’d get sun. We do, just not enough. Later that year, after trimming around the yard, we found two other lilacs, both white, posed behind a leggy Forsythia.  One of those succumbed to what we call The Great Tree Disaster of 2013.  But we still have two bushes.  While thin and reedy, each year they offer up a couple of blooms, and always, there’s a morning in mid-spring when I find myself standing underneath, reaching up to pull down a blossom and breathing in.


Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Taking Heart



Pretty, right?  A PJM Rhododendron, to be specific.  But I have to tell you folks, it’s so much more.  On Sunday, fat bumblebees bounced from flower to flower.  In the side yard, Kelly green leaves muscled out the spent forsythia blossoms.  At the front corner, my lilac bush, a housewarming gift from twenty-three years ago, offered up its first bloom.  All this as it is every May.

Except, this year, I’d begun to wonder.  It’s been a long, cold spring.  Just this week, the last of the snow melted from where they piled it on the beach parking lot, leaving black-sludge pavement. 

Sunday afternoon, I pruned the dry sticks of six hydrangeas.  We’ll be lucky to get any blossoms this year, yet I fertilized them with Miracle Grow and hope.  In the process, I found evidence of the deer that tramped through winter paths my husband plowed (for us…but the deer were opportunistic) chewed rhododendrons, an azalea and an evergreen ewe, gnawed to sticks.  Years of gardening, irreparably damaged by indiscriminate hunger.

But still.  In the first sustained warmth of the season, we sat around a new-to-us-but-vintage patio table, (our old table having succumbed to the weight of 110 record-breaking inches of snow) sharing Mothers' day snacks while bumble bees droned in the distance, and I could almost shrug it off.  Even after all that snow melt, the earth is dry and the wind churned up dust.  There may be rain midweek.  Saturday, I’ll head to the nursery and pick up some annuals, maybe a perennial or two, grab tomato plants and cucumbers. I’ll pull on my gloves, dig holes, and then forget and toss them off because I always do.  I'll use a brush to scrub the dirt from under my nails.

And at about that point, I’ll realize we’ve slipped it into the good times again.  Coffee in the rock garden.  Early morning trips in the dinghy.  Painted toenails and flip flops. Climbing out of bed early for sunrise photos.  Sun Drops and Bee Balm and Foxgloves seeding themselves wherever. 

I'm not there yet.  But after a few weeks I will be, and then, I’ll think about replacing those damaged bushes, recognizing something that was hard to remember this year.  A cliche perhaps, but one I'm taking very much to heart.  No matter how bad it seems.  There’s always another spring.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

May IWSG - Longhand






This is my May contribution to Alex Cavanaugh’s Insecure Writers Support Group, where it's all about writers helping writers.  To read more posts, click here.

Life and stress play havoc with writing goals and sadly, I’m not immune.  But in the way you can never know what will inspire, there’s this.  I’ve had a temporary change in routine.  On Fridays now, I find myself in a place with no computer, lots of time and a notebook.  Before leaving home, I print out the last pages I’ve written, and once I arrive in my destination, I sit and write the next scene longhand.  Somehow, hand-to-pen-to-paper connects me to the piece, and words flow.  In my not so perfect world, I want to average five-hundred words a day on my manuscript.  I’m not sure I’d be close except for those blue ink pages, white-lined paper dotted with with scratch outs, my black, spiral bound notebook taking me places I’m struggling to see. 

Monday, May 4, 2015

Hawks at Dawn



At sunrise
three hawks
rode the updrafts,
wide open above the earth
new sun
butter on their bellies,
they disappeared
amid the sweep of pines,
emerged again
in the white-light backdrop,
circling, circling,
while the sky above them
warmed to ripe peach.
Only one wobbled,
beat its wings
thrusting toward space,
and for an instant
it seemed gravity must win,
the pull would be too much,
but digging in,
it powered on,
merged
with the carry and glide,
an aerodynamic glissade,
birds sliding on air,
coasting on wind and sky.