Tag Archives: Spring

Magnolia Tree, Mother Earth, Spring

Witness.

The magnolia tree across the street is in full bloom. Over thirty years ago this tree was so small new owners thought she was a bush. This spring she stands taller than the neighboring rooftops. For some reason — temperature? sun? soil? — her scent is epic this bloom cycle. The sweet air wafts through our backyards, almost sugary. Pedestrians walking by stop still to look for the source. I just have to open a window to be overwhelmed.

While spring proceeds to throw down beauty the news of the world gets more ugly. Countries are tearing themselves to shreds. I have friends going through hard stuff; beloveds lost, physical challenges, life decisions. How to be effective, helpful, supportive? Texting seems impersonal. Phone calls are exhausting. Letter writing is a rusty skill. Darkness is falling on so many people. If I could bottle the perfume of this magnolia I would not hesitate to mail it to you, coddled in tissue. Much better than deciphering my handwriting in a letter.

I have been thinking about faith today: faith in the trees waking up come April; faith that my riotous hyacinth will emerge all the wrong colors but still so right; faith that a day of sunlight can keep the worst at bay. Last summer we held our breath when the house across the street sold, the time of year when the magnolia is just a big leafy tree, a little too big for her corner of the property. In fairness to the newest owners, the magnolia shadows their yard and brushes against the house behind her. When the tree surgeons arrived a few weeks later and the machinery started there was every possibility that I might have leapt the hedge, put my arms around her trunk and held my body between her and the workmen. I watched through the shade (that kind of neighbor!) and held my breath, shoes on standby. Thankfully she just received a good prune, a limb taken here and there, some cables attached to hold the biggest branches stable. Their reward for having faith in her was the glorious bloom I am gazing at from my desk this morning.

We should name her, this magnificent sentry, this quiet force of mother nature that swings moods and intoxicates evenings. She stands so tall and reminds me that witnessing the earth’s journey is a privilege. And I am responsible whether a human, friend or stranger to take care of what has been and will be placed before me — the good, bad, well, unwell, new or old. Join me.

I send you my far-reaching love and support and appreciation. And her.

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Barefoot, Breathe

Barefoot.

For my last week here at Wren Cottage I am letting the senses play. Winter’s grande finale in the Pacific Northwest has been to deliver us a stunning, early springtime. Birdsong is histrionic, the daffodil, narcissus, cherry and plum blossoms have exploded. Laundry hung on the line dries in two hours. I dusted off a straw hat today; everything about me and around me is breathing, from my fingers to my toes. There are flip-flops in play.

I recently submitted to ten publications, a tough piece, a braided essay of the two illnesses that make me who I am today; my mother’s and my own. This is the story, in short form, that I have been trying to write for a long time. Not a grief story (so many to read and listen to right now) but a story about actively dying, facing death and coping despite. The work energizes me when it reads right. It deflates me when it reads wrong. But ah, the view out the open window.

I break in the kitchen to bake Irish Soda Bread (I have not a lick of Irish in me, just love it) and a Guiness Chocolate Cake. Frittata tonight. Barefoot if possible from morning to night. Kicking off my boots and shoes in the last three days has been as good as a skinny dip in a clear mountain lake — cold, shocking, sensory.

On my morning walk today I came upon fountain mice borrowing tiny blue sparkle shoes probably misplaced by a small leprechaun after the St. Patrick’s Day activities. I smiled all the way home.

Can you kick off your shoes today, wherever you are, feel the earth under your scrunched toes, let a little air on your skin? It’s the little things that will get us through.

The Marketplace at Pleasant Beach, Bainbridge Island WA

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Easter, friends, Jelly Beans

Pull Over.

This morning, at 5:21AM to be exact, the jelly beans got pulled over.

SeaTac airport was quiet, people were orderly, I went to the correct scanner with my fake hip. All was well until I saw my bag drop-kicked out of the conveyer belt and sent to detention. Knitting needles? Never happens. Food? A tidy legitimate turkey wrap in my handbag. Hand cream? Always check that I am under 3oz.

A very serious, perhaps end-of-shift TSA agent was slamming bins into a cart when he saw my small roller and marched — ominously — to my bag, looking neither left or right, while I hopped into my shoes and scuttled to his kiosk.

“Unzipping” he said, not looking at me. I had an urge to laugh.

I tend to run from snow and ice and skiing every year, at least for February and March, to the Pacific Northwest. To each their own and enjoy, but I prefer rain, early daffodils and the cascade of time change that has the migrating song birds shouting outside my window by mid-March at 4:45AM.

Today I head back, for an exciting spring of family events and my late garden, friends and catchups. My bags have less clothes and more thrift finds this time, secured curbside. I am as always sad and excited at the same time.

“Anything sharp’ he continued — not a question.

“I am a knitter” has proven to be the best way to answer this. “Beware of needles” is more informative, but that cheeky humor once incurred a more extensive search than was necessary in a small regional airport. So I keep it simple.

He pulled on blue rubber gloves and began to rummage. Immediately yarn teetered precariously on the edge, an eye crayon threatened to bolt, magazines commenced to slip. Then he pulled out the offender: an unopened, brand new bag of Brach’s black jelly beans.

A tender memory: every spring for the last uncountable years I have returned to the frozen land before Easter and my dear friend across the street has placed a bag on my kitchen island for me, sometimes in a bunny-themed bowl from Marshall’s. After she passed in 2020 I skipped them for a couple of years: as grief goes. When my cousin brought a bag home for me this week I savored the amazing that somehow the memo had been passed on. Thanks, Lou.

So I packed them, in my carry-on no less because jeez, no thanks a sniffer dog grabs and runs with it while inspecting downstairs in baggage transfer.

The agent, not a smile or a chuckle, meticulously massaged the bag — every last jelly bean — through the packaging. He replaced it, zipped (stuffed) the bag together and pushed it across the counter.

I thought: my friend is laughing her pants off somewhere.

What is the simplest, most pleasurable act you can do today, for you and for another?

It’s the tiny big things.

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