Posted in Tiny Awesome Tuesday

I Envy the Trees

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I envy the trees. Their mindful growth. No worry of the future, no regret of the past. Only reach. Grow. Endure winter. Expect spring.

I envy the flowers. Bloom authentically. Attract bees. And butterflies. And buggy bugs. Smell delicious. Scatter seeds.

I envy the path. Cares not where its going; nor where its been. Not burdened by guests; insects, mammals, humans. Not lonely with the lack thereof. Here for those who seek.

I envy the sky. Stormy anger. Bitter rain. Peaceful blue. Quietly watches. Patiently listens. Trustworthy secret-keeper.

I envy the soil. Cool, earthy, deep. Receives the trees, the flowers, the path. Consumes the sky. Provides.

 

Posted in Great Outdoors

In the Midst of Beige

Speaking of color . . . we were, weren’t we?  I am a highly visual person with a brain hard-wired for color association.  I dream in vivid technicolor.  The colors often symbolize feelings.  I once had a very passionate dream about someone I should not be dreaming passionately about.  The walls were a deep cranberry red, the flush of lust.  Outside the window, there was a light illuminating the innocence of pure white snow.  It was a calm, quiet, flurry of snow, but I was content to stay inside.  I woke up just as the kiss touched my lips, my heart pounding against my rib cage!

As a mother of young children, it was not uncommon for me to hear people remark how cute it was that I dressed us all in the same color, something I would never intentionally do!  Clearly, it had been a red day (or blue, or green, etc.) and the clothes I chose for each of us reflected the color that fit my mood.

When I see a color that catches my eye, I will instantly see other items in the room that match it.  I will say, “Ooh!  I like the color of your blouse.”  Then, “Oh look how it matches the straw in your drink and the book on that shelf!”  I notice immediately if two co-workers are wearing the same color.

It should come as no surprise, then, that this is my least favorite time of the year.  The hues drain from the trees and flowers, leaving behind the browns, tans and grays of death.  I’ve noticed my mood spiraling downward, weighted by the bleak of winter.

Walking with the dogs today, I forgot my camera at home, but did have my phone with me.  Setting up a scavenger hunt for myself, I went to work searching for signs of color in the drab landscape.

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A fiery twig announced its presence along the trail near the fence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sumac and red berries (nightshade?) light my way along this desolate scene.
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Raspberry vines in subtle violet bow to winter’s cold.
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The patient pine dons her dress of evergreen, having watched the other girls in their crimson frills and gowns of gold. Finally she is the belle of the ball . . .

 

 

Posted in Great Outdoors

A Poem So Lovely As a Tree

I’m going to put this right out there.  I have no idea what I’m doing.  If you came here for some great advice on transplanting a volunteer maple sapling, promptly hit that little back button on your browser and head off in another direction.

There are no trees in my yard, front or back.  I’ve been thinking about a tree since I moved here over 4 years ago.  If raking were all I desired, there are several neighboring trees that supply the leaves.  Yet I would also like shade and scenery.  Teasing my barren landscape, little maples have been popping up in the worst places.  This summer there was one growing inches away from the foundation of my house.  It was either move it or kill it.  I asked my friend Mary, being a master of many talents including gardening, if she thought I could transplant this volunteer sapling in my front yard.  She replied, “Oh sure!  Those things grow like weeds!”

And so it did.  The thing grew a good eight feet tall while I was waiting for the right time.  Today the neighbors two doors down are digging an unsightly hole in their front yard and messing around with their gas and sewer lines — we’re all pretty sure there are no professionals involved.  I figured with the possibility of the whole neighborhood going up in a mushroom cloud, there isn’t going to be anyone concerned with me planting what may very well be a dead maple tree by the time I get done with it.  This seemed like the perfect day.

Step 1.  I dug up the sapling, trying to preserve as much of the root as possible and, I’m afraid, not as much as necessary.

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Step 2.  The soil was loosened up by soaking with a garden hose, and a nice round hole was traced out with a spade.

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Step 3.  I dug the hole, making a little berm along the down-side to discourage water runoff.  At this point, I was laughing wondering if the neighbors thought I was starting my own sewer/gas-line project.

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Step 4.  The seedling was set with purchased topsoil to keep it in place — which is smack in the middle of my front yard.  Everywhere else seemed too close to the neighbor’s pine, the driveway, the city easement, or the house.  Smack in the middle it was!

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Step 5.  The side branches were pruned to encourage straight growth and lessen distress on the sapling.  Have I mentioned I do not know what I’m doing?  I sound good though, right?

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It’s been a few hours, the sun has almost set.  The top leaves look a little . . . sad.  This is where I plead for comments on ways I can improve this little guy’s chances.  I have always been pretty lucky with flowers, and can grow enough vegetables to keep the two of us and a rabbit in fresh produce for the summer.  I can grow weeds like you have never seen before.  I can NOT grow grass to save my soul!  But a poem so lovely as a tree?  We shall see . . .   We shall see.