Nice

"Be nice!" How many times have you heard those two words spoken over a lifetime? What does nice mean anyway? And, if you are being nice not doing nice, isn't that just an assumed state of human interaction under the rubric of a golden rule which then doesn't necessitate reminding?

I remember clearly sitting around with friends in college on one of those evenings when time seemed limitless. Our identities were still forming and often deeply analyzed. We decided to choose one descriptive word that everyone thought embodied that person. I was devastated when my friends chose the adjective nice to describe me. I was incredulous. Really? How boring! Nice is innocuous but nondescript. Nice was like a neutral color that blended into the background -- a wallflower, of all things.

I have returned to the sting of that moment many times since and now maintain that one ought never call another person nice. You might describe a piece of clothing as nice by saying, "Nice pants." Or, a blind date, saying "We had a nice time," implying no one could pay you enough money to go out again with the guy you just ditched as quickly as humanly possible. Or, you might ask a boyfriend to sit down and talk and call it quits by beginning "You are a really nice guy, but...." Nice is subtle or sufficient or agreeable. You can even hear the dull and uninterested tone of voice when someone says nice try or nice day or nice to know.

In my estimation, daisies might be nice but nice is not the description of a person. Kind may be the description of an individual. People can be kind. And, upon reflection, I think my friends really were describing me as kind. And, I am not just saying that to make myself feel better, although kind does make feel better. I simply think that I have a tender heart for the human condition which can be so battered. I feel I exist to make people feel better, be better, live better. Kindness works towards the positive, the glass half full, the optimistic, at times naively so I'll admit. Still, I think I primarily approach the world with kindness.

Now, I will admit that a guy I liked in college the following year described me as charming, and charming almost wiped away the sting of nice and certainly sealed my infatuation at the time. I preferred to think of myself as charming rather than nice until I saw a small, enchanting clip of film from Humans of New York on Instagram yesterday. I have been a fan of Brandon Stanton's work for a long time, and he has released the first two episodes of a new series, including this clip which I have watched nearly a dozen times.

From now on, in my experience or point of view, I will try to live up to the descriptors of both charming and super nice. And, I suggest that you watch the HONY clip , too. Then, the next time I describe you or anyone else as super nice, you'll know exactly what I mean and smile deep down inside. It is all about how you view the world, friends. By my estimation, glass half full ain't half bad. In fact, it is super nice.

Selfless

A little less self, a little more selfless, a little more self to give.

The selfie obsession reached a new low this week when a family placed their child in an 800-year-old coffin at a museum in Britain for a photo op, damaged the artifact, and then left without a word. Of course, closed-circuit television cameras caught them in the act. Somehow, this story seems to encapsulate so much of this era in a nutshell. A little less self, a little more selfless, perhaps?

So much of public discourse of late seems to revolve around the self -- what I deserve, what I have lost or sacrificed, what I know to be true, what I was told, how I perceive the world, how I defend what I said or did, who I see as lesser than myself or greater than myself. So much is said and done and believed to be true without thoughtful reflection of or engagement in the perspective and experience of others. Somehow the foundation of working for the common good has been badly shaken, and we continue to dig in our heels. Maybe, a little less self, a little more selfless?

Our public discourse might be far more civil, if we first thought of how every word and deed might effect the other before we spoke and acted. Isn't this what we have been trying to teach our children all along? I have told my girls dozens of times over the years:

"You are no more or less worthy than anyone else. You don't have to like everybody, but you must treat everybody with basic respect. Period. And, remember that each individual has a personal story that makes them who he or she is. Try to understand and it will be far easier to be gracious."*

The message remains true for me as much as them. A little less self, a little more selfless.

For me, the bottom line is that the health of our society depends on sacrifice of self for the common good. The needs of many are great in communities no matter where you live and nothing is more common among all of us than the desire to have the essential needs met of those we love most. Anything less must certainly be a moral failing in light of our nation's economic and political standing in the world. A little less self, a little more selfless.

So, I am turning this mantra over in my head, a meditation of sorts. I might even call it a personal mission statement. Of course, I mix up my wants and needs on a regular basis. I rant. I rave. I know, if you know what I mean. I dig in my heels, too. I am working on it though, step by step. A little less self, a little more selfless, a lot more self to give.

Want 

Carrie Fountain

The wasps outside
the kitchen window
are making that
thick, unraveling sound
again, floating in
and out of the bald head
of their nest,
seeming not to move
while moving,
and it has just occurred
to me, standing,
washing the coffeepot,
watching them hang
loosely in the air-thin
wings; thick, elongated
abdomens; sad, down-
pointing antennae-
that this
is the heart’s constant
project: this simple
learning; learning
how to hold
hopelessness
and hope together;
to see on the unharmed
surface of one
the great scar
of the other; to recognize
both and to make
something of both;
to desire everything
and nothing
at once and to desire it
all the time;
and to contain that desire
fleshly, in a body;
to wash it and rest it
and feed it; to learn
its name and from whence
it came; and to speak
to it-oh, most of all
to speak to it-
every day, every day,
saying to one part,
“Well, maybe this is all
you get,” while saying
to the other, “Go on,
break it open, let it go.”

*Don't get me wrong as I also clearly communicated that abusive and bullying behavior is never to be tolerated!

Trash

One woman's trash is another's treasure.

I have a penchant for old things and am more than happy to scour secondhand and vintage stores for unique goods. Since my parents arrived from war torn Germany with little but a suitcase, and family heirlooms are few and far between, I think I like the link to the past that old finds provide. And, since manufactured items all look the same in stores today, I appreciate the distinctive dress from a consignment shop still with the tags on or the solid hardwood table from the used furniture store with nary a scratch. Yes, one woman's trash is another's treasure.

Of course, this wasn't always the case. I grew up in a working class family with six children in a Midwestern community of mostly middle to upper income professional families. Hand me downs and Goodwill outfits were a staple in my life. I am not complaining, but I would be lying that it wasn't a sharp contrast and difficult pill to swallow when I was also around peers who got brand new cars for their 16th birthday. 

And, thrifting back then wasn't chic like thrifting is today. I remember leaving Goodwill bathed in an aroma of must and mold and feeling dirty and a sense of shame. I hate to admit this as I have grandparents that barely scraped by in the Great Depression and parents that knew hunger, violence, and fear all too well as children in WWII. I give myself a break as I was only a child then. Now, the values of basic respect for food and monetary goods still form part of the foundation of my being. A penny saved is a penny earned after all.

More importantly, I must remind myself that in a world of over seven billion people, I am among the wealthiest and most privileged. This is due, in part, to my good fortune of being born in the United States. In part, this is also due to the work ethic instilled by my parents and the life my husband and I have worked very hard to create over many years. As such, I try to be a good steward of what luck and hard work provided. 

Since we moved into Nara in June, I have been slowly working my way around the yard, clearing out beds, walkways, and underneath bushes and trees of weeds, sticks, debris, and undergrowth. In the process (and I am so far from done), I have been shocked at the trash I have found scattered throughout the property. I decided to keep a list of items, many broken, that I have unearthed:

• Baseball bat
• Two arrows
• Numerous Lego pieces
• Multiple pens and pencils
• Rusty nails and screws of all sizes
• Hammer handle
• Two metal posts
• Nylon string in blue, yellow, red and white
• Birdhouse
• Dart
• Plastic toy shovel
• Canadian and American coins
• Numerous plastic drink bottles (hate those things!)
• Pieces of glass
• Duffel bag
• Aluminum cans
• Bricks
• Sock
• Balls of all shapes and sizes
• A dog's chew toys
• Various metal plates and parts
• Barbie accessories
• Plastic caps, ties, pieces and gizmos in every color

I have no idea where all this stuff came from. One way or the other, it was trashed. And one of my all time pet peeves is how people treat the earth like a trash can. I don't understand how someone can just throw a cigarette butt out the car window or refuse to recycle a water bottle or toss a half eaten sandwich into a landfill without a second thought. 

I am a product of the US Forest Service's campaign to protect the environment with the Woodsy Owl motto, "Give a hoot -- don't pollute!" I clearly remember the programming in elementary school in the 1970s. As a result, I am a big proponent of environmental stewardship, including recycling, composting and thrifting. After all, one woman's trash is another woman's treasure only when donated.

In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

Ted Kooser

In the musty light, in the thin brown air

of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,

beneath long rows of sharp footfalls

like nails in a lid, an old man stands

trying on glasses, lifting each pair

from the box like a glittering fish

and holding it up to the light

of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap

of enameled pans as white as skulls

looms in the catacomb shadows,

and old toilets with dry red throats

cough up bouquets of curtain rods.

You've seen him somewhere before.

He's wearing the green leisure suit

you threw out with the garbage,

and the Christmas tie you hated,

and the ventilated wingtip shoes

you found in your father's closet

and wore as a joke. And the glasses

which finally fit him, through which

he looks to see you looking back—

two mirrors which flash and glance—

are those through which one day

you too will look down over the years,

when you have grown old and thin

and no longer particular,

and the things you once thought

you were rid of forever

have taken you back in their arms.

Ginkgo

I read The Whispering Leaves of the Hiroshima Ginkgo Trees in the New York Times last week. The piece reminded me that the ginkgo has been found in fossils over 270 million years old. Ginkgo trees are survivors, and the author is right that they might have a message for us.

Now, I look at the ginkgo tree outside the kitchen window with more reflection and ever more appreciation. I have always loved the leaves which turn a beautiful golden yellow in the fall. Moreover, the tree still brings me back to Goethe, the writer of classical German literature and poetry, who wrote so eloquently about the leaves of this woody perennial plant in the poem Ginkgo Biloba.

I had to memorize the poem and share an analysis of its meaning in a class I took during my junior year abroad at Albert Ludwigs Universitaet of Freiburg, Germany. The course was on the classicists, Goethe and Schiller, and was taught by a professor who had escaped East Germany. The class (taught completely in German) of American students was both intimidated and enamored with the professor. He was brilliant, had been a world class athlete, and epitomized the romantic notions of a worldly professor, who modeled silk scarves, recited literature, and wore an air of mystery. I mean, he had lived on the other side of the wall, and he had escaped.  

In our extensive discussion about the course and the man outside of class, we jokingly called him Herr Gorbachev. And, in my nervous state during my presentation, I called him Herr Gorbachev to his face which resulted in peels of laughter from the rest of the class and my face washing in a deep shade of red. Clearly, he laughed it off as well as I remember scoring well on my work and the course.

Like the Hiroshima Ginkgo trees, I realize that Ginkgo Biloba taught me many things. It immersed me deeper into my love of poetry and strengthened my public speaking skills -- in a second language, no less. It helped me see two sides to a person, a piece of writing, an issue and an experience. It reminded me that humans are multifaceted, complicated beings and barriers are best torn down not erected. 

When we read deeply or travel broadly or interact with the once unknown, we see ourselves from where we were before the experience and then again after -- we can be the same person yet different if only we open ourselves to the process and the journey. A small leaf and a short poem remind me that writing and nature can survive to travel over time and distance and cultural/lingual differences and help us see ourselves and our surroundings anew. Every time I see a Ginkgo tree, I say to myself, "Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?" Those are the words that return to me over and over, etched in my mind and retrieved involuntarily. And, I couldn't be more grateful for their insight.

GINKGO BILOBA 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

German:

Dieses Baums Blatt, der von Osten
Meinem Garten anvertraut,
Gibt geheimen Sinn zu kosten,
Wie's den Wissenden erbaut.

Ist es ein lebendig Wesen,
Das sich in sich selbst getrennt?
Sind es zwei, die sich erlesen,
Daß man sie als eines kennt?

Solche Fragen zu erwidern
Fand ich wohl den rechten Sinn:
Fühlst Du nicht an meinen Liedern,
Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?

English:

In my garden’s care and favour

From the East this tree’s leaf shows

Secret sense for us to savour

And uplifts the one who knows.

Is it but one being single

Which as same itself divides?

Are there two which choose to mingle

So that each as one now hides?

As the answer to such question

I have found a sense that’s true:

Is it not my songs’ suggestion

That I’m one and also two?

~ Translated by John Whaley

Cacophony

Life—the thrust of living—seems raw and irrepressible on a day like that. Every niche, no matter how small, is fully occupied, no-vacancy signs visible everywhere. At dawn I walk through one spider trap after another, trailing silk by the time I get to the barn. Any object I move, I discover a colony of creatures behind it or under it or inside it. This is a farm of overlapping settlements and empires, and I plod through like Godzilla, undoing the work of the ant and earwig nations just by moving a five gallon bucket or a fence rail. (209) More Scenes from the Rural Life by Verlyn Klinkenborg

I try to garden for a short time each morning before the heat of summer builds. Gardening is a meditative act for me; it gives me the mental space to think. I step out of the house into the silence of our new property, no earbuds, no discussion. I am alone, lost in thought with an agenda at hand that usually includes watering and weeding.

However, now that the neighbors have spotted not one but two black bears in the neighborhood, I find my senses heightened lest I run into the trespassers. My increased awareness has brought to my attention that I really don't step into solitude and quiet when I step out into the green. Rather, from the time the first bird announces dawn's arrival to the cacophony of insects that fill the darkness at day's end like the chorus in a Wagnerian opera, nature is engaged in a drama of living and dying all around me.

I need only engage my senses to begin to see it. My recent observations include:

• The bumblebee hid under the leaves of the zinnias to stay dry from the watering can's heavy downpour.
• The sounds of woodpeckers hard at work echoed through the woods.
• Butterflies of all shapes, sizes and colors were feasting on the unidentified flowering tree beside the house. (Note to self: figure out what kind of tree blooms in the heat of July!)
• The crows were gathering and cawing to ward off the small hawk that landed near the circle drive.
• I am delighted to still recognize the song of the cardinal, the call of the blue jay. 
• The toad found relief from the heat under the trim by the garage, blending in perfectly with the red Virginia brick.
• The yellow jackets swarmed around a large nest in the ground next near the forsythias behind the house, threatening the lawn guys and prompting a call to pest control.
• The salamanders with black body and indigo-violet tales sit in wait for crickets and beetles and roaches, baking in the sun on the brick walk.
• The red ants organized an offensive at the very thought of an attack; unfortunately, they settled at the foot of the front entrance.
• The gang of deer ravage the neighborhood, particularly the pack of six bucks that devour my hydrangeas without a second glance. Once the rut begins, they'll be in competition but now they bow to peer pressure under the gaze of the buck with the rack that is inordinately large for July.
• Twin fawns emerge from the wood's edge, seemingly abandoned as mother has yet to be spotted.
• The housing market remains hot for wasps, causing a building boom; the hornets simply focus on an addition to their dwelling to accommodate newcomers to the nest.
• The hummingbirds remind me to focus on adding (deer-resistant) flowers to the beds next year.
• The bugs continue to amaze me in size and variety, including dragonflies with black and white striped wings and beetles of emerald green. However, the spiders are a topic I would rather not discuss. 
• The petitions of the praying mantis rose up from the flower pot on the back deck.

Amazing what one small plot of land yields. Peace and joy remain amidst the cacophony. 

History

I double majored in German and history -- not German history, although I did take European history courses. I then went on to earn a masters in education as well as my secondary school teaching certification in social studies and German. Education was a logical extension for a liberal arts education, but I have always struggled to explain how I landed on history as a major. After all, I did apply to college thinking I would major in chemistry and become a physician. And, I certainly am not a history buff like my brother, who I remember plowing through thick tomes on wars and leaders and eras long gone just for fun even as an adolescent.

In some way, I often think that children of immigrants tend to have a penchant for history. Our parents speak of times and places and movements long gone that shape the way they approach their new home and parent us. I heard about WWII and Germany and fascism that cultivated a deep gratitude for what American offered in the second half of the 20th century. Working hard was expected, although questions about the past were often ignored. We waited for bits and pieces of information to fall into our laps while eavesdropping on adult conversations to explain tears and tirades and religious fervor and convoluted decision making.

Lately, I have been immersing myself in history once again. In the current political climate, I have found that looking back has helped me make sense of the present. Please don't think that I always find comfort in some worrisome conclusions that history can uncover, but I find that understanding often is the first step to positive action and nothing could be more useful in these times. Let me share three journeys into history you might find enlightening and enjoyable as well:

1) My husband and I have been watching the National Geographic series Genius about Albert Einstein. The series places Einstein in historical, political, and cultural context such that you not only learn about the man but also how he was shaped by the times which do have some parallels to today.

2) I have been listening to the podcast Revisionist History by Malcolm Gladwell. Each episode looks back at a person or idea or event: "Something overlooked. Something misunderstood." As I am cooking dinner, I turn on the podcast. It gets me thinking, deeply, such that I return to its content in my mind repeatedly in the days that follow, making connections to my own experiences, understanding of current events, and passionate pursuits.

3) I am reading On Tyranny by Timothy Snyder. A straightforward, short book of 20 chapters, it looks at current political times through the lens of our Founding Fathers and European totalitarianism of the last century. Please do not take this to be a book of one political persuasion or another. Rather, this is a book about the basis for democracy and freedom and our responsibility as citizens to protect the foundation and integrity of our nation.

What I love most about immersing myself in history like this is the connections I am making. These mediums are lighting the light bulbs in my brain, helping me through the dis-ease I am feeling since the last election, and directing my thinking and decisions for the future as a voter, community member, and citizen. Of course, historians know that this is the greatest value of their academic pursuits: the past may illuminate the present and direct the future for one individual or an entire nation. Personally, I invite you to join me in the pursuit. As such, we might have greater confidence in where we collectively take our country.

History

Andrew Gent

Every poem has been written before

at least fifteen times.

Every song

sung better.

The Neanderthals discovered caves

already painted with the story of their lives.

They invented fire

over and over again.

And you & I

whisper the same sweet nothings

we were born with.

Mettle

Discrepancies, Happy and Sad

Li-Young Lee

We’ve moved into a bigger house.
Now our voices wander among the rooms
calling, Where are you?

And what we can’t forget
of other houses confuses us
as we answer back and forth, Over here!

It’s a little like returning to the village
where you were born, the sad bewilderment
of discrepancies between
what you remember and what’s there.

No. It’s more like a memory of heaven.
Voices coming closer, voices moving away,

and what we thought we knew
about life on earth confounding us.

And then that question
from which all the other questions begin.

I attended a garden tour on Saturday with a friend. The owners created a beautiful home and garden over 36 years. 36 years! I know plenty of people live in one place for their entire lives, but 36 years seems incredibly long to me. I began to think through all the homes I have lived in over the years, and I have lived in more homes than most millennials have jobs these days. Like each vein on the leaf of the perennial Evans Begonia above photographed on the garden tour, each address marked a significant place and time in my life that has helped shape me into who I am today. 

Upon review, this list evokes not only a feeling of exhaustion but also of pride. One gains invaluable insight into human beings and human behavior when moving similar to that of travel. I see more commonalities and fundamentals among people. And, I see myself as more adaptable to change and confident in the face of challenges. Building new relationships takes great effort but our closest friendships move with us over time and space, too. Choosing a new home, choosing change, tests your mettle. 

Read on and you'll see what I mean:

1) Milwaukee Duplex of My Birth with Leopard Lamp and Seamstress Bust in the Attic

2) Childhood home: Brookfield, WI Ranch for the Entirety of My Schooling From Age 5 to 18

3) McCaffrey House Dorm Room in Sullivan Hall on the Lakeshore at UW-Madison Freshman Year

4) Another McCaffrey House Dorm Room at UW-Madison Sophomore Year

5) Studentensiedlung Dorm Room at Albert Ludwigs Universitaet in Freiburg, Germany for My Junior Year Abroad

6) First Floor of Mill Street Duplex with the "Stomper" Upstairs for Senior Year Back at UW-Madison

7) Cronkite Graduate Center Single Dorm Room Off of Brattle Row in Cambridge, MA for as I Worked to Earn my MEd at Harvard

8) Apartment in Pastel Colored Stucco Complex in Hollywood Florida for First Teaching Position

9) First Floor "Fourplex" in Wauwatosa, WI in Transition Year Before Return to Graduate School

10) Four Month Stint in the Basement of My Older Sister's House After My Roommate Moved Out to Get Married

11) Studio Apartment Back in Madison for More Graduate School

12) Second Floor of Duplex on Madison's Near West Side Owned by Friend's Family Whose Grandfather Was a Longtime Professor

13) Moved in With My Then Fiance/Soon Husband into a Mississippi River Boulevard Apartment with Art Deco Bathroom in St. Paul, MN

14) Second Floor Duplex on St. Clair Avenue Owned and Meticulously Maintained by Our 90 Year Old Landlord, Ciel Garry, Who Lived in the Basement

15) 1,100 Square Foot 1929 Bungalow on Stanford Avenue, Our First Home

16) Return to Harvard and Completely Renovated (Once Owned By a Woman Who Had 200 Cats) Second Floor Duplex on Sycamore Street in Watertown, MA

17) First Floor Duplex on Hillcrest Circle in Watertown, MA

18) My Husband's First Faculty Job and Our Second Home on Nimitz Avenue in State College, PA

19) Third Home on Upland Road in Ithaca, NY as We Moved onto Cornell

20) Fourth Home Called "NOLD" on Highland Road in Ithaca, NY

21) Wayside Place Rental Home in Transition to Charlottesville, VA

22) Fifth Home, Our Current Brick Colonial Called "Nara"

I want to say this is our "forever" house, but who can predict the future? Upon review, the majority of my moves were dictated by academia and the partnership my husband and I formed. From the beginning, he and I shared a vision for the future and a life plan which remains steadfast. However, I think some of the terms are evolving as the time to enjoy life a bit more in the present may be at hand and the desire to stay connected to our girls as they themselves move on in life will be a priority as well. For now, we are settling in and growing new roots with mettle.

Gardening

And that was—is—the miraculous power of gardening: it invites plans and ambitions, creativity, expectation. Next year I will try celeriac. And that new pale blue sweet pea. Would Iris stylosa to just here? And what about sweet woodruff in that shady corner? Gardening defies time; you labor today in the interests of tomorrow; you think in seasons to come, cutting down the border this autumn but with next spring in your mind’s eye.  (33) Dancing Fish and Ammonites by Penelope Lively

After two years of transition, my family and I are finally settled in Charlottesville, a brick colonial so appropriate for Jefferson's hometown and its love affair with red bricks. No surprise as the soil is very fertile and tinted red as well. We live less than 3 miles to the university, shopping, and the high school and sit on a nearly 5 acre nook with woods and creek. Although it took some time to find this gem, I am so grateful for our good fortune and patience.

July is bringing me time to breath in the quiet, to think about the future, and to garden. I spend an hour here and there gardening each day now. I begin a bit late this growing season as the summer heat is already in full force, yet my efforts will bear fruition as I get to know the property, begin to construct a plan for the future, and plant selectively. I forgot that few things brings me as much joy as working the soil.

Gardening immerses you in nature no matter how big or small your efforts. And, nature abounds at "Nara," the name we have given our new home. Deer roam the area here in small herds and hearken back to Nara Park in Japan and its deer, a national treasure considered messengers of the gods in Shinto. I love to think the same of our deer, approaching them with reverence rather than as an adversary as I am prone to do.

Toads, turtles, squirrels, woodpeckers, raccoons, and numerous songbirds frequent our neighborhood. Last week, a black bear's visit caused quite a commotion and places me on high alert when I am out gardening. The visitor took down a neighbor's bird seed feeder and enjoyed a late night snack. I was emboldened to not feed the wildlife around me anymore -- no feeder for us at Nara -- rather to plant in ways that provides habitat and supports all the living things around me.

I have begun weeding and trimming. I planted a small bed of French marigold seeds I saved from Ithaca right next to another small bed of lavender. I love the intense color of purple when lavender is grouped together. And, their smell brings me back to one of my earliest memories, my only memory of my mother's mother. I must have been around three years old, and we shopped together at a neighborhood, corner store in Milwaukee's long gone German community. I chose a small, green, rounded bottom glass bottle of perfume with a green, round plastic top. I remember carrying this rare and precious gift with great care. The scent must have been heavily lavender as I always return to the long lost bottle in my mind to this day when I breathe in lavender.

My new neighbor shared that the deer overlook the pumpkins and cucumbers in her garden. So, I planted a few pumpkin pie seeds in the midst of the milkweed seeds I had scattered in hopes that one day I might be able to attract and feed some monarch butterflies. Nothing surprised me more than to see the pumpkin seedlings emerge from the soil in less than a week. I am not sure why, but the life source of a seed still amazes me.

I remember planting seeds (likely pumpkins or beans or peas) in a paper cup in Kindergarten. I was attentive and nurturing and engaged even then. Maybe, my love of gardening returns me to the joys of childhood. I witnessed such joy the other evening at my daughter's swim meet when a small girl walked round and round in astonishment. "Look! It's a firefly!" Pause. "Look! It's a firefly!" Her voice was sweet and soft and breathy. She was beholding with great wonder. May we all do the same.

Field Guide

I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family; and there is no decency or sense in honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the list. The pine tree, the leopard, the Platte River, and ourselves--we are at risk together, or we are on our way to a sustainable world together. We are each other's destiny.

I could not be a poet without the natural world. Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple. (154) ~ Upstream by Mary Oliver

I have been thinking about my core values, the principles upon which my moral code rests. In part, this is in response to the highly charged world we are currently living in which seems to call for each of us to reorient our compass to be sure we are pointing to our personal true north. Or, to return to our field guide to be sure we are identifying accurately and differentiating the natural from the artificial, the real from the ersatz. 

Here are the principles I listed to guide my actions and orient my decisions:

• First and foremost, cultivate, love and nurture your small circle of immediate family members and closest friends -- these are the people who will carry you through the toughest times and share life's joys in full measure.
• Apologize, forgive, and speak up -- never assume to be understood or irrelevant.
• Recall you are privileged by the simple virtue of where and when you were born.
• Strive to leave the world a better place: grow something, build something, create something, teach something, share something.
• Give generously and when you think you have given enough, give a bit more.
• Remember that everyone has a story and deserves basic respect.
• Work to build relationships with people, ideas, experiences, nature, and the intangible as all things are connected and share a common destiny.
• See humanity's commonalities, the desire to have one's basic needs met.
• Focus on humility as the only correct response to the universe and the infinite.
• Know the world is complex and messy -- you see only one small sliver of its reality.
• Be brave for fear is the most insidious of emotions.
• Be curious and a lifelong learner.
• Strive to live in the present as time is the most precious of gifts.

I am relieved that I could list the parameters of my field guide rather quickly and confidently -- a baker's dozen of ingredients in the recipe of my life. I will bookmark this page and return to it often. It is just the reminder I need now and again to check myself and see the beauty of this existence in full flower.

Field Guide

Tony Hoagland

Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake,

up to my neck in that most precious element of all,

I found a pale-gray, curled-upwards pigeon feather
floating on the tension of the water

at the very instant when a dragonfly,
like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin,

hovered over it, then lit, and rested.
That's all.

I mention this in the same way
that I fold the corner of a page

in certain library books,
so that the next reader will know

where to look for the good parts.

Seeding

In late February or early March, when the snow has melted but the ground is still frozen, I’m going to scatter a mix of red clover and bird’s-foot trefoil seed over the pasture. This is called frost seeding.
               
It sounds like a way to sow ice crystals, or a version of the biblical proverb about seed falling on stony ground. But as the frost relents, the ground expands and contracts and expands again, and the seeds will work their way down into the soil, where they germinate. It’s an old idea, as old as the weeds along the tree line. Even now the snow is flecked with hundreds of thousands – perhaps millions – of weed seeds, all waiting for that slow melting ride down to the ground. (205) 

~ Verlyn Klinkenborg The Rural Life

Somehow, the notion of frost seeding resonates with me. In fact, I have strewn seeds to the hands of fate once or twice myself, wildflowers and packets too old to plant with confidence, an act of random kindness done as prayer or repentance with hopeful abandon. You too might find inspiration in one of my children's favorite picture books, Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney. And, who doesn't love lupines?

Today is the vernal equinox, and spring has arrived gently to fully seed the senses. Seeding time is well at hand. The year's seed catalogs perused, the orders placed, and the preparations well underway. I will need to wait until we've made our final move to our new home in late spring, but I will get my hands dirty. I am giddy with anticipation and chomping at the bit, but I will be patient. All in good time and better late than never as they say. 

In the meantime, I have been rejoicing in images from the deserts of California, experiencing a super bloom after years of drought ended in the long, soaking rains throughout the winter. The seeds were lying dormant, waiting decades even centuries, and now bloom to blanket the landscape in color. The event is so rare, beautiful and unexpected that visitors are coming from all over the world to see what for many will be a once in a lifetime event. 

The seed's ability to survive deprivation and still bloom in all its glory may be just the lesson I need this first Monday of spring as I ask myself about the seeds still dormant and waiting to bloom in me. We plant seeds all the time in the people we encounter, in relationship with other from the most intimate to the most brief and tangential. 50 years has given others plenty of time for seeding in me, and I am feeling the urgency to do so more in others as well.

What seeds do I still hope to see bloom in my life? What seeds do I most desire to plant in others? What seeds can I collect and sort and package to pass onto my girls? What seeds can we scatter in the field and in the world at large, randomly or with plan and purpose, to insure the welfare of the greater good from the most concrete and proximal to those far and wide and deep and distant? Do I recognize a seed when I see it? Do I recognize seed containers and vessels and packets and acknowledge that something exceptional rests inside?

Today, I am seeding in action and thought, pondering the possibility of new growth and the power contained beneath a tiny shell in hopes that my senses awaken and efforts flower and bear fruit. If you join me, think of the garden we will plant and all we can feed. Just a suggestion. Just planting a seed. 

In Memoriam

Dear Grandma Mary,

I wish I had written this letter to you earlier, before your mind betrayed you. Of course, dementia would have wiped away these words from your memory long ago, but I know they need to be said even though you have now passed on and left me without an audience. Despite being long overdue and true to form, I am writing this belated note of gratitude to you today with deep sincerity and send it out into the universe as acknowledgement of my good fortune.

I met my husband almost 25 years ago now, and I continue to be reminded on a regular basis of the hand you played in raising your grandson into the wonderful man he became. I am not talking about aspects of his outstanding character that certainly reflect your example. Rather, I am talking about the way he helps to make our house a home through the simplest of actions and underlying values.

More than anything, you taught Jim that a penny saved is a penny earned. In fact, he never fails to miss a penny tossed carelessly on the sidewalk and overlooked by most. Once picked up, he rubs it between his fingers and places it in his pocket, lauding your name and his good luck. These pennies are collected in a large glass jar in our home, where art imitates life as a symbol of the hard work and smart investment over the years that brought us from our days of $20 in reserves to a life of comfort and privilege. I know you did the same rising up from the Great Depression and WWII on a postman's salary and pension, and so appreciate your example.

You also taught your grandson the value of a safe and secure home, one with time and space to watch a baseball game late in the afternoon to beat the summer heat. And, in turn, Jim taught me the merits of a long afternoon nap when you sleep deep after a weary week and emerge from beneath the covers renewed, feeling better than you can remember in every cell of your body from head to toe. In the midst of a full and demanding life, the virtues of such moments of repose cannot be emphasized and appreciated enough as they show caring for the self and one another in full measure.

Practically speaking, you taught your grandson how to clean and clean well. Those Saturdays you spent vacuuming, tasking him with moving beds for you and lifting couches to get at the cobwebs and defeat the dust, may be the greatest gift you ever gave me. His full professional life precludes its frequency, but when Jim cleans, he cleans through and through. When the tedium of housework gets to be too much or the neglect becomes too overwhelming, I can count on him to step up and do it right.

When it comes to my wheelhouse, the kitchen, you taught Jim how to appreciate food, straightforward and unadorned but delicious. Your rolls and applesauce are an eternal source of inspiration which elevate the taste buds to new heights with butter and homemade jam or a bit of cinnamon and brown sugar. Your love of chocolate was legendary and one of the major food groups on which you subsisted the last twenty years of your life. Since you lived to be 96, I know I will follow your example. Of course, you did let Jim eat cookies and milk for breakfast at times, but I am willing to overlook such an indiscretion in light of the virtues of the larger culinary picture.

In fact, cookies and milk for breakfast simply reflect your lighter side. I will never fail to remember experiences between Grandmother and Grandson that repeatedly evoke the most cathartic of belly laughs whether behind the wheel for the first time in a muddy apple orchard or sitting as passenger in the back seat, struggling with cadence and emphasis in the English language. And, you never failed to lend a helping hand to family, friends, and neighbors as long as you could, even acquiring a postal run of your very own late in life to bring cheer to many in your retirement home.

You live on in Jim's quick wit and loving ways, his work ethic and helping hand, and I couldn't be more grateful. I believe that we are passing some of these things onto our children in honor of your legacy. Please know your efforts, and I know it wasn't always easy, have not gone unnoticed from someone grateful to have joined the ride.

Peace and love to you.
XOXO

Springing

Spring never fails to surprise and delight. Every year it is an awakening, getting reacquainted with nature. I seem to hitch a ride on the tide of all that is new and renew commitments to creativity and health, home as well as the unknown lands, inside and out, and community.

Living in a new college town in a new state, spring has come earlier than I have ever experienced and even to everyone's surprise (and underlying dismay and concern) here. We seem to have finally landed on a new home that we love and the coming months will be full to bursting. Yet, my seasonal work at the university is winding down and I want to return to my writing and blogging and see where it takes me in the coming months.

I will embrace the process and the journey once again. So, I am springing forth in my step, into the world, in anticipation of the the new and unexpected, into the season. Join me for a bit of inspiration now and again, won't you?

Winter, Spring

Jim Harrison

Winter is black and beige down here
from drought. Suddenly in March
there’s a good rain and in a coup1e
of weeks we are enveloped in green.
Green everywhere in the mesquites, oaks,
cottonwoods, the bowers of thick
willow bushes the warblers love
for reasons of food or the branches,
the tiny aphids they cat with relish.

Each year it is a surprise
that the world can turn green again.
It is the grandest surprise in life,
the birds coming back from the south to my open
arms, which they fly past, aiming at the feeders.