Dearest Beloveds,
We are right around the 40 day mark for your new school. The beautiful 40 day mark where new habits form, transformation occurs, and possibilities beckon. I am pleased to note that the 40 day mark on your ends has been demarcated by two key things in life: apple pie and a really good fart joke.
Dearest Beloveds,
Courtesy of my obsessive listening to The Emerald Podcast while you two were at camp I have been exposed to this 2013 quote from James Gustav Speth (Gus), co-founder of the National Resources Defense Council, twice in the past few weeks.
I used to think that top environmental problems were biodiversity loss, ecosystem collapse and climate change. I thought that thirty years of good science could address these problems. I was wrong. The top environmental problems are selfishness, greed and apathy, and to deal with these we need a cultural and spiritual transformation. And we scientists don’t know how to do that.
Speth leads me directly into why I can’t sleep the nights after our new car arrives.
Three summers ago I made a living hugelkultur art installation. Tiles of thick bark and effluence from splitting logs stimied weed incursions. Then leaves fell. And decayed.
More leaves fell and more leaves decayed. Japanese Stiltgrass slid into the tiny cracks of soil and invading their way in. Thankfully, that invasive is very easy to weed with it’s shallow roots.
It was time to recharge the hugelkultur with new wood.
I felt like an art historian retouching a Caravaggio. Instead of fine badger hair dipped into cadmium and ochre my tools required gloves to prevent splinters.
Dearest Beloveds,
I wish I could imagine where you two are writing your letters home. Sitting up in bed and balancing your paper on your knees as you listen to rain hitting the sides of the tent? Laying on your bellies on your inspection ready sheets and writing on your pillows? Crouched on the floor writing hunched over on the floor of your cabin?
Momma and Dadda* are writing on one corner of the dining table. Our materials are strewn about because we don’t need to clear that end for meals.
Alone. Big water in a small boat.
Together. My arm muscles and knees pressing
against padded lip of a boat called Perception.
Perception and I went for a paddle
twix the gray sky and the silver water.
“Enjoy this time my beloveds, because baby chickens are only cute for the first 10 days or so - and we are assuming these girls were born yesterday, but it may have been the day before that.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Positive. I am positive. Tell you what, I will take pictures of them every day you hold them so we can keep track of how quickly they grow.”
So we did.
“Momma, why do you need to do radiation? I want to ride my bike to the end of the road and I can’t because you need to take the car to the bus. It is not fair! I want to ride my bike! It is NOT FAIR!”
Dragon, you are 150000% correct. It is not fair. It is not fair I need to be radiated for the FOURTH FUCKING TIME. It is not fair my mucosal lining is so taxed from the bone marrow transplant for Hodgkins I am on regular Imodium and bentonite clay courtesy of the immunotherapy. It is not fair I wrote a book about not feeding my “What If Monster” nearly 17 years ago and I am STILL negotiating with the SAME MONSTER - and I know how I am making it worse with these wallowing thoughts and that just makes me ANGRY.
Corinna, deep breath. Remember your vagal nerve release exercise!
I put my fingers on either side of my ears and gently rubbed up and down along the hairline until I yawned.
“Okay, so Momma, I want to send a picture of myself in a bathing suit so L can upload them to Google Slides. Then she and I can decide which bathing suit to wear to the pool party.”
“The pool party that is in June.”
“Right.”
I remember being so excited to plan outfits with close buddies at your age, such fun!
Fifteen minutes later I sat poised to send pictures of Bean, resplendent in your 11 year old long legged blonde glory.
And my brain caught up.
Corinna!!! What are you thinking?! Sending pictures over the internet cannot become normalized - and this is where this starts.
This past autumn was very dry. Super super super dry.
Per years past we planted seedlings in the greenhouse in October. We coddled the new plants for a few days. Then the holidays rolled around and we ignored them.
From years past we knew that nothing happened during the dark times of December and January. Instead we looked at the snowdrifts against the greenhouse and snuggled by the fire.
We trusted the ground moisture would seep into the baby roots and feed the growing plants - claytonia, spinach, bok choy. We knew this to be a safer choice for water than potentially freezing the cells of the plants with too much water from a can.
Strewn on the concrete floor of the mudroom are summertime hats. A variety of baseball hats, wide brimmed floppy sun hats, Polly Hill Arboretum monogrammed bucket hats, disintegrating straw sun hats, my husband’s sturdy sun hat purchased at a cricket match, the visor from my childhood with my name emblazoned on it, the yellow rainproof fishing hat from my parents, and several neck gaitors from our visit to the tropics.
I wipe out the inside of the bench drawer with a damp rag. Then I turn to the closet and open the drawer that held all of the cold weather hats.