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 wiped the drawer with a damp rag. Then I turned to the closet and dumped out all of the wintertime hats onto the floor.
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,
In the spirit of non-martyrdom I want to introduce this missive by sharing a quote from Swami Kripalu that I heard recently. “Every time you judge yourself you break your own heart.” Cheers to avoiding self-inflicted heartbreak!
Your Momma vividly remembers walking with my friend E when I was about 9/10 years old. We were both complaining about how unreasonable and difficult our mothers were. E turned to me and said, “I have found it helps if you apologize first.”
I remember trying it and being shocked by how effective it was - reducing both the intensity and the duration of whatever kerfuffle the two of us were tussling over.
Three years ago we harvested honey from our resident honeybees. I was still very fragile from my stint in the hospital and cheered from the sidelines and took pictures.
Capitalizing on our lessons learned we set ourselves up to harvest the combs in the garage - away from curious buzzing stingers. Doing the honey harvest within the confined space gifted us a concentration of the million faceted smell complexity. Each frame would add its own layer of pollen rich perfume. It was a bouquet resplendent in flower complexity and sweetness.
In her book, Wait It Gets Worse, my sister wrote about the two of us splitting wood in 2013. We had borrowed a splitter from a friend and took turns maneuvering logs beneath the pressurized blade. We now own a splitting machine. Funny how these things work after you do the math of renting for a few years.
Wanting a clean slate of the most time consuming fall chore before school started - we split wood while the smalls were away. In years past we had waited for October - but getting it done now feels like a gift of kite flying in that month instead of chore twitching.
First thing in the morning before it gets too hot and then again at the end of the day before the mosquitoes take over.
It is so satisfying.
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.
“And so now each fall I begin my class in a garden, where they have the best teachers I know, three beautiful sisters. For a whole September afternoon they sit with the Three Sisters… One of my students in an artist, and the more she looks the more excited she becomes. “Look at the composition,” she says. “It’s just like our art teacher described…”