Assortment

Between Daylight & Dark

 

It was late afternoon, and I was supposed to be elbow-deep in dinner makings. You know - hungry boys, a hungry man, and all.

But the way the last fingers of light were slanting through the windows touching things so carefully, gently as if to remember them until tomorrow's return, and the way the little house was serene and quiet in that space between daylight and dark. And the chapel-like calm that saturated the moment...

The makings of dinner would wait, I had to capture this. 

 

This middle of an every-day-in-the-life-of-five-in-a-little-house styling of the bookcase, where art is jammed, vases are stashed, books are stacked, and toys are laid. You might not be able to tell, but the fan blades are dirty.  I love it. Love the story of our lives here on display - energy and motion coming to rest. I love the pots of living green that are tucked in here and there among the everything. 

 

I love that the shamrock (oxalis) is actually alive and thriving now. That it really wasn't dead after last winter's bout with aphid infestation. That, even after it looked for all the world like it had breathed its last, even after I'd completely given up hope, took it from the house, and stuck in on the potting bench in the shed, just a pot with soil. I love, even after that, after weeks there in the dark, how I looked one day, and noticed shoots(!) coming up from bone dry soil(!!), and I couldn't believe the miracle. 

 

Love how it came back in, back to its spot on the shelf in front of the vintage bird book. And there it's thrived with its weekly watering and daily sun all summer and fall. 

 

And the collection of plants on the round end table? They didn't escape the caress of the evening sun, either. The ivy that I've had for years now, the one that has seasons of ups and downs, flourishing and failing, just like anyone. I trim it back when it's looking leggy and exhausted, let it rest and catch its breath. It's always thankful and comes back with new leaves sprouting in new places.

And that maidenhair fern, oh, that's been an interesting one. Twice now, it's leaves have gone shriveled and brown despite the weekly soaking with water. Bugs. Twice now I've been brutal with the scissors, whacking the stems back to mere stubs. I even sat it outside in the summer sun and breeze to think about life for a few days, drenched in a good shower of Neem oil. I placed it in the plant infermary under the round table, and left it there. Sure enough, in time, tiny green fiddleheads began to unfurl. It wasn't finished afterall.

And that burrow's tail with its ropes of pudgy leaves? How could I not enjoy such a comic as that?

 

Through the speckled window (I told you they were dirty), the sun highlights the leaves of the angel vine, the newest in the collection of interior green. This one's wild, a little crazy, and wholly free-spirited. I love that about it. Not everything in life should be prim and proper and good. 

The minutes ticked, the camera clicked, and the fingers of sunlight slid across the room, out the window, and slowly closed into the palm of night. 

 

Hello, friends! A heartfelt 'thank you' to all of you for sending your love of my last post, and for all the birthday wishes you sent my way. Oh, you! You're good like that. Wishing you a lovely week's beginning today.

 

P.S. You may enjoy this post on houseplants, too.

 

.

 

Harmony For Every Note

 

I'm still here, paging through. In the quiet I turn the luminous memories of the surprise...

 

When friends and loves, over thirty strong, made platters of incredible food and (the most beautiful) cakes, and gathered flowers and hung decorations. When the music infused, and those friends strung themselves elbow to elbow, like pearls on a strand, garland around a giant table and cheered loud as the blindfold came off your eyes.  

And the mash of laughter and hugs and slow-motion recognition of all who came, and the blinking and hands to the face, and you really couldn't believe all this.

For you?

And the deepest loss that you always feel on this day was bouyed by such incredible love and care as this. 

In your twenties, when your baby girl was gone, precious one with dark hair and eyes, with the beautiful olive skin and softest cheeks. When you held her but for a moment - the only moment in this life. And on that day under a gray wintery sky, when you knelt on the frozen earth and kissed that velvet casket, your heart tore right in two and sorrow seeped into the snow.

And in your thirties, when vows were broken and the two who loved each other enough to vow a lifetime, to hold each other close and conceive a girl who they named Carmella, after thirty-six years of memories and moments, they chose no more. And life changed. They went on, in separate ways without you. On to different lives and different loves, taking what seemed forever solid and true and wholesome with them. Parents lost, yet still living. Sorrow poured out.

And now, on that leaf-strewn mid-September day, you entered forty. With your man by your side, the boys who call you mama, and the circle of friends around that table, you stepped into the next decade. And they loved you. They hoped for you. They believed in you. They sang for you. Like a symphony of souls, each one struck a note of quintessential joy, the harmony for every note of sorrow. And the music swayed and you danced and sang and laughed. Oh, you laughed.

Then, across the room, quiet in the sea of people, your man caught your eye. The man who carries your heart as if it were his own, the one who hears the sound of falling tears, the one who helps you find your way, he smiled that deep smile with gentle eyes that looked right into your soul, and he knew. Like no other, he knew how this gathering of hearts was a gift greater than anything you'd ever known. 

These friends giving amazing love.

.

On Laundry

 

 

The vintage quilt had gotten wet in the downpour, fieldside at that football game last week. Then, it had been trampled by footballers in the back seat, going in and out, day after day, to and from practice. A spin through the washer and a flop over the clothesline was what it needed. 

I tossed it in the machine, added detergent, and thought about the laundry in the little house. I thought about the sports and messes and life; the dirty gear, dirty socks, and dirty clothes. I thought about how the laundering of the dirty falls more in step with general life now for us than it ever has. 

 

I also thought about how I don't miss having a laundry room. How I don't have a proper laundry basket (the giant Bolga basket that holds throw blankets by the sofa doubles as a laundry basket just fine). How I don't even take the time anymore to sort heaps of soiled clothes into smaller heaps of soiled clothes - I simply pull the darks/whites/jeans out of the hamper in our wardrobe, put them in the washer, then call up the stairs "Bring all your darks/whites/jeans and toss them in the washer!". That's as time consuming as sorting gets around here. I thought about how good this is. Laundering is no longer an event, a monster, or a mountain.

I usually give the dirty laundry call-out in the evening, starting a load just before bed. Then, first thing in the morning, it's ready to be dried - on the line in summer, in the dryer in winter. After the clothes are dry, the boys fold and put away their own, which takes them less than five minutes, and I take care of the rest. And that tall boy of ours? He's now launderer extraordinare after having taken over care of his own laundery last winter. Can I say how wonderful that is?

Yes, we have smaller wardrobes now, or maybe I should say Yes! We have smaller wardrobes now! We're learning about this, experiencing as we go that it really is about quality over quantity. If a garment or shoe is cut well, made well, and makes you feel your best, that one piece is better than the ten similar, but inferior pieces that may be hanging beside it. A smaller wardrobe with nothing but quality favorites? I'm liking this goal.

 

I'm off for a weekend full of fun, surprises, and rest. Wishing you the loveliest, friends.

 

P.S. You might enjoy this post about laundry. And this wardrobe tour. 

 

.