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Category: Garden

Gardening in Slow Motion

This is my front yard as seen from the master bedroom window.

I took the photo a week ago, Sunday the 18th. Since then the field of green weeds on the right hand side of the center island has been filled with little yellow flowers, flowers which gladden my heart, even though, yes, I know they are weeds. I love violets too, and apparently do not care if there are violets or clover in my lawn. Something to consider for the future, but at the moment the lawn is something green I don't have to think about. The same can be said for those areas of the garden that I am not yet ready to plant. Weeds are Mother Nature's interim plantings.

Weeds and all, the vista makes me smile. The center brown area, between the slates and the road, contains the blueberry bushes, and I hope to have small annuals beneath them, preferable to my eye over mulch, or, eventually, some form of ground cover. I am the kind of gardener that wants the beds filled with a panoply of growing things. To the right of the stones is where the three peonies were transplanted, and I am still in the process of planting Columbine and other perennials to fill the space. Something similar will take place to the left of the blueberries, in the still-weed-filled green patch. More peonies, a rose, some delphiniums — all are planned but not yet planted. I hoped for this spring but plans may have been interrupted. More about that later.

Next photo. Still looking north, slightly to the east of the first photo. This bed, along the east side of the house, was the only part of the yard I disliked when I bought the house, now it is much more my garden. Hydrangeas, coreopsis, daffodils, irises, nepeta, even a stray peony are located here and are beginning to fill in nicely. The laurel that is falling down has finally been removed, and replaced. I suppose I should update the photos, but that is not going to happen today, not for this post.

Ther azaleas between the fence and the driveway are thriving, blooming intermittently, and there are more plants to go around the curved wall near the steps to the circle, all planned and ordered before I knew the course my summer would take. If you look you will see plants lined up, awaiting new homes, in the lower portions of the top two photos. I will get to them in time. Life is like that sometimes, and I grow annoyed with interruptions, but there is nothing to do but live with them.

The top two photos were taken two days after I had a partial mastectomy for a breast cancer that showed up on my mammogram in March. Remember that week I was crying? I was crying because I had to have a biopsy, my first, and I was tired of doctors and hospitals, tired of illness and exhaustion, of broken noses and broken heart rhythms. I felt it was silly to cry over a biopsy as 80% are negative. It was as much frustration as it was fear: I was finally starting to feel good, starting to walk and work in the garden and it didn't seem fair. Well, no one ever said life would be fair.

I've gotten over that now. There is no help for it. Now I am in fight mode. It seems I have an aggressive little breast cancer but it also appears we have caught it early and my summer will revolve around chemotherapy with radiation to follow in the fall. Many women have done this before me. Many more will follow. My primary goal is beating back the invader and reclaiming my body. My body is a war zone and I cannot make predictions as to what I will or will not do, when or what I will, or will not, write.

The last photo is of an iris, a Louisiana iris, that opened the morning I had my surgery. I missed it at its peak. We had cold temperatures and it only lasted a day or two. In this photo, taken that same Sunday, two days after surgery, it is already waning, but still beautiful. I love it even as it begins to curl and fade — the grace is in the living not the perfect moment of full actualization, something ephemeral that we somehow always seem to miss anyway both in the world around us, and in our own lives. Even these photos, celebrating a past already lost in the mists, reminds me of the multi-faceted nature of every moment, reminds me of the fractal geometry of memory.

Life really isn't about what happens or doesn't happen, it is about how you chose to deal with it, or chose not to deal as the case may be. It is about where you chose to find beauty and joy, and what, when, and where you chose to let go.

Good grief I say! Enough is enough. And if I were talking to you in person I would probably say exactly what I can't write — I am going put every effort into kicking this M-F-B (imagine the swear words here) in the balls. I will knit or sew or cook when I can as these things all soothe my soul. My hands will be in the soil. I will write whenever those splintered moments of clarity arise.

April 27, 2021
Garden Walk

My garden remains more a field of dreams and promises than an actual garden, more unplanted bed than lush landscape of greenery and flowers, and yet, easily pleased, eager, silly, proud, garden mom that I am I am thrilled with every small bit.

Let's take a walk around the garden this early spring morning. Many of these photos were taken over the course of the past week. There was a hard frost last night however, and some of what I show you may no longer look as lush. This is not true of the daffodils of course, which will easily survive temps down to 25 or so, are upright, almost laughing in the light frost. This photo was taken slightly after dawn this morning. These are the daffodils in the back, by the porch, the bulbs I planted too late. They are not as large and showy as they will be next year, but despite the setbacks, they are blossoming, and they make my heart sing.

As I turn east to go around the house, I see the bed next to my small patio, along the side of the garage/studio. A hosta is beginning to emerge in the foreground, an itoh peony toward the back. They seems safely ensconced in this protected spot.

The east walk, is mostly a woodland garden, primarily filled with hellebores, but a few wildflowers and other treats are mixed in as well. I missed capturing some of the early blossoms. But not all. This garden is well established and therefore accustomed to the vagaries of Tennessee weather.

In this protected spot at the Northeast corner of the house, the hosts is a little further along than the one in the back, but still defiant.

As I approach the top of the driveway on the east, the Jane Hydrangeas that were transplanted over the winter are opening up. These were dug up during construction and had been sheltering behind the garage for two seasons. I see that a peony accidentally got relocated with a hydrangea, too close really, but they must have survived well together in a pot for those two years, and I suspect their roots are intermingled. Both survived the frost. These two pose the kinds of questions to which I do not know the answer. Do I move the peony now, or let it sit out this season here next to its companion, recovering somewhat from one transplant before disentangling the roots and moving it again? The two will eventually come into conflict, perhaps even this year as they will both get more sun. Act now or Wait? I am leaning toward waiting…

The hydrangeas are in the same bed as the daffodils, which have been doing quite well. They too dance in the morning sun, mocking the sparkle of frost on the ground around them. As the hydrangeas leaf out, they will hide the fading daffodil leaves, perhaps a perfect companionship.

Next I turn west, along the street. This is the bed I showed you a couple of weeks back, in its planning stage. I spent a weekend digging up the area that had been marked with orange paint, digging holes and amending soil for transplanting peonies which had also been sheltering in back. A large part of that area was a mixture of rock, concrete, and clay and difficult digging. Not quite hardpan, but not easy. It took me three days to get the area ready, but I did transplant the peonies, and I planted alyssum and strawberries, from seed. The peonies are doing well. Most are up and leafing out, but one suffered partial frost damage. I have no idea what will happen to the seeds, or where they will come up as we have had over 5 inches of rain since.

This past week I planted these ten encore azaleas in front of the wattle fence. The soil here was easier to dig.

One of the azaleas, variety autumn chiffon, had a single bloom, and I captured it. Good thing too as that blossom succumbed to the frost, I think the azaleas are fine, but it is always iffy when things are so newly planted. I probably should have covered them, but I was too exhausted to roust myself out of my stupor yesterday evening.

Here is a close up of the blossoms on the crabapple. This morning they are all frost burnt and sad, so I am happy to have captured this moment of beauty. I've made it my screen saver for now, for a little bright spot of daily joy.

The peas and faves are, of course, oblivious.

This lovely field of weeds has been a great joy to me this spring. I love the soft fluffy greenery. It is looking a little flattened today, but whatever happens, and something will, I am not going to be planting this field this year anyway, so it can remain nature's playground.

April 3, 2021
Hello Spring!

It always seems to happen this way, I am poking about in the garden, happily puttering, breathing in the soothing scent of soil and new leaves and poof, just like that I go from feeling like I have all the time in the world to being slightly frazzled. Frazzled in a good way, but nonetheless, it means I have work to do.

Mostly this past weekend I was weeding and doing a little trimming here and there. I posted a photo of my first, and so far only, actual daffodil blossom on Instagram. These have been in the ground a while. More than once have I feared they had been accidentally displaced by workmen or overzealous grounds grew. Luckily not yet. I planted some other daffodils over the winter, too late actually and they are not yet sending up shoots. They arrived about the same time as Poncho and in my state of overwhelm I forgot them and left them out at room temperature far too long. I hope I will still get greenery, although I doubt there will be flowers; at least that way I know they will survive and build strength for next year. If not, I must admit to having made yet another miscalculation.

Mostly the garden remains strongest in the realms of potential rather than spring loveliness. The hellebores are fully open now and lush, although the side yard itself still looks a bit on the scraggly side, waiting for various woodland plants to emerge. And the camellias are blooming nicely, indicating that they have indeed survived the upheaval of construction. This year I am seeing the largest and most profuse blossoms yet. Blossoms the thrill me even as I worry about the way the weight of the heavy bloom has the branches leaning downward, almost touching the table below.

But truthfully various small bits and buds thrill me almost as the large showy camellia blossoms and the hellebores — and hellebores fill me with boundless joy. The blueberries are budding again. They budded in January and I feared for them, feared the devastation of frost on tender growth. And here I am in mid March surrounded by promise and resilience.

And the hydrangeas are in various stages of bud formation, mostly with barely discernible leaf buds visible only if I look closely as I am weeding around them. This one however is a little more adventurous. Or is it reckless? only time will tell.

And as to that sense of being slightly overwhelmed I mentioned earlier, whence did it arrive? I noticed that the peonies, which have been sheltered in pots behind the house for nearly two years now, are starting to bud. That means I need to get them transplanted before they completely open. Peonies don't really like being transplanted, and I am already pushing their boundaries for acceptable settling-in time. But I hadn't yet planned the perfect spot, so some time yesterday was spent out in the front flower bed with paper, pencils, and measuring tape.

There are only five peonies to plant, and the ground to prepare as well. Doesn't seem like much does it? Five peonies and the ten encore azaleas I picked up on Friday. I tell myself "I'll plant a little here, I'll plant a little there" and then suddenly I am in the thick of it. And yet every new leaf, every new bud is filled with hope..

Hello spring!

March 15, 2021
This and That

I have been a bit under the weather this week, battling a sinus infection that probably rolled in with bad weather Sunday night. The sun is shining today, and my sinuses are better. I am still moving more slowly than normal but whether this is due to the lingering effects of a massive sinus headache or just the routine purling of my own thought-processes and temperament, I have no idea.

I will at least get this post up this week, although it is already apparent that I have failed in my goal of three posts per week, one to each of three blogs. I am less inclined to fret about this than perhaps I was in bygone years, and I think this is actually to the good. A goal is something to work toward, as I recall, not a hard and fast rule, and at this stage of my life I am inclined to think that meaning simply comes from being present, rather than from branding or accounting in any market-place sense of the word. As I write that I feel brave. It will not be long before I am once again plagued with doubts. It seems to me that the doubting, the questioning, the challenging, all of them building up to communing, which must be in some way related to communicating, both with ourselves, with the world, with others.

I don't know where I am going with this. Perhaps I had better stick with the accounting.

On that front I can't say that I have accomplished much. On Sunday, I disassembled and cleaned out the coffee grinder, the first time I had done that since probably around Thanksgiving. Usually this is a monthly task, but well, sometimes even the best routines fall by the wayside.

I must admit that the quality of my espresso improved noticeably. I had avoided espresso over the last couple of weeks, mostly making Americanos, because there was a tinge of bitterness and weakness in the espresso. What a joy it was to sit in the sun Sunday morning, espresso in hand. The timing was fortuitous as that espresso was greatly appreciated on Monday when I was felled by a sinus headache so severe movement was an issue. After the first two espressos I staggered upstairs for a nap. I managed to get back down to the kitchen for an Americano in the afternoon before curling up with a book, my head cocked at just the perfect angle, the one where it did not feel like it would explode and fall to the floor, grateful for good coffee, good books, a blanket, a comfy sofa, a cat by my side. I was reading Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane, which I thoroughly enjoyed: A slow, thoughtful, and lovely novel and a read filled with characters drawn with compassion. Now I am on Brit Bennett's The Vanishing Half which has been on my stack forever. I am not yet far enough along to tell you what I think, just that I have been drawn in.

I have been feeling increasingly better since Tuesday, but I have remained in low gear. I did organize the hall linen closet, which remains somewhat bare. I need to buy new sheets for the guest bed. I need blankets as well, but I would rather knit those. There is no accounting for that. I could buy something perfectly functional for less money, and certainly less time, but that is not what interests me and what I have will do. I see no need to fill the space just because there is space to fill. As you see from the little hollow he made in the yellow cashmere throw, Moisés took a nap when I wandered away and left the door open. I also seem to have a lifetime supply of Kleenex. Somehow after the surgery to repair my broken nose, I have tended toward far less sinus congestion and Kleenex use than previously. I suppose there is a gift in everything.

The camellias began opening on Monday and the one shrub is filled with blossoms. There is another that has been struggling; it has buds but they have not yet opened and its ultimate fate is as yet undecided. I planted peas on Tuesday. I have cleaned out the herb bed in preparation for planting some sorrel and some lime balm, although I suspect it remains too cool for the balm to germinate. Other spring greens also need to go in the ground, but whether my timing is right or not is always a guess. I haven't yet settled into the groove of Tennessee gardening. But then a garden is always an experiment, a learning experience, and a reminder that much as we may prefer to pretend otherwise, we are not in control.

The sunshine and the advent of warmer temperatures seem to have sparked some kind of latent urge to clean and refresh, odd enough for me, and also an urge to sort through stuff and declutter (less unusual), as evidenced in the closet cleaning above. I cleaned the glass in the front door and the side windows, and then sat down in the living room to sort through the mail and admire the afternoon light in the entry hall. It seems like I have been fascinated with the entry hall lately, posting a couple of photos on Instagram. Perhaps I am simply in the mood for welcoming others in, inviting life in, although quite frankly I don't see that actually happening all that soon. There is something about spring however and the seasonal urge to blossom-forth I suppose.

I was talking to an acquaintance the other day, we ran into each in line at the hardware store, and she was complaining about how her son had painted his living room a color she did not like, how she hated homes where she noticed the colors of the walls, and in her opinion walls should all be neutral. This was shortly after I took the above photo. I think I smiled to myself and thought she would hate my house. That is not unusual; many people feel. they could not live with the color. Obviously I am a different sort of person. This bothers me not a whit. I should love my house, you should love yours; we should simply learn to find our commonalities and accept our differences, especially perhaps when our children disagree with us.

As I was cleaning the windows I noticed that I should really clean the window sills and the corners that stay in the shade in the winter but it is too early for that. I would clean and they would just get all nasty again after pollen season. Better to wait. The same thought occurred to me regarding some of the bedding plants. My neighbors have been out cleaning out their beds, and although I admire their industry, and their manicured and mulched beds, although I acknowledge that it all needs to be done, and chastise myself for my lack of ambition, it still feels too early to me. The nights are still too cold; creatures still take shelter, tender leaves and buds need protection. The time will be soon, but not yet. Of course what usually happens is that I think it is too early and then suddenly it is late and I feel rushed. The flower heads are still on my hydrangeas, the nuts I left on the ground have provided food for birds and squirrels. I think of myself as living in a conversation with my house, with my garden, with my place on this earth. Whatever I don't get to, Mother Nature will handle in her own way. In fact the bed which I am not going to landscape this year, where I planned to put in some buckwheat, currently looks lovely with a nice crop of lush, low growing weeds. I feel no need to disturb them at this time.

I suppose there has to be one of us in every neighborhood.

March 4, 2021
Sadness and Joy

Twice on Tuesday the light just captured my imagination.

Here, the morning light is just hitting the studio and I loved the glow. It was a promising moment, and rare that I had my phone in my hand that early in the morning as well. I felt my heart swell with the rising light. Later, in the early afternoon, feeling more tentative and subdued, I posted a photo of the watery nature of reflected light in the downstairs hall on Instagram (here),

So much happened in the week that I was off that I struggle to make sense of it, while in a completely different vein of thought, so little happened that I now feel a bit like there are mountains piling up and threatening to fall. But that is not really due to the stuff, or time, or tasks piling up but simply due to sadness and grief. You see, when I signed out for a blog break, Poncho was sick, and I had a heavy week scheduled with a zoom conference occupying four days. It seemed like my whole week was mind-expanding zooms and inward pulling snuggles with my little guy.

Poncho didn't make it. He went into the ICU last weekend and never made it home. He died on Tuesday, shortly after I took the photo I posted on zoom. His absence has left a bit of a hole in my life. His collar is sitting on my desk, beside me as I write, just as a mere week ago Poncho lay at my feet as I sat at this same desk.

Poncho had just turned 12. He had lived with me for 3 months and one week. And they were a precious three months. He was loved. I was loved. I don't believe those studies or opinions that say that animals don't love. Perhaps not in the same way people do, true, but my argument there is that we humans let our brains get too much in the way, and that we don't really know or understand love. It is a lesson that takes us a lifetime.

Anyway I have no regrets. I am not the person I was three months ago. I am not the person I would have been today had I not adopted Poncho three months ago. And so there it is, the basic struggle, the enigma, of life. We cannot live without love, we cannot live without touch, we cannot know joy without pain. A life without these things is a life without meaning, no matter how much we might yearn for it to be otherwise.

The hellebores in east garden are in full flower. Those in the north (front) or west, not yet. They are just budding, their lives are shaped by more variation in sunlight and shadow, but they too will bloom, and soon. Yet it is this very progression across even one small garden that I find so simultaneously poignant and filled with hope: Light; shadow; death; decay; new buds; the tender petals of new flowers, all these elements of life existing together in one moment of time in one small piece of earth. Hope is fragile, sometimes fleeting, and yet part of the very earth of our souls and therefore always present, always ready to burst forth if given only. a moment's light.

I am posting pictures of flowers and of light shining through flowers not as a distraction, but more in the mood of a reflection. The flowers lighten my heart, but they do not mask or take away the sadness, nor the poignancy of loss, I often feel I find myself living in a culture that tries too hard to distract from pain, to shove it under the covers and mask it with happy things, and I don't find that beneficial to anyone really. That does not mean we cannot acknowledge beauty, cannot acknowledge grace.

One of the most beautiful things about winter flowers like hellebores is that they emerge in the midst of the remnants of winter, of death and decay. The leaves of the plants are browned. The earth is evident, not hidden by lush foliage, and this seems to elevate their beauty, making it both more precious and more fragile. I tend to be slow at the cleaning out of the garden, reluctant to keep everything groomed and polished, as if pretending this is a pristine world, leaving the old to replenish the earth, the seeds to feed the beasts. Perhaps I simply wish to hold on to the reminders that life is not so neat.

Poncho loved to bury his nose in decaying leaves, but also in the new shoots, as if he could breathe in the very essence of life. It is in these fragile moments we find meaning. In love and in the very act of putting aside the pressures we put on time in order to simply be present in time for those we love, we find ultimate meaning. And we are changed.

Farewell sweet guy.

February 26, 2021
Woolgathering

Somehow, it struck me this morning that it has gotten to be Thursday and my blogging has fallen into arrears despite the fact that I have been working on four, yes four, separate blog posts. It seems to have simply been that kind of week, and I am hoping, since today is cold and rainy, that I can manage to pull something together, even though I am not inclined toward tackling any of those bigger, although not really weightier, posts or projects. Instead perhaps a few small things that have brought me joy this week, not so much a coherent statement, but a gathering of various bits of fluff.

(Success! I posted to the knitting. blog, and this is now the second blog post of the day, one I intend to finish.)

Above and below are photos of the finished Autumn Vine cushion. The lower photo is the pillow in its final home with two other homemade pillows, both of which I have probably posted to this blog over the years. In the photo above you can see the error in the vertical stripe, where I miscounted once between the green and wine strips. At the time I was constantly tired and suffering from terrible back pain, so I intentionally decided not to rip back. I do love the pillow, inordinately, despite the flaw. It is not its existence so much that annoys me as the fact that it would have been easy enough to fix. I suspect there is a lesson in that.

Anyway, my apologies for the overlap today. Both of these photos were also posted over on purlsandmurmurs, along with others, as I wrote a rambling post about pillow placement and the process of finding a home for Autumn Vine. These same photos will probably show up on instagram as well, so if you follow me there you may face repetitious overload.

Yesterday was sunny and warm and I spent some time working in the garden. I planted a few remaining daffodils, which should have been planted long ago and which may or may not bloom this year. And I prepared garden beds for fava beans and peas, perhaps some spigariello and other greens. While I was outside I noticed how pretty the thyme looked in the afternoon sun.

Yes, that photo, too, was lifted from Instagram. Some thyme plants had clearly survived their first summer and winter, but this was one that I feared had died as it was all dried up and shriveled, at least until it burst into new growth. Change. How often it surprises us when we least expect it.

In the kitchen I was admiring my new oven gloves:

I bought these small sized welding gloves from Amazon in January, and they are at the moment probably my favorite kitchen tool. I have kept a pair of welding gloves by the gill for some time, but they are too large for me, and although they work when grilling, I need more manual dexterity in the kitchen. These seem to make everything easier and every time I wear them to lift some heavy pan out of the oven, or remove a hot lid from a pot, I feel like dancing around the kitchen as if I was in some kind of musical.

And while I am on the subject of small kitchen improvements, enter the bar mat. I Intended to buy this long ago, but instead was making do with a microfiber cloth, or a paper towel, or nothing under the coffee grinder and the constant little bits of ground coffee would drive me to distraction. Oh I know they are still there, and I still have to clean the mat, but somehow it feels more contained and intentional now. There are no more little bits of coffee dust skittering across the countertop and the mat is easily lifted and rinsed. It even cuts down on the noise from the grinder. Such a tiny thing, but it elevates my coffee making experience.

Small things, big joys.

February 11, 2021
Signs of progress….signs of life….

There are occasional snowflakes floating by outside my window this morning. There are not so many as to count as actual precipitation, more like a random thought slowly escaping from the thick layer of clouds. It may be a chilly day, a mostly indoors kind of day, although Poncho and I will take a walk, a day for all kinds of preparations and explorations.

The plumbers arrived early to repair a venting issue in the studio bathroom; when they are done the studio will become a much more pleasant place to work. I hope to spend some time there this afternoon, either sewing or cataloging, perhaps a little of both.

In the meantime I am working on garden planning and various odd tasks. There has been a lot of running up and down the stairs, measuring garden beds, thinking about shrubs and flowers, thinking about vegetable crop rotation, puttering, pondering. At some point I despaired that my garden layout last year was more spur-of-the-moment than well-considered, making the planning process a bit more of a challenge. But it is a fun challenge. There has also been much playing with pencil, eraser, ruler, and colored pens. Making colorful garden plans may not be the most efficient method, but it certainly may be the most fun.

But even though today is gray and cold the garden is slowly revealing signs of growth. Yesterday, between playing with markers I was out weeding, planting bulbs, and generally puttering about, happy to have fingers in the soil. While planting tiny ipheion bulbs I found that the small Harvest Moon sedums I planted last summer, and which I had believed had all died, are starting to poke their heads above ground. A few have advanced a little further than others, but finding the little pink faces peeking out from the mulch while I scattered tiny bulbs was gratifying and encouraging. As to the bulbs, it seems I seriously under estimated the number of bulbs I would need. I planted 50 bulbs yesterday, covering only a third of the designated area, but then again, this may be an opportunity once I see what decides to return in 2021.

Tulip and daffodil bulbs have been poking their tender heads above ground for some time now, advancing and then pausing in wait for the next sunny day, but had not noticed much else in terms of winter or spring growth yet in the front or back yards. Yesterday however I walked through the east side yard and was charmed by the hellebores, who are bravely sending out buds even though the greenery itself looks worse for wear. The hellebores in the front yard may still be hunkered down, but in the east, the blooms are ready to burst forth.

No garden work today though. I am determined to finish the border on this, the first of the two alpaca/camel blankets that I am restoring. I absolutely adore the way this is turning out and I hope to have this finished, blocked and ready to use this month, which means that I need to finish knitting the border today.

I have to admit I needed all these things this week: signs of growth and blossoming and success, a reminder that whatever setbacks occur, we can always pick ourselves back up and move on. And now, I have some time before my first meeting of the day, so I can go curl up under a light warm blanket and finishing knitting.

January 28, 2021
2020 in Review and Moving Forward (Part One)

2020 was full of challenges in so many ways, and not just for me, but I also have to admit that overall I did not have a bad year. Yes there were challenges, and yes I am very fortunate. I did not lose my source of income or my home. I can stay safely sheltered. Yes I miss seeing friends, but I also realize that this period of sheltering at home has offered the possibility of reflection. No one likes change, and yet to some extent we are all driven toward it; this is part of the conundrum that makes us human. I prefer to see the challenges of the year as an opportunity for growth, for evolution. As much as we would like it to do so, the world will never again be what it was before SARS Covid-19 made its presence known. Much as we would like the lives we once had, the true telling of who we are is in how we cope with the now and next, not how we yearn for the past.

I did struggle with some health issues during the time of our collective shut-down. Some were self-inflicted, such as a garden fall brought on by stupidity, a fall that kept me from doing much gardening during the peak spring planting time. Others were through no fault of my own. In retrospect I can see that I was struggling with one thing or another, either decline or the frustratingly slow pace of recovery from April through November. In retrospect I can see that I struggled more than I even realized at the time, but there may be a blessing in that. Either way I refuse to dwell on it.

But there were good things as well. I reacquainted myself with my love of cooking and food. Yes, I would like to be feeding others; that does not mean I should not enjoy feeding myself. I planted a vegetable garden, not as large as I had hoped, but large enough that I struggled to keep up given others setbacks. In fact the process of gardening expanded my horizons, both in terms of watching plants grow, watching birds and beasts in the yard, exploring new flavors and combinations. When one cannot go out, perhaps one discovers whole universes in one’s own backyard.

The garden will be here. More will be planted. Perhaps there are benefits in taking things more slowly. I tend to be a person whose dreams are bigger than my ability to execute them. If I cannot slow myself down, the world slows me down instead. Perhaps I should learn from that. Perhaps I never will, but I have hope. One of the advantages of having too much to do, is that reality puts a damper on enthusiasm and actually leads to more creativity. I will be planting for years to come., I am planting now. Three cryptomeria globusa nana were planted last week. I’ve prepped the ground for three more, and they will go in soon. Baby steps.

I started the year with great sewing plans. I was going to make 4 summer linen tank/tunics, 5 dresses, goodness knows what else. It did not happen. I went to a sewing retreat where I fitted a muslin and cut out three dresses, copied from a favorite summer dress from my closet. Only one was completed, the muted purple Japanese print dress. I wore that dress despite my misgivings that the quilting cotton was perhaps a little too “happy hands at home”. I discovered that I didn’t care. There were far too few opportunities to wear a dress, to see a friend, to worry about what others thought. The dress made me smile, and smiles are always good.

The second dress, out of a muted wine linen with an abstract leaf print, was mostly completed in March but not hemmed. My intentions were good, but my motivation waned with a general sense of stuck-at-home malaise. I picked it up again in August only to toss it aside once more. I had made errors, the correction of which seemed more than my poor, oxygen-starved, brain could handle. I picked it up again in December to discover that the solution was obvious and easy. Not perfect, but good. I have something to look forward to wearing when the weather warms.

Two dresses. Countless face masks. 45 yards sewn.

Although there seemed to be long stretches of time in which I knit nothing, knitting output was the greatest it has been in a decade. Seven completed projects, 33 skeins used. Paltry in once sense, and yet more than enough. How much does one need, after all? And yet, one should use what one has. Better garments to wear than yarn on a shelf.

Cozy Cowl Cardigan, knit in Rowan Kid Classic is still my favorite winter sweater. And one that has been in heavy use since Thanksgiving. I don’t know if the weather has been colder or if I have been more sensitive, but I am once again happy for cozy sweaters.

A prayer shawl, hopefully enjoyed by someone, somewhere.

Citron colored socks knit in Lichen and Lace 80/20 sock yarn. Desperately needed and in now in heavy rotation. In fact, after 7 months at home my attitudes toward every day wear are changing, and I actually need more socks. There will be sock knitting in 2021. Yes, I could buy socks, but I will not. Fewer things, well made, hand made, mended, and even then they will wear out. But worth every second. It seems if I have learned anything, it is to not take things for granted.

A throw or lap blanket knit in shades of Blue Taiyo by Noro yarns. I loved knitting this. I love curling up on the sofa under this. I bought yarn to knit another, and other blankets as well. In fact I have blankets on the brain. I want to knit my own blankets. Perhaps I’ve gone off the deep end.

A summer sweater, knit in lace weight linen, held double. Started in the summer of 2019 then put aside when I started the fuzzy pink cardigan. Hopefully this will become another favorite. I almost wore it this past weekend, when the temperatures were in the 60s. Instead I was pulling up small trees partially uprooted by snow and digging in the garden. There will be plenty of opportunities for future wear. Generally the warmer seasons are longer than the colder ones here in Tennessee.

And finally two warm hats from the same pattern. You saw those both, just a week ago. A warm head is a happy head. Poncho and I spend an hour or two walking each day. Walks with Poncho are slow, and hard on my back (and ears if the weather is cold — hats help) we might spend an hour circling around in front of 3 to 4 houses. Poncho is cuddly and sweet and may well be another spirit-guide. Perhaps all the “forward movement” of my life is just a myth, another circle. I know I’ve said this before.

I continue to be thrilled, even as I continue to struggle with the dichotomy of wanting to make more while simultaneously needing less. Having finally gotten started, I don’t think I will be stopping soon. But I also realized it is not really about making more, planting more, doing more, about rushing through things, but just about the whole process of life, making, using, eating, breathing. Especially that.

January 4, 2021
A Few Things That Made Me Happy

Working this colorful wrapped stitch in Prism lace weight linen.

The beauty of the fallen Japanese maple leaves on the ground cover below.

A simple salad supper, a craving one evening despite the cold weather. A salad inspired by Yotam Ottolenghi, adapted for rose celery from GirlnDug farm. Shrimp. Feta. Happiness.

More autumn color. Ginkgo leaves have really captured my imagination this year, especially the way the color seems to concentrate the autumn light, but I had never been able to capture any fragment of that sense in a photo. Until this one taken in the waning afternoon light.

This week I learned that one reason my eyes were always tired is that my prescription had changed, and was in fact too strong for me. One eye no longer needs a prescription for distance vision, and the other only a slight prescription. We decided to see how I would adapt if I tried to return to contacts, this time wearing only one, for reading, while my stronger distance eye went uncorrected. Bonus: For the first time in years I can actually see to put on makeup. But I am not yet sure I am used to seeing my face without the protective layer that glasses provide. Not yet certain how this will work, or if I will be back in my glasses in a couple of weeks, but the irony is worth noting with a bit of self-compassion. When I stopped wearing contacts and started wearing bifocals, I missed my face; now, I miss my glasses and feel exposed.

Snipping a few herbs early one morning I was entranced by the frost on the leaves of oregano and chervil.

Music has not stopped. Although I still miss live performance, zoom has been wonderful. I have subscribed to the Norwegian Digital Jazz Festival through the Big Ears website, and I listened to this concert earlier this week. I have replayed it at least once (one of the advantages of zoom, although I still miss the way the vibrations of music in the air change a space). The Eivind Aarset Quartet is more to my taste, but I still found Hedvig Mollestad fascinating and enlightening with the way their music seems to dance on a precipice, blurring lines between free jazz, heavy rock and prog. At times powerful, occasionally beautiful, certainly perception-changing. Tonight Big Ears is presenting a concert by the Bad Plus and I am looking forward to it.

I finished the bottom trim on the boxy linen tee and I have to admit I love the way it is turning out. This is not exactly how the pattern was written, as four colors were used in the sweater, but I only have 3 remaining. It took me a little fiddling to align the three colors in a way I found pleasing, but now I am happy with the results. I have not finished the neckline yet simply because Poncho decided to move up in the world, advancing from lying at my feet, to joining me on the sofa. I approve, but Moises is not yet convinced. There were a couple of evenings in front of the tv, dog on one side, cat on the other and no knitting in between.

And there it is, actually a pretty good representation of my week. Not much happened. Not much needs to happen. Life is good.

December 4, 2020
A Couple of Bright Spots In A Tense Week

No need to talk about the tensions of this past week. We’ve all been through it.

Instead, I present Poncho. Poncho is a Brussels Griffon, Yorkie, Shih Tzu mix. He is 11 years old, blind, and diabetic. I spent the week driving up to Chicago to adopt him, and we have spent the last 24 hours mapping the house and settling in.

We are going to be just fine. The world is going to be just fine as well, although sometimes it does not feel that way. From my perspective the world feels more on track today than it did earlier in the week, but I am also certain that there are people who do not share my feelings. May we all have patience for each other.

And so I shall end with a hydrangea blossom. Why? Hydrangeas are not alone in reminding me of what is important in life, but in all their stages, through the occasional unexpected rebloom, to dormancy and dried flower heads in the winter landscape, they remind me of the importance of living through the full cycle, remind me that there is nourishment, and hope, in everything. I don’t always see it, but that is almost irrelevant. It is there anyway. Besides, is there such a thing as too many photos of hydrangea blossoms?

Have a good weekend and a good week-to-come.

November 7, 2020