I didn’t think to bring my camera to the UPS store. I already had a big box and a clumsy purse to fit in the milk crate on the back of my bike. I didn’t think to carry a camera along. It was a warm, golden day, perfect for a bike ride, even if it was just a small errand down a busy, bumpy street. After dropping off my package, I waited to cross the street and make my way bake. There was consruction and congestion, and I had a bit of a wait ahead of me. I remembered then, that a friend had told me that if you ride far enough down that busy road, it leads right out of the city onto a marsh. After a moment’s hesitation, I took off toward a part of the street I had never traveled down.
After a short time biking the busy street, I came to an intersection and a tall hill. I climbed it. On the other side, the hurry and noise vanished. There was just a quiet neighborhood I buzzed past, my yellow scarf flying behind me. Another big hill and the houses became sparser. Another and they vanished altogether. The road turned to gravel. I was at Cherokee Marsh.
I rested on a rock in the forest and explored the river before returning home. It delighted me to know that I could petal my way to another sort of place, a quiet place with big red oaks and a wide river. I felt capable and grateful. I think there is something to be said for small adventures. I just wish I had brought my camera. Maybe it’s better this way, though. This way it feels just a litte like a secret garden.
apples, socks, squash, writing by candlelight, bundling up, wind, big pots of food warming the stove, warm bread, boquets of dried flowers, halloween costumes, learning, fat egg noodles, reading in bed, chilly fingers shoved in pockets, rethinking, heavy blankets, heavy meals, spicy cake
I just got back from a beautiful wedding. Beautiful. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. Fot now, drinking tea, baking bread, preparing for the week ahead and dreaming about falling leaves. This time of year is… I can’t even think of the right word for it.
What is the word for this time of year, with its fragrance and fallen leaves?
Adam recently found this old tossed-aside pair of headphones. He brought them home as a gift, fixed up so I can use them with my iPod. They are clunky and don’t fit in my purse and make everything sound a bit tinny. I love them. I love the way they feel so big and round on my ears. I love that they are brown and white and full of personality. I love hearing my dearest music in a new way.
When I was little, I wanted to be an inventor. I wanted to invent things like this and this and this. In fourth grade (or was it third?), we split into teams and had an inventing contest. We were given materials and had an hour to create something. The other kids were all building catapults with plastic spoons. But I, was far too advanced for that sort of thing. I had a brilliant idea. A Stamp-o-matic. That’s right, when stamping things manually gets too rough, just turn the crank made from broken pencils, put your paper on the conveyor belt wrapped around toilet paper tubes and- voila!- the Stamp-o-matic will stamp it for you. And, of course, it didn’t work. Not even a little.
I think it was that day that I realized I would be a terrible inventor. Not only do I lack the mechanical skills but also that ever-imporant attention to detail. I quickly gave up hope that I would grow up to be a female Caractacus Potts (I thought being an astronaut was much more suitable… claustrophobia notwithstanding). But I never stopped loving the romance of invention as I saw it as a little girl. Never.
Then, some years later, I married my very own inventor. Adam is always tinkering with this or that. I think there’s nothing that man can’t fix or remagine. To my left on the couch are some mysterious chords. To my right is an Xbox split into several peices. I have a hunch that this will be the story of my life. I love it. On my way home from work today, walking and listening to music in my headphones, I imagined a house Adam and I would have together in some years, full of funny, reimagined trinkets, some practical, some clumsy and charming.
I’m the luckiest girl ever.
It was yesterday that I remembered winter was coming. I picked up milk, bread, and my favourite honey at the season’s last Eastside market. When I got home, I closed the windows. After a few days of Indian summer, it was beginning to grow cold. As darkness crept in, I made tea and searched the bookshelves for the story I wanted to read next (I finished my last two books the day before). I picked up Tolkein. And as I read on the couch with Eliot sleeping beside me, I wished there was a fire roaring in front of me.
Soon, my view out the window will not be red and yellow, but silver and blue. I had forgotten that. Soon there will be fires, winter cakes and soups and cold toes on wood floors. But, for now it is a cool rainy autumn day. I was going to go to the central market to buy apples and squash, but I think I might just stay here, inside in pajamas with tea and a long afternoon of writing ahead. I am baking sweet bread for a dear friend’s bachelorette party tonight.
Yes, I might just stay. Right here. Watching the fall of fall outside our front windows.
“O you,
still a child, and slow to grow.
Still talking to God and thinking the snow
is the sound of God listening,
and winter is the high-ceilinged house
where God measures with one eye
an ocean wave in octaves and minutes
and counts on many fingers
all the ways a child learns to say Me.”
-Li-Young Lee
This portion of a poem has been stuck in my head today while I sat with Eliot, did Sunday chores, roasted roots and squash and mutton. And it’s in my head now while I eat apple crisp on the couch and rest. It is very warm, but I don’t want to take off my favourite scarf.
It’s a warm afternoon. You rinse the glass milk jugs and, before leaving the house, take a last glance out the front window. Adam is pulling into the driveway on his bike. He is wearing a wool hat and the shirt you bought him. He looks so good in that shirt. The glass jugs clink as you walk down the stairs. Adam is walking garbage bins up from the road. You are both happy to see each other, young and bright in the sun in October. His kiss is sweet. He puts away his bike and goes inside. You walk to the shop with the promise to return with fresh milk. The jugs clink together as you walk and the yellow ash leaves crunch underfoot. The girl at the counter is your friend. On the way home, you stop to talk to people on the street and wave to the man tossing pizza. You carry the fresh milk proudly.
I already posted this poem, but I wanted to post it again. Hearing about the economy, the state of agriculture, the forests, the planet, the human heart, something is happening these days. Something is shifting. This is the heart of the matter, this is my heart about the matter: hope is unfailing.
Thanks by W.S. Merwin
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
If you only listen to one show about the current state of the economy, this should be it. Take a listen. You’ll be glad you did.
