A Northwest Wetlands Garden

I was probably close to Avery's age when I learned the song, "English Country Garden." Our church (as I recall) was having a Mother-Daughter Tea, and my ever-involved mother thought it would be lovely to recruit a chorus of darling girls to serenade the event. My sister and I, always up for a shindig, eagerly donned calicos, tied ribbons in our braids, and memorized the repertoire (which also included "Tea for Two").

I wish I could remember more of the event, but what I do know is that lyrics have a way of sticking with me. Whenever I see foxgloves or snowdrops, I see them in melody. (Similarly, whenever I look through the books of the New Testament, I sing my way through Paul's letters. And thank goodness for the melody that enabled me to master the order of the minor prophets.)

Sister and I walked the pond this afternoon, and the foxglove in bloom brought the song once again to mind.

How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English country garden?
I'll tell you now of some I know
And those I miss I hope you'll pardon.
Daffodils, heart's ease and flox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks
Gentle lupine and tall hollihocks
There are foxgloves, snowdrops, forget-me-nots
In an English country garden.

I think that's the version I learned, although I've seen a few variations.

My own Northwest wetlands version would probably go something like this:

How many kinds of wildflowers grow
In a Northwest wetlands garden?
I'll tell you now of some I've seen
And those I miss I hope you'll pardon:
Blackberry and wild, wild rose,
Clover, daisies -- lots of those,
Lupine, poppies like cups of gold,
Hawthorne, foxgloves, Anne's lace, and lilies bold
In a Northwest wetlands garden.

There was no calico today, but there was a darling girl of ten (sans braids) who didn't mind my foxglove serenade one bit. "How many kinds of sweet flowers grow . . . ."

Catching Grace

"Do you ever bring your Bible to your log?" he wondered.

I actually hadn't considered it, but once suggested, it seemed to be the perfectly logical thing to do. I had been describing for Aidan "my log," (which is really anyone and everyone's log) and my habit of taking a minute to sit and pray, especially when the trail is still and quiet.

At times I follow the advice I learned from Elisabeth Elliot, who suggested taking a moment to open one's hands in a gesture of release. I clutch so much in this life that a little surrender is always a good idea.

So I sit on my log, tuck my knees up under my chin, rest my hands on either side of me, palms up, and release.

Here's the miraculous thing about such a posture: when we open our hands in surrender, emptiness, and release, those same hands also happen to be open to receive.

I receive the warmth of the spring sunshine and the assurance that every good gift that the Lord has in mind for me, He will give. I catch grace.

"Experiencing the present purely is being emptied and hollow; 

you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall."

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Mother's Day

My family fed me delicious food for Mother's Day and then kicked me out of the kitchen. While they did the dishes and put the finishing touches on dessert, I (naturally) "took to the woods."

A fairly decent breeze met me, and I felt rather romantic as my loose hair and long skirt were whipped and whirled by the spritely fairies of the air. It was all extremely Waterhouse-esque, and I might have been Juliet, Miranda, or The Lady of Shalott.  

As I pulled my jean jacket even more tightly around my body, I thought of the story my mom used to tell about the great contest between the sun and the wind. They had a bet, you see. Each wanted to be the strongest. To prove their might, the sun and wind decided to see which one could cause the man walking upon the earth to remove his jacket. The wind went first. He stormed and blew, huffed and puffed, whirled and whistled with all his might. But the man only clung all the more desperately to his jacket.

Then the sun took his turn. He gently, slowly sent his bright, warm rays to the earth. In no time at all, the man wiped his brow, glanced up at the glowing orb in the sky and removed his jacket. There is great might in gentleness.

I continued to think of my mother as I rounded the bend and saw the mother duck and her little ducklings making their way across the pond.

The next bend brought me to a lovely area that's tended by a woman whose backyard meets the path. She diligently nurtures a beautiful array of flowers, and it was the irises that caught my eye this time. My mom's mom -- my Noni -- loved purple irises. She called them "flags," and I think of her whenever I see them.

It was a very fitting touch on Mother's Day, and the memory of her and the gentle strength of my own mother warmed me -- in spite of the breeze -- as I headed home to my little ducklings (and a pretty amazing chocolate cake).

A Small Place of Enchantment

Numerous circumstances have kept me away from this little blog space for far too long, but my recent strolls about the pond have made the words of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings come vibrantly to life, so I must briefly pop in and share.

I do not understand how any one can live without 

some small place of enchantment to turn to.

(Cross Creek)

I often marvel that I need only walk about a block and a half down the street in order to enter my own small place of enchantment.

At times the pond is alive with human activity, and at other times -- such as yesterday morning -- it is completely empty. I violated that non-human atmosphere by traipsing (reverently) throughout the wetland paths, and found in that solitude another inner land of enchantment.

To be quite alone where there are no other human beings is sharply exhilarating; 

it is as though some pressure had suddenly been lifted, 

allowing an intense awareness of one's surroundings, a sharpening of the senses, 

and an intimate recognition of the teeming sub-human life around one.

(Gavin Maxwell, Ring of Bright Water)

The "subhuman life" of late is most noticeable in the more vocal creatures. The bullfrogs chorus (in the key of F), their sonorous cello-like rasping greeting us at all hours of the day. The red-winged blackbirds call out persistently to one another, inflating their middles so that the scarlet patches on their wings grossly expand. The proud mother duck is training her ten little ducklings how to be successful ducks. There is much frantic flapping as the fleet traverses the pond.

My eye is drawn mostly now to the generous supply of lupine blanketing the landscape. The tall violet spires attract bumblebees and photographers alike, each hoping to somehow gather the sweetness of each small place of enchantment.

    

Back to School

The snow delayed school for a day and half this week, which was a pretty nice way to ease back into some sort of routine.

Part of our traditional routine had been our Tuesday jaunts to the park, so yesterday afternoon Little Sister suggested that we head to the pond to see if it was still frozen.

As we approached, we were surprised to see several geese loitering near the playground. (Usually they keep to the pond.) This, of course, led us to believe that they were most likely playing on the swings and slides before we arrived because I'm sure that's what geese do when no one's looking. (They did look rather guilty as they quickly exited the playground area.)

In addition to the honking of geese (and the lone squawking of a seagull) we heard a distinctly different bird call. I couldn't get close enough to confirm with absolute certainty, but I'm pretty sure that rattling call and stout blue-grey body belonged to our friend, the elusive kingfisher.

Upon reaching the pond, we found that much of it was indeed frozen. Sister whipped out a knife and fork (naturally) to see if she could pound through the thick layer of ice, but there was no budging. (Oh, if it would only freeze enough for us to go skating!!!)

She stepped gingerly onto the edge and then grinned in triumph. Not a bad way to start the first 2016 day of school.

 

Hello, Snow!

I've just returned from a weekend retreat with our church's young adult group. As always, I thoroughly enjoyed hanging out with this crew . . . and also with the younger members who tag along with their parents.

I spent some pretty special time getting to know a darling, curly-headed pixie of two, which meant that I also spoke in sing-song for two days. It was delightful to brush up on my toddler-ese. Not baby talk, mind you (heaven forbid), but the kind of talk that compels toddlers to call all things "silly" ("Look at that silly snow!"), or "comfy" ("I like this comfy bed!") or "squishy" ("My feet are squishy!"). I also attempted to recall my pre-school-appropriate vocal repertoire, which included a lively (yet decidedly warbly) rendition of "Ride a Cock Horse." I'm really out of practice.

Because I'm still in semi-rhyming mode (and because I got very little sleep over the weekend), I found myself thinking in picture book language as I walked this afternoon.

I hadn't actually planned to walk today. (Did I mention the sleep factor?) But you see, it snowed. And it's not often that we get snow in them thar hills . . . or at that thar pond. 

And I just had to see what she looked like, blanketed in white. And then, of course, I just had to write all about it in a silly little rhyme. Because I just can't seem to stop.

Hello, Snow!

Snow is falling on the trees,
Snow is falling where the geese
Used to squawk and play.

Snow is cupped in Queen Anne's lace,
Snow is swirling 'round the place
A flock of ducks was prone to stay.

Snow is hung from moss and lichen,
Snow is fun to walk and hike in --
But not so much today:

Snow is tickling my pink nose,
Snow is freezing my ten toes,
And so I must away!

Goodbye, Snow!
  

Puddle Jumping

The rains have continued. Yesterday during a brief lull, I visited the pond and studied the water levels more carefully. A log that I once sat upon is now on the very edge of the water.

This was my view from the log just last month. 

December's Pond

September's Pond

Bark dust was completely submerged throughout one stretch of the path, and I had to work my way along the tangled roots to the side in order to keep my feet somewhat dry. I loved the way the overhanging boughs were captured in the reflection.

I did notice how stark and barren the once-secluded bend in the path now feels. The empty tree branches create greater visibility throughout the area, which means I can no longer stand in the middle of the path and feel like man-made structures are far from me. Homes and fences, though the same distance away as they've always been, now peek through the boughs.

It seems a bit silly to feel that as a loss, but I do love the idea of being tucked away among verdant foliage with only flora and fauna in sight. I'm not yet yearning for summer, but I know the day will come. In the mean time, we listen to the rain . . . and even hear the reports of a tornado just to the north!