.....paths

Yogis,
I have been spending considerable time trying to thin out the brush from a strip of land on the side of our property. The area is basically an extension of the woods behind us, but includes a steep drop off from the driveway, is lined with a half dozen fifty-year-old pine trees and is carpeted with several inches of pine needles, so it is no easy task.

Covered from head to toe to protect myself from poison ivy (which isn’t working very well) I am dragging out invasive vines with roots that travel several feet. Pulling ivy from small bushes and cutting back the honeysuckle. Dirty, sweaty work and at the end of the day it’s hard to tell I’ve even been in there.

On the other hand, I am uncovering hidden gifts. A small redbud tree. A couple hibiscus plants. And the remnants of a path.

When my neighbor Danny lived next door, I was over there often. I could have walked down the driveway, around the mailbox and down his driveway or cut straight through the brush. Being human, without thought, that was the choice. Over and over and over until a well-worn path was created. We both used this path as a form of connection. Over time we each put plants along it.

He has been gone for two years now so the path without the weight of our footsteps has been taken back by mother nature.

When I moved into this house, I created a path to go from my garden down the hill through the woods to the creek. For a few years I even laid mulch to tame the mud on rainy days. Because it is walked so often it now stays defined. Then I noticed the fox coming out of the woods from my path. Young deer would follow behind mom in a line walking up that slope. I started to wonder. Did I really create the path or had their years of travel led me to follow the same footsteps?

There is a large creek that runs through our town with a path that traces its edge. It has been hiked for decades. It offers bamboo forests, varying surfaces and steep ups and downs. It is one of my happy places. The county decided to put in a second path much higher up. A wider path with smoothed dirt and views of the creek. It’s lovely but they also decided to begin blocking the old path without talking to those who use and treasure it. Trees were cut and put across the path. Bamboo strewn over. New little trees planted right where everyone walks.

Those of us who walk and love the lower path were undeterred. We simply stepped over the fallen trees. Not an act of defiance but a following of the path. Some lifted and moved bamboo out of the way. The baby trees didn’t stand a chance. When I was there this week I noticed their empty cages lying in the brush. The path is once again defined. A path is chosen…..and can’t always be planned.

The worn down grass that circles my wheel garden shows me the path my life takes daily. My path at the river could be taken with eyes closed. The bluebell path heralds in spring. I travel them all.

Which path will I choose next?

So many paths with so little time,
SARAH

......home

Yogis,
Last Friday as I finished packing for my weekend at the beach, I stopped to look out the window one last time. Wanting to be sure I could see both mom and dad bluebird. It had become a daily ritual. Checking in on them. Making sure they were safe. There they were, worms in mouth, flying in and out of the house. Busy raising their young.  

Returning Monday afternoon, I immediately made a bee line to the backyard. Silence.

All day I kept checking. Cardinals, mourning doves, chickadees. No bluebirds. The babies had left. The parents were now empty nesters and saw no reason to hold onto real estate. They were once again free to be birds.

I let my friend know who had come over one afternoon to meet them. She said, “We are so tied to our homes. I’m always amazed how quickly young birds just leave. They have the right idea—'what’s out there to see?’ Their nests are only a convenience on the way to adventure, with a little mayhem thrown in.” I love that.

Lately I have been having thoughts…..well more like feelings…..about my house. We have been in this one for fourteen years now. I love it. I love everything about it. The layout, the energy, the colors, the yard, the woods, the neighborhood. It’s as if it and I are woven together. Yet last night as I sat outside beneath two of my towering beech trees, I realized that when it is time to go, I will simply walk out. That I am meant to be here now and then at some point I won’t.

We live next door to our old house. That house too had my heart. We raised our boys there. It taught me to get my hands in the dirt. We lived through three renovations to get it just how we wanted it. A reflection of who I am…..or was at that moment. I never imagined leaving, but when life threw some curve balls and we decided to move across the lawn, the threads that held us together were untied. I look over there at times and I see the ‘old me’ with fond memories, but I have never wished to go back.

I am wondering if this is because of my childhood. We moved every 2 to 3 years and our moves were almost always out of state. Each time my parents made it feel exciting. I could get a new bedspread, pick out carpet and decorate my room. I still remember the brown shag I chose in the seventies with the cactus bedspread. Once we even lived in a motel for a few months while a house was being built. I learned to settle into new homes quickly. I begin to feel like a hotel is home after only a couple nights. Even my tent under a star filled sky.

My parents instilled a sense in me that houses come and go. And while they are loved, they are not what make you feel at home. Home is found on the inside. The knowing that you are where you are supposed to be and that it is impermanent.

Humans began as nomads. Perhaps this newer concept of a permanent structure being home has the potential to hold us back if we hold on too tight. If we get too comfortable. Who knows ‘what’s out there to see!’  

Maybe the birds have it right.

Home is found in my soul,
SARAH

....mother's day repeat

Yogis,
I am the mother of three amazing men. One of those men, my oldest son, now has three children of his own. On a video chat this morning he pointed out that six humans are here on this earth because of me. It all starts with mom. How grateful I am.

Being a mom to boys is a blast. I grew up around girls so this boy stuff was all new to me. Lots of action, plenty of humor and great hugs. They got me out there playing sports and taught me to love movies I would never have considered watching (many of which we watched dozens of times). Male energy.

There is also a flip side to having all sons. Especially as they become adults.

They meet their soul partner and weddings happen. Daughter-in-laws become part of the family clan. They too may have a mother that lives close by. Soon they begin having families of their own. Once children arrive, mother’s day shifts to the new mom in the house. Young ones bringing them breakfast in bed and husbands planning a day to celebrate.

This all creates dilemmas. How do you celebrate the mom in the house, the mother of the wife and also the mom of the husband? Suddenly there are three women all deserving of a day of acknowledgement.

Some try to do it with a lot of running around. Mornings at home, lunch with one mom and rushing over to a barbecue for the other. Some families try to do it all together. One big event. Others may only be able to spend time with one. Opportunities for feelings to be hurt or someone to feel short changed.

This year I decided that I would go to the beach for Mother’s Day weekend and get together with the boys the following weekend.  This got me thinking. What if I let everyone know that from now on I would like to celebrate mother’s day a week later? Creating a new holiday. That way everyone could make their relaxed ‘woman’s side of the family’ mother’s day plans and know that they will see me the next Sunday.

Mother’s Day Repeat! A special day for moms of men.

What do you other mothers of sons think of this idea? I think it is brilliant! Maybe this should even become a new national day.

Happiest of Mother’s Days to everyone!

Mother of sons,
SARAH

....a spring ritual

Yogis,
You can smell it in the air. It’s everywhere you look. It’s mulch season! One of spring’s rites of passage is upon us once again.

It’s manual labor so many have it done professionally. A truck rolls in filled to the brim. Five men (I never see women) jump out with rakes and leap into action. Hours later the yard is transformed. The remnants of winter whisked away and the spring plants proudly on display, framed by a dark thick layer of mulch.

I, however, for better or worse, choose to do it myself and this was the week. For those of you who mulch, you know it is a process…..

Let me preface this by saying that each year I do less mulching. Big open expanses require mega mulching. I figured out years ago that if you fill areas with plants you are rewarded with…..less bare ground, less weeds, less mulch. Each year I add a few more perennials and over time the gardens become fuller. Each plant gets larger and many are nice enough to add offspring which can then be moved to fill other areas.  As spring arrives, they all come right back. I love that!

The first step in the process is determining how much you need. I used to always get too much and the extra would sit in my yard all year and become the perfect home to mushrooms, insects and even an occasional snake. But buy too little and you are making multiple trips to the mobbed garden center. My week began with a trip to Home Depot where I settled on ten large bags of hardwood mulch (not enough.)

It sat in my car for a day and a half and six days later my car still smells of mulch. Noted.

Second, you must prepare the beds. It is oh so tempting to pretend you don’t see the spring weeds and start throwing mulch on top, hoping to smother them. No different than what we like to do with life’s struggles. Not a good plan in either case. To do it right you have to get down on hands and knees and dig out the stubborn ones. Pull out fallen leaves stuck in the base of the plants. Trim dead sections.

Third, getting the mulch to each of the areas that need it. Here is the upper body workout. Who knew mulch could be so darn heavy? Dead weight are the words that come to mind.

Only now is it time to mulch! 

I use the ‘by hand’ method. I like to be mindful of exactly where the mulch goes. I rip open the end of the bag and sit on it, taking out mounds and spreading them thoughtfully among the plants. It feels like a gift that I am giving each one individually. And no matter how many times I put my gardening gloves on, somehow they end up on the ground.

By the end each day my hands are raw and my fingernails black. There is no amount of soap that will make them appear clean. But they feel real. The hard work is the kick start my body needs each spring.

Once an area is done, I stand back and admire. Everything looks so fresh and clean. Several times a day I do a lap through the gardens.

Mulching is a process. I think it makes us feel in control. Like we are somehow taming nature and painting a picture in our yard of what we want. But we all know that like everything, it is impermanent. By mid-summer the weeds will have poked through, and the mulch will have lost its sheen.

But for now……..I sit on the deck with a beer and enjoy the view.

I need hand cream,
SARAH