regal moth, found dying in the grass out back... such a tender gift
i feel like all i'm doing here at Ornamental these days is sending you little bits and snippets of fly-by days, moments that are (thankfully) frozen with the help of a camera grabbed and snapped. my life, it seems, of late is a series of visits and separate weeks strung together to form what i call Life, which the older we get, the truer this is. days are SO MUCH shorter than they were back when i was a little girl and the hours felt like they moved in honey, sluggish and sweet and slow.
i'd like to sit here and write you for hours, telling you about all the many days that have slipped past, the highlights of each, the lows as well. but time is mercurial and elusive to this middle aged self, no matter how hard i try to pull it in with invisible thread, and there are chores to complete, work to execute, preparations for two back to back workshops (my first in nearly a YEAR, i will teach six days in a row) that loom ever large. i leave a week from today, and am trying not to let the panic set in. a few days after my return from alabama, i had the pleasure of a visit from roy and his sweetheart from wilmington; it was a haphazard time of in and out, here and not, as they set off to camp overnight with friends in panthertown (below is roy's birthday gift to me last year of a drawing he made me of that incredible wilderness area an hour from here), as meals were prepared in my tiny kitchen, as they were eaten on the porch in evening darkness and in morning light. (also in the photo are a stack of bristlecone pine coasters, slabs harvested from fallen limbs of those ancient regal trees; robin sent them to me from the wilds of colorado, a gift so sweet because of their background story...)
i've managed to squeeze in a few walks by the river, where surely that water rushing over stone and root changes the energy in the air; i've watched birds dip and fly away again with insects in their mouths, i've watched fly fishermen and women casting their lines through the air and onto the water's surface, i've pined for another dip in the water for walter, but respect the fishing tourists who have begun to frequent the park with their poles and their nets and their lines now that summer has officially begun.
these images are a little blurry - captured with my phone and processed through good old instagram. i get it now, i appreciate the little time it takes to pull out the phone from my pocket and snap an image that has presented itself to me. i'd link you to my fledgling account, but can't figure out how to do that, for the life of me. meanwhile, the long weekend flew past, my time with roy and lindsey evaporated like mist in the air, and now i'm left with a pocket of images and tender memories to add to my treasured collection.
oh. oh, oh, oh. i look at the photograph of these beautiful two and wonder when it was that roy crossed over the threshold from young boy to young man, to man. when did he grow that beard? when did he get that wise look in his eyes? when did he become the fellow who is so very tender with the special one for whom he so deeply, kindly cares?
my mornings and my evenings here on firefly road are quiet all over again. the storms blow in from the southwest, i watch the weather fluctuate alone. the beauty never ceases to pull strongly at my heart. life is rich. life is sweet, and it is sometimes, often even, sad. it is full, so full, and it is ever moving quickly, quickly ahead. xo
In The Middle
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail, a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.