Greetings from somewhere west of Toronto, way west (but not as far as Calgary) (or even Windsor). No idea what’s inside this museum as we didn’t stop, or it wasn’t open, who can remember. What is recalled is the infamous garden at the swanky inn where we stayed (a gift to us from kind souls else we’d never have gone the way of such swankiness). I’d looked forward to staying there mostly because they are known for their enormous vegetable gardens and famously claim almost everything on their menu is seasonal and made with their own produce… but what we saw on the menu didn’t jibe with their marketing schpiel (butternut squash and cauliflower in July for instance). In fact almost everything on the menu was out of season and when we asked the waiter what was up he got a little jumpy and said he’d check with the kitchen but in fact he never came back to our table. Someone else brought the bill. Later, walking in the infamous gardens of menu mythology, we asked a couple of gardeners where the celery was, and the frisee (two of very few things on the menu that were in season) and were told they didn’t grow celery or frisee and so we mentioned the marketing that spoke of how all this magnificent produce was used in the kitchen. Ha! they snorted. The garden, it seems is pretty much for show… while rows and rows of produce go unpicked, none of it on the menu. Not a single string bean, not an onion. Even in the face of oodles of evidence, we didn’t want to believe it… a vegetable garden of this size, being used only as a marketing tool??? Nah. Can’t be true. But in the morning, as we set out for a walk, we watched a delivery arrive from a huge commercial vegetable supplier whose name was painted very clearly on the side of the truck.
I wrote a letter to the inn, asking them about this.
Didn’t hear back.
Other (not always) wordless friends:
I woke this morning with
a yen to swim
in the Indian Ocean, to lick
the tile walls of Morocco, sunbathe
nude on the side of a grassy hill overlooking
the coast of Africa. I wanted to tear
silk underwear to shreds
and tie the rags to the tail
of a kite—
sing to purring elephants at dawn
and ride caterpillars to the tops
of mossy trees. I woke this morning,
then stepped outside
—never happier to be home.
Open-eyed meditation this morning as I watch through the window and a break in the trees a cardinal preening, waiting for his date to the cardinal ball.
They fly off together and then a man in pale turquoise shirt and dark jeans gets into his car and flies off to work.
Nothing else for a while and cat #1, curled up at the very top of her indoor climbing tree facing the window, slowly closes her eyes while cat #2 finds a spot on the carpet to attend to her tail.
Ears perk up, mine too, when suddenly on a not so far away treetop the music of the cardinal ball begins… but it’s merely soundtrack to the contentment of a belly full of tinned turkey and kibble, and soon ears relax and all eyes close.
p.s. and yes, that’s a tulip in the pic
A happy long weekend to you!
It seems to me now on this March day from where I sit near the window, warm with cat and book,
that maybe the baby juniper we planted last year could have been tied with twine a few times round or wrapped in burlap to keep it upright.
As it is it’s become a small flopping thing, arms landing north and south.
East, west too.
But then would it have thanked me for keeping it in better form—
—or is it, in its untidy freedom,
the envy of the landscaped world…
(Junipers have a place in my heart, ever since I met this one…)
I hang small flags
upon the fabric, flickering in a line
across the yard until
not thoughts and prayers
but prayers answered
and uses one for
One of my favourite days of the year. Most of it spent wrestling with words, but also a few other things done. A tablecloth made, prayer flags hung. Ironing.
Some fresh litter tossed about.
A chick pea salad for dinner (with parsley and arugula from the garden).
It’s the perfect solstice evening now… raining and sunny and warm. All of it mixed together, alternating, the light and the sky, the way it keeps changing from something luminescent and golden, making even the neighbour’s garage door look stunning… to momentarily stormy grey. The kind of skies you’d call dramatic. The kind that if you painted them exactly as they are, you’d be called a hack. No one would believe skies really looked like that. The kind of skies you see in 18th century paintings about the fur trade.
I wanted to post something to mark this special day; I had a few ideas; I was going to write about issues and faith and the futility of fear, and how there’s a dove nesting on my porch and how the mother sometimes leaves it for hours at a time and the first time she left I was frantic; I called the animal people and asked what to do. They said keep an eye on things. I did and she came back and I began to notice that there was a rhythm to her comings and goings. I shoo away the squirrels and other birds but, mostly, I think mama bird and baby know exactly what they’re doing. I think they can manage pretty well without me sticking my oar in.
Which always amazes the arrogant human in me.
I was going to write about all that… but I’ve spent too much time on words today and this is all I have left.
So enough with the writing. I’m heading outside, to revel in the light.
And pick me some chamomile for a brew later tonight.
Here’s to the longest day…