More Poppy, Less Road

Post 10

April 19, 2013
8:03 am

Ending anything in the middle of spring seems anachronistic. There are blooms everywhere, small stems and stalks pushing with determination. Everything is green. Everything is moving toward the vibrant and away from the dormant. There is a wildness that I notice every spring, different from the sluggishness of summer, the mauzy farewell of autumn and the tight constraint of winter. It is natural for every aspect of life to be lifting its heels a little higher as it steps into each new day.

I've learned from this blog that I can't escape the sentimental writing that environmental scientists shun. I realize that I can't ignore the side of me that reflects with metaphor and poetic language. Fortunately, the writers we've read through this course haven't completely abandoned that either, but they base their reflections on solid, analytical rock. My writing tends to lean. I would be completely satisfied to write that the forsythia are shouting in yellow this morning. 

I had goals for this blog: dedicated writing and writing as a witness. I appreciated the assignment of consistency, writing each week from the same place. This was a particular challenge for me since I live two hours from the place I call home in New Jersey. I would time my visits back to my mother's house in order to sit outside for twenty or more minutes and record what I found. I had an appointment with a patch of grass and during the course of blog writing, that patch slowly became comfortable, dead icy blades turned green again.

My standing appointment helped me with the most important part of this blog--being a witness. I was "forced" to observe my surroundings, take note of the animals and trees I've viewed thousands of times, and in one of my favorite idioms of writing, I had to "put them down" on paper. Last week, my mom finally received notice from her lawyer that the township was ready to decide on a date for closing. September, they said, september is fine. I immediately thought of what would be in bloom that month, the end of the hydrangea, the slowly turning golden leaves of the maples. Instead of standing inside the house behind a window saying goodbye, I pictured myself in a spot similar to the one I've chosen throughout this winter and spring: on a small plot of land, claiming it for my family and myself one last time.

The robins hop back and forth on the tender grass where I sit. There is loud, vociferous birdsong every morning. I received a text from my mom earlier in the week, excitement and exclamation marks--"Happy Spring! The swallows have returned!" When she became impatient with the silence from the township as they waited for soil tests and contract wording, she emailed their lawyer to imply that it was illegal to tear down the barn once the swallows had nested in its rafters. I'm not completely surprised that we are timing our departure based on the home life of birds.

I don't think I'm going to give up on this blog. I can't say I'll have any readers in the future, but as usual, I'm not sure that bothers me. It's enough that I'm taking the time to write about this place, to remember the smaller moments of each season and record the last few seasons we had here. I know my mom and I will take our own memories with us when we finally leave in the fall, but someday, maybe we'll open up a blog with a title about noticing the individual petals of a poppy instead of staying in the car racing by a field of the bright flowers, and we'll remark to each other about that last wonderful year on the farm. "Remember those bushes of forsythia around the pond? They were beautiful."

Witness

Post 9

Friday, April 12, 2013

4:31 pm

Even without the symbolism, spring would still be my favorite time of year. New beginnings, a fresh start, rejuvenation, new life; it has many associations but when I’m outside during the month of April and everything is a shock of green and yellow, all I need to appreciate it are the colors and the brightness.

It’s always been particularly lovely at my house in the springtime. When I’m away for a while, as I was this past week, the landscape can change so quickly that it’s hard to remember a time when snow was on the ground. I particularly noticed the wind this week. The breeze had lost its icy backing and in its place was a soft warmth. The sunshine had also lost some of the hardness in its rays and there was a softer light on the trees and my face when I closed my eyes and tilted my head up.

Today is unfortunately not a day for sitting outside. It’s a more typical rainy April day, cloudy and a bit misty which light rain falling. I walk over to look at the hydrangea because I’m more impatient for their growth this year. I suppose that since this is our last summer here at this house, I want them to grow big and beautiful as if they were saying goodbye to us. What a human response to nature, I think as I look at the green tufts of leaves just beginning to show. To fulfill my own expectations of sentimentality, I demand nature to be glorious, just for me. What a selfish way of viewing my surroundings, I realize as I hold one of the stems that are poking out of the ground outside of our laundry room window. If I left tomorrow and never returned home, the hydrangea would still bloom, still produce their giant mopheads of cerulean and royal purple. They wouldn’t wilt their leaf edges in sadness or hang their flowers a little lower to the earth. They would reach taller for the sun and drink whatever water fell on their leaves and petals. They don’t halt their beauty just because there are no witnesses. They exist gloriously without needing any measure of praise.

I sit on the wooden slider we have facing the pond and the driveway, perching gingerly on my raincoat since it is stained dark with wet. The asphalt of our long driveway turns dark gray when it rains and one side of the maple trees that line it have wet bark of the same shade. Spring is transforming, I think, redemptive almost. Just when it seems too cold and dark to bare, life blooms again. I sit and watch the rain fall with quiet drops on the pond, thankful. I am not needed as witness, but I am given the gift of drawing my own assumptions on what the new growth of hydrangea implies and the importance of the rain. It's nice in a way, not to be needed.