Bottled Reserve

Up the road (past where the pavement ends) there are trees decorated with bottles. They shone beautifully in the sunlight of dawn. I wondered: What is stored in those? I imagined that they held something amazing, magical. The morning dew? Sunlight for a dark winter's day? Dreams, wishes, hope?

Upon reaching my destination, I was greeted by loyal four-legged friends: they are guardians. They warn of predators lurking in the hills. These dogs take their jobs very seriously. So, when one of them (bigger than myself) flops down in front of me for a belly rub, I can't help but laugh. Sometimes, I get to visit the goats. There were little new-born goats today (twins!), only hours old. I had the honour of being one of the first humans to touch their tiny little heads. I was in awe of their wobbly long legs, floppy ears, pretty brown, black, and white markings, and their precious cries for mama.

I love going to this place. It is there that healing first began for me. The view is breath-taking, the peace tangible. You can see the tiny town from it's vantage point, and troubles suddenly diminish, too.

As I came back down, I passed the trees with bottles again. Then I knew. On this day, those bottles held inspiration. Without ever even touching them, a thirst had been quenched.

Propagation

Last spring had been exceptionally difficult for me. The two seasons that had preceded it had been difficult, as well. I’d grown quite accustomed to being by myself. Not by myself in the sense of always alone (there was a lot of that, too). By myself meaning that I felt completely alone with my thoughts and feelings. I’d adopted a type of hermit mentality. Though I was frequently in the company of other people, I felt completely alone, misunderstood, and/or unseen. There had been some good times and great accomplishments in those months, but the disappointments and resulting heart break left me feeling tattered and unable to be very appreciative.

It showed, too. I was incredibly thin and frail. I doubted that anything could pull me out of my misery. I was stuck. I needed help. I did find heroes, or rather, they found me.

My heroes came in surprising forms: an elderly neighbor, a woman who had been living with cancer for several years, and a friend with an ailing husband. Not exactly what one would expect. These women asked for my help and services. They asked me into their lives and homes: for some gardening and some cleaning. I feel that I owe these women so much.

During the spring time months, and into the early summer months, I offered them what I had. I pulled weeds, I planted seeds, and transplanted plants, dug in the dirt, and pruned trees and shrubs. I scrubbed floors, vacuumed, made beds. As I did these simple tasks, I took in the morning sun, breathed the fresh air, grew stronger, and began to appreciate my capability of doing such things (not everyone has the strength to make a bed). I could observe their lives and I learned so much. I learned what it means to be a wife; I observed their strength and grace in the face of adversity; I admired their ability to always know what was really important in life; I received the full benefit of their generosity. Their generosity…it didn’t matter what obstacles they faced. They were generous with their time, their listening, their encouragement, their kindness, even their money. Their “soft” attributes are their strengths. My life became brighter because of these women, I felt fully awakened by being a part of their everyday lives.

One day, I was asked to help prune a willow tree. There are many species of willows in this region: red willows which grow along river and stream beds, weeping willows which are usually found in front yards and back yards, and more commonly, the run of the mill yellow barked willow that grows into a small shade tree. This particular willow is none of those. It is commonly referred to as a “corkscrew” willow, part of its Latin name being “tortuosa”, because of the twisting nature of its branches. Even the leaves have some amount of twisting. There aren’t very many of them in this part of the world. They are absolutely beautiful: branches spiraling upward reaching for the sky, bark ranging in shades of gold, orange, and umber. The branches make lovely dried arrangements, too. I saved cuttings from some of the pruned branches.

A sprig of dormant willow, when placed in dirt and given sun and water, will grow into a tree. It is a process called propagation. To gardeners, it means that a plant can be divided into several plants, and transplanted to new parts of the garden, or given to friends. I propagated the cuttings from the willow tree. Willows are the only deciduous tree I know of that will regrow simply by putting a stick in the ground. My cuttings have grown happily and considerably in a pot for the past year. They will be planted in my yard, in honor of my heroes. They will grow as a reminder of the beauty and grace that can result in the tortuous nature of life.

Visualization and Seeds

My back porch is my favorite thinking spot. It is 7 feet or so above the back yard. In the winter, even with the glow of streetlights, I can see Orion in the sky above it. I can watch the sun rise over the mesa, and the moon. It isn’t a particularly beautiful outdoor space. It was added decades after the house was built (it is a turn-of-the-century Victorian home). It is really an awkward addition. None-the-less, I frequently find myself there, sitting on the steps: contemplating.

I’ve received really good news on those steps, and really terrible news (either on the phone, or person to person). I’ve had stunning realizations, brilliant ideas, meditations, contemplations, inspiration, heart break, prayers, conversations, reality checks, on my back porch.

It is a neutral space. With one step out the back door, I am far removed from the everyday clutter and business of home life. Yet, it isn’t part of the garden, either. From its vantage point, I can consider all of these things without being a part of them, and I have done some serious considering.

I think the first time it happened was shortly after moving into the house. I looked out onto the back yard. It was open to the alley, no fence. For years, it had been used as a parking area. There was not a single beautiful thing to look at. The ground was mostly bare, not even a weed. It was rugged and uneven, sloping down toward the alley. There was some kind of ditch running through it, deep in some places from run-off from the house (an indication that it used to rain here). It was sad. But I sat there, on the back porch, envisioning something else. I would stare at the ugly, barren space, and then close my eyes. In my mind, I built a fence, I leveled the ground, I planted a garden, and I watched it grow.

Since then, I’ve visualized many a project both short term and long term from those steps. Visualization became a useful tool for motivation. It didn’t matter what the current state of something was, I could see past it. If I could take the saddest back yard ever and turn it into a beautiful, enchanting place, then there wasn’t much I couldn’t do.

I didn’t know if it could be done. I didn’t test the soil. I didn’t focus on how hard it would be. I focused on the end result. I set to work. It wasn’t as instantaneous as my vision had been. But it did happen.

Bird Out of Water?

Her whole life, she thought she was a fish. She lived in a little bucket, swimming around in circles. Then one day, the corroded bottom of the little bucket (that had been her whole world) fell out. She fell to the ground. She thought she would die. She flopped, and she fought. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She was certain she wouldn’t live. Exhausted from flopping and fighting, for the first time in her existence, she became still. She resigned herself to the inevitable. In her stillness, she began to look around her. After being in the bottom of a bucket forever, the light around her was overwhelming and washed everything in white. She couldn’t see a damn thing. Then she realized she was not suffocating. Her eyes adjusted to the light. The things around her began to take shape. She could see the blue of the sky, the mountains, and the flowers. The loveliness of them inspired the strength she felt she needed to examine herself. Cautiously, she extended a fin, and realized for the first time that it wasn’t a fin at all. It was a wing. No wonder she hadn’t been a very good fish.

Moral of the story: when the bottom falls out, you figure out who you really are.

The Beginning

It was a journey that began many years ago. She was sitting at a desk. The ache had been building for some time. Undefinable, at first. But slowly, over time, and moment by moment, it came into focus. She held onto her rung of the corporate ladder. Scampering from one rung to the next, but never getting very high up. One year a raise, maybe the next year, too. Maybe a new job title. But when the clarity came, she knew what the ache was. She was a glorified secretary. Knowing, as she did, that there was nothing "wrong" with that, she struggled to make sense of the ache at the core of her soul. Why should that bother her? There are many secretaries. They are necessary in the scheme of corporations. They are useful. She took pride in knowing that she gave her best. She did a good, thorough, competent job. Pleasant and polite, hardworking, trouble-shooting, goal oriented, working well with others...It would have made a beautiful resume. She was all of those things and more. More. Surely, there must be more? Therein was the ache.

The ache turned into anger and resentment as she went through a vicious cycle of first trying to define and then trying to deny it. This process happens most commonly when competent people are overworked and under appreciated. Moreso when they secretly desire to make a difference in the world.

Then one day the little glorified secretary was asked (in the most well intended way): What do you do?
She knew the answer, had answered the same question without thought countless times before. But, on this particular occasion, the question struck the ache. She felt like Alice in Wonderland, with a great caterpillar of a question blowing smoke in her face and asking: Who are you?

Isn't it a shame, she thought, that people are defined by what they do for a living? Packaged up into neat little boxes with bows and name tags. As if when one opens up a box, all of the contents are completely predictable. What kind of boring gift would that be to give or receive?

This is where she began to take an active role in the journey. Suddenly realizing that she could have some say in it. She marched straight to the looking glass, and asked the almost unrecognizable face that appeared in it: Who are you? The answer didn't come easily, as she thought it would. Nor was the answer "glorified secretary".

I was she. I recall her now as one would a distant memory of a dream.

Today, I can answer that question, "Who am I?". In most circles, "Who are you?" is much the same as, "What do you do?". But not for me. Not anymore. When I answer either question now, it isn't a job title. There is so much more to a person.