Honestly, I do feel I deserve some kind of award. Weekend warrior? No...not that.
It is so oppressively hot and sunny outside that I have decided to come in and ponder the answer to that question on my computer while enjoying some air conditioning.
I'm not sure that my award should be in recognition of my amazonian efforts yesterday so much as for the level of lazy, wishful thinking and neglect that I indulged in for the past seven years. I realize that seven years is a long time to neglect anything, and that a child, pet, houseplant or marriage would be unlikely to survive this sort of treatment. In terms of damage, though, few things can make more progress in that period of time than a savage honeysuckle vine.
When we first bought our home, I was a fearlessly optimistic, strapping gal in my mid-thirties. We still owned and lived in a house in Symmes township while the new one, 25 minutes away, in Wyoming, was being renovated. I put my mural business on hold for a few months and committed to doing as much of the work as I could myself.
The property had been transferred to us in an estate sale. The previous owner, Julia V, a childless widow, had been alone in the house, suffering from Alzheimer's disease, for many years. Once Julia was declared incompetent, her nephew in Virginia arranged for a series of caregivers to look after her and her beloved gardens. I had very limited experience in gardening but Julia had been a master gardener and had poured her love and passion for flowers into her gardens. This property, our new home, now inspired me to step up and do some fast, hands-on learning. The younger kids were in half day pre-school and I was shuttling them to drop and retrieve Max at an endless sequence of lessons and rehearsals, so my time was very limited, but still, I managed to do an admirable job clearing the perimeter of the lot of nearly all its weeds. In the process, I uncovered some peony plants and daffodils and happily transplanted them to more suitable locations.
Along the way, I distinctly remember spending a couple of overcast days wrestling six and seven foot tall honeysuckle weeds out of the late spring mud. Although the estate had kept a groundskeeping service on payroll to the tune of some $3,000.00 plus a year, certain things had been neglected "backstage" while the tulip beds and rosebushes had been lovingly maintained. The honeysuckle, I was informed by a landscape consultant, would have to be "taken out" or it would take over. In the course of my mud wrestling marathon, the honeysuckle weed that I left for last was on the smaller side, perhaps four or five feet high. Unfortunately, it was relatively inaccessible. Whereas the other plants' greatest challenge had been their extreme proximity to very prickly young holly trees, this one was located in the shelter of several large and low leafed trees. Its roots were practically wedged between two tree trunks, and the ground sloped precipitously toward a collapsed stone retaining wall that was in the process of being rebuilt. Exhausted and otherwise victorious, I decided to leave the baby honeysuckle, for now, and resolved to tackle it another day.
As it turned out, that day rolled around yesterday. The retaining wall was beautifully rebuilt in late 2004; I had no excuse except for about a million other easier, more interesting things to do.
Yesterday, before going at it for several hours with a bow saw and clippers, I had done a deep, thorough clean of the basement playroom and practiced Beethoven's Archduke trio as well as the Bach Double Violin Concerto and Beethoven's 2nd Violin Romance. Well, thank goodness for Beethoven to put things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, when my husband, over a late family dinner at the neighborhood restaurant, asked me what was the hardest work I had done that day, I thought for a moment, and then answered, "in all sincerity, the Beethoven trio".
It's true, but it was a very close call. Certainly the honeysuckle vine had exacted a higher price from me, taken a greater toll My palms were raw from tugging down vine out of the tree tops. I had been smacked in the face by a snapping branch, hit on the back and shoulders and arms by falling limbs. As the vine was forced, bit by bit, to let go its hold, the dead tree bits it had held captive for years came sailing down toward the ground. Each time, I tried to get out of the way, but it was a difficult location in which to move swiftly, surrounded as I was by branches and logs. Some of the falling "bits" were over ten feet long, so it was perilous work.
Once I moved to my neighbor, Vladimir's yard, to rescue his enormous tree from the clutches of my errant honeysuckle, I developed a system of strategically planning which captive limb I would next let fall, and I had yards of open grass across which to scoot out of the way. But that was in the home stretch, around what would normally be dinner time. When I dragged all the debris into our yard, the vine snaked from the top of the back yard down to edge of the sanctuary and firepit at the very bottom - a very, very long way for one little, once easily dismissed, neglected vine.
When I stripped out of my soaking wet, filthy clothes and I was about to step into the shower, I saw myself in the mirror and stppped short. "I look like a warrior," I thought. My face was flushed, bruised, and scraped, with bits of earth and bark stuck to it. My shoulders and upper chest looked similar. My hands were sore and I saw that the skin of my palms and fingers had been pierced in several places.
Today, I have to admit, after a longer than usual night's sleep (8 hours) my hands, back and shoulders are all a bit sore. I still need to clean up our yard from yesterday's battle and drag all my fallen victims into the woods. My afternoon trio rehearsal has just been cancelled suddenly due to an onset of fever in the pianist. I'm very sad about that, but on the other hand, it gives my body a chance to recover before I meet up with Beethoven again.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
This gratitude is powerful stuff
I am so happy this morning.
The melon is sweeter, the garden more miraculously beautiful, my children and husband even more lovable than usual.
There is nothing like deep gratitude to cast a golden light on everything around you.
Last night, my plan was to get out to Zionsville, Indiana with plenty of time to spare, pick up a non-fat, no-whip venti iced mocha for the two-hour-long return trip. I have to collect Sam, my ten year old, as soon the camp fireworks end and return him to his bedroom for a few hours of sleep before getting him up to begin rehearsals for Grease, the musical, in the morning.
Fortunately, I had a sugar free Red Bull right before leaving home, because the Zionsville Starbucks is closed for the holiday.
I am greeted by friendly faces at the camp and invited to watch the fireworks (incognito, so as not to set off a wave of homesickness) with some staff in their car at the edge of the sports field where they are being set off. Darkness falls and I spend the next segment of time developing a new skill: hitting the iPhone camera button just before the fireworks explode in the sky so that their blaze is captured digitally.
After the grand finale, we see some figures moving toward the bushes. It is Sam, no longer on crutches, being escorted (by his brother, Max) to meet me at the camp office. Instead, Sam climbs into the staff car with a big grin on his sweet face. Max gives me a quick squeeze and soon, Sam and I are on our way, homeward bound, in our brand new car.
At this point, I already have so much to be grateful for. Sam's sprained ankle has been healing, in his happy place, this wonderful camp. Max seized an opportunity to see me, even if it was, as he'd text me later, only for .3 seconds. I am glad to be wide awake, having been treated with kindness, and now, buckled into a wonderful new vehicle with my precious child.
There had been light rain on the way to camp, but now, the sky is clear, and the roads are practically empty; perfect conditions for driving. Bonus fireworks sparkle on either side of the highway as Sam shares some of the highlights of his last three weeks. No, he hasn't memorized his lines, but he has become familiar with the script and he is confident enough that he will catch up at rehearsal. Life is good.
At midnight, I decide to cut short our chat. "I know you are not sleepy and I love hearing your stories," I tell him. "But you are going to be so tired in the morning. I have to wake you at 7:30, you know, Sam."
"Mom, it's a treat to sleep until 7:30!" he says.
"Not when you've been up until 1 am," I warn. "So, please, stretch out, put your seat back, get comfy, and we will talk more tomorrow."
"Okay," he says, and falls silent.
It is midnight, exactly.
Ten minutes later, I see a pair of lights in my rear view mirror. Two mismatched little stars, piercing the darkness behind me, growing brighter very quickly, too quickly. I ease into the right hand lane, slowing from 75 mph to 70 so that the driver can more easily pass me by. As I watch the lights continue to brighten at an astonishing speed, I see they are even more unbalanced than they initially appeared. The bright orb on the left seems to emit three or four times the wattage of the one on the right. As the car comes up on my left, I glance out the side window to catch a glimpse of it, curious as to who or what is in such a hurry at this hour of the night. I take in a boxy, rusted, white mid-sized sedan, 25 to 30 years old. The image has just enough time to register in my mind as it flashes past my window. How fast is it going, I wonder? The next thing I know there is a loud squealing, a screeching, a scream. I grip my wheel, and watch in silent horror as the white car spins crazily counterclockwise toward the median, spraying gravel at the front of my car, at me. Like a stunt car in a movie, but this is all too real.
I feel a fear stored up in me from an earlier moment on the highway with Sam, several years ago. In the middle of the day, in the right hand lane of a three lane highway, I had passed a car and then heard Sam announce "hey, those cars just crashed into each other!" and as I looked to my left, I saw one car careening toward the median, as the other came veering my way. I watched out my side window as the large black sedan literally broke apart, the shiny fenders, the wheels, all disconnecting from each other as if they were the universe expanding as it hurtled through space. An exit ramp appeared miraculously on my right, and I glided onto it without further incident. But my heart was beating like it was part of the drum corps.
Now, for a second time, I feel all my leg muscles tighten, my heart pounds, races, and next, my breath comes very quickly, along with a torrent of words, as if they had all piled up in my throat during the previous moment, when I must have been holding everything in.
"Holy, holy, holy..." I say, at first, not allowing myself to finish the phrase. "Holy, holy, holy...crap," I finally say. "I'm sorry, Sam, but a car just passed us and then the driver lost control and it spun out just as soon as it passed us... That noise you heard was that car, skidding and sliding, and then you heard the gravel hitting our car as it got thrown up from the ground when that car crossed the center of the highway. Oh, my G-d, Sam, oh, my G-d! I don't know how that driver can still be alive, Sam, I really don't. I hope to God he didn't hit anyone else. Oh, Lord! Everyone getting on this road right now must be drunk. Too many beers while watching the fireworks, then they get behind the wheel and try to get home. Oh my G-d, oh my G-d, I hope I don't see anyone else on this road for the rest of this ride. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!"
I struggle to shut up as fast as I can and try to get a grip on myself.
I drive on in the dark, white-knuckled, trying to calm down, listening to the BBC news, wondering if I should pull over, then deciding just to keep going, just to get home as fast as I can. Safe. We are still safe. Why are we safe? It must be Sam, I think. This special boy of mine. We were protected because of him. Both times, such narrow escapes, and completely unscathed. It must because of Sam. There must be an angel protecting him.
I need to believe this because, of course, there are still other cars on the road, and I am now afraid that all the drivers are drunk. I try to think of statistics. They can't all be drunk! I am painfully aware, with each breath, with each mile, with each pair of lights ion the darkness, that any one of the oncoming cars or trucks could come across the median at me, that the next speeding car could come up behind me and skid into me instead of away from me. For the next twenty minutes, I mutter under my breath, like a madwoman, at every car in the rear view mirror "keep away from me, keep AWAY from me!" until they are each safely past. I am tempted to speed the rest of the way home, letting no one pass me, but I realize this is impossible to do safely. I choose to continue praying, muttering and gripping the wheel rather than trying magically isolate myself from everyone else on the road.
Finally, our exit sign appears like a green and white shining beacon. We exit the highway and slow to 35 mph. I remain hyper-vigilant, reminding myself that most accidents occur very close to home, in the final stretch, when we let down our guard.
A half hour after the crazy screeching of the white car, we arrive home safely. I tuck Sam in, and he says, with a smile "a real bed!" and then, I walk across the house, splash my face with water, strip off my dress and climb into bed. On my side of the mattress, an outstretched, open hand waits to take hold of mine. I take Paul's hand, and find that I am gripping it very hard, unable to let go or to loosen my grasp. I take it in both my hands and press it to my chest, then tell him that I am wide awake, that I had a scary drive, that I am ever so grateful to be home.
Paul listens to my story, then thanks me for my safe driving, for bringing our precious cargo home safely, and drifts back to sleep. I lie awake, disturbed to realize that I did not think to call 911, wondering what happened to the driver of the white car, amazed that the accident happened just after he passed us, after having come up from behind us for so long. Had he not seen us until just then? Was it because he'd had to switch lanes, after all, in order to get past us? My mind races until some unidentifiable point in time, when it must short circuit, releasing me into a sweet, dreamless sleep.
This morning, everything is better. Paul has hidden the bathroom scale, sparing me its reproach. My boys are two angels in their neighboring beds as I brew good coffee from just enough beans. I pinch baby mint leaves from the garden, noticing the beauty all around me, observing that the Rose of Sharon has opened its first blooms of the season. I cut juicy, orange melon into slices and arrange them lovingly on a green plate. It is so beautiful that I have to photograph it. Everything and everyone is so sweet that it is all I can do not to cry.
The boys leave for rehearsal in my friend's minivan. I walk the dog in the dappled sunlight, and loop back to the house. I finish my coffee and take up my violin to practice the Archduke trio. As I begin to play, pleasure washes over me. This music, this moment, this day.
I am so happy to be here. I am so lucky to be alive.
The melon is sweeter, the garden more miraculously beautiful, my children and husband even more lovable than usual.
There is nothing like deep gratitude to cast a golden light on everything around you.
Last night, my plan was to get out to Zionsville, Indiana with plenty of time to spare, pick up a non-fat, no-whip venti iced mocha for the two-hour-long return trip. I have to collect Sam, my ten year old, as soon the camp fireworks end and return him to his bedroom for a few hours of sleep before getting him up to begin rehearsals for Grease, the musical, in the morning.
Fortunately, I had a sugar free Red Bull right before leaving home, because the Zionsville Starbucks is closed for the holiday.
I am greeted by friendly faces at the camp and invited to watch the fireworks (incognito, so as not to set off a wave of homesickness) with some staff in their car at the edge of the sports field where they are being set off. Darkness falls and I spend the next segment of time developing a new skill: hitting the iPhone camera button just before the fireworks explode in the sky so that their blaze is captured digitally.
After the grand finale, we see some figures moving toward the bushes. It is Sam, no longer on crutches, being escorted (by his brother, Max) to meet me at the camp office. Instead, Sam climbs into the staff car with a big grin on his sweet face. Max gives me a quick squeeze and soon, Sam and I are on our way, homeward bound, in our brand new car.
At this point, I already have so much to be grateful for. Sam's sprained ankle has been healing, in his happy place, this wonderful camp. Max seized an opportunity to see me, even if it was, as he'd text me later, only for .3 seconds. I am glad to be wide awake, having been treated with kindness, and now, buckled into a wonderful new vehicle with my precious child.
There had been light rain on the way to camp, but now, the sky is clear, and the roads are practically empty; perfect conditions for driving. Bonus fireworks sparkle on either side of the highway as Sam shares some of the highlights of his last three weeks. No, he hasn't memorized his lines, but he has become familiar with the script and he is confident enough that he will catch up at rehearsal. Life is good.
At midnight, I decide to cut short our chat. "I know you are not sleepy and I love hearing your stories," I tell him. "But you are going to be so tired in the morning. I have to wake you at 7:30, you know, Sam."
"Mom, it's a treat to sleep until 7:30!" he says.
"Not when you've been up until 1 am," I warn. "So, please, stretch out, put your seat back, get comfy, and we will talk more tomorrow."
"Okay," he says, and falls silent.
It is midnight, exactly.
Ten minutes later, I see a pair of lights in my rear view mirror. Two mismatched little stars, piercing the darkness behind me, growing brighter very quickly, too quickly. I ease into the right hand lane, slowing from 75 mph to 70 so that the driver can more easily pass me by. As I watch the lights continue to brighten at an astonishing speed, I see they are even more unbalanced than they initially appeared. The bright orb on the left seems to emit three or four times the wattage of the one on the right. As the car comes up on my left, I glance out the side window to catch a glimpse of it, curious as to who or what is in such a hurry at this hour of the night. I take in a boxy, rusted, white mid-sized sedan, 25 to 30 years old. The image has just enough time to register in my mind as it flashes past my window. How fast is it going, I wonder? The next thing I know there is a loud squealing, a screeching, a scream. I grip my wheel, and watch in silent horror as the white car spins crazily counterclockwise toward the median, spraying gravel at the front of my car, at me. Like a stunt car in a movie, but this is all too real.
I feel a fear stored up in me from an earlier moment on the highway with Sam, several years ago. In the middle of the day, in the right hand lane of a three lane highway, I had passed a car and then heard Sam announce "hey, those cars just crashed into each other!" and as I looked to my left, I saw one car careening toward the median, as the other came veering my way. I watched out my side window as the large black sedan literally broke apart, the shiny fenders, the wheels, all disconnecting from each other as if they were the universe expanding as it hurtled through space. An exit ramp appeared miraculously on my right, and I glided onto it without further incident. But my heart was beating like it was part of the drum corps.
Now, for a second time, I feel all my leg muscles tighten, my heart pounds, races, and next, my breath comes very quickly, along with a torrent of words, as if they had all piled up in my throat during the previous moment, when I must have been holding everything in.
"Holy, holy, holy..." I say, at first, not allowing myself to finish the phrase. "Holy, holy, holy...crap," I finally say. "I'm sorry, Sam, but a car just passed us and then the driver lost control and it spun out just as soon as it passed us... That noise you heard was that car, skidding and sliding, and then you heard the gravel hitting our car as it got thrown up from the ground when that car crossed the center of the highway. Oh, my G-d, Sam, oh, my G-d! I don't know how that driver can still be alive, Sam, I really don't. I hope to God he didn't hit anyone else. Oh, Lord! Everyone getting on this road right now must be drunk. Too many beers while watching the fireworks, then they get behind the wheel and try to get home. Oh my G-d, oh my G-d, I hope I don't see anyone else on this road for the rest of this ride. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!"
I struggle to shut up as fast as I can and try to get a grip on myself.
I drive on in the dark, white-knuckled, trying to calm down, listening to the BBC news, wondering if I should pull over, then deciding just to keep going, just to get home as fast as I can. Safe. We are still safe. Why are we safe? It must be Sam, I think. This special boy of mine. We were protected because of him. Both times, such narrow escapes, and completely unscathed. It must because of Sam. There must be an angel protecting him.
I need to believe this because, of course, there are still other cars on the road, and I am now afraid that all the drivers are drunk. I try to think of statistics. They can't all be drunk! I am painfully aware, with each breath, with each mile, with each pair of lights ion the darkness, that any one of the oncoming cars or trucks could come across the median at me, that the next speeding car could come up behind me and skid into me instead of away from me. For the next twenty minutes, I mutter under my breath, like a madwoman, at every car in the rear view mirror "keep away from me, keep AWAY from me!" until they are each safely past. I am tempted to speed the rest of the way home, letting no one pass me, but I realize this is impossible to do safely. I choose to continue praying, muttering and gripping the wheel rather than trying magically isolate myself from everyone else on the road.
Finally, our exit sign appears like a green and white shining beacon. We exit the highway and slow to 35 mph. I remain hyper-vigilant, reminding myself that most accidents occur very close to home, in the final stretch, when we let down our guard.
A half hour after the crazy screeching of the white car, we arrive home safely. I tuck Sam in, and he says, with a smile "a real bed!" and then, I walk across the house, splash my face with water, strip off my dress and climb into bed. On my side of the mattress, an outstretched, open hand waits to take hold of mine. I take Paul's hand, and find that I am gripping it very hard, unable to let go or to loosen my grasp. I take it in both my hands and press it to my chest, then tell him that I am wide awake, that I had a scary drive, that I am ever so grateful to be home.
Paul listens to my story, then thanks me for my safe driving, for bringing our precious cargo home safely, and drifts back to sleep. I lie awake, disturbed to realize that I did not think to call 911, wondering what happened to the driver of the white car, amazed that the accident happened just after he passed us, after having come up from behind us for so long. Had he not seen us until just then? Was it because he'd had to switch lanes, after all, in order to get past us? My mind races until some unidentifiable point in time, when it must short circuit, releasing me into a sweet, dreamless sleep.
This morning, everything is better. Paul has hidden the bathroom scale, sparing me its reproach. My boys are two angels in their neighboring beds as I brew good coffee from just enough beans. I pinch baby mint leaves from the garden, noticing the beauty all around me, observing that the Rose of Sharon has opened its first blooms of the season. I cut juicy, orange melon into slices and arrange them lovingly on a green plate. It is so beautiful that I have to photograph it. Everything and everyone is so sweet that it is all I can do not to cry.
The boys leave for rehearsal in my friend's minivan. I walk the dog in the dappled sunlight, and loop back to the house. I finish my coffee and take up my violin to practice the Archduke trio. As I begin to play, pleasure washes over me. This music, this moment, this day.
I am so happy to be here. I am so lucky to be alive.
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