About nine years ago we planted two almond trees Prunus Dulcis, they are close to the apples Malus and the peaches Prunus persica. The leaves of the almond trees and the peach trees are very similar.
It turns out, after years of waiting, the fruit of an almond tree is also very similar. Almonds look like an unripe small greenish peach. The skin of the fruit is fuzzy and soft.
Dearest Bean,
I was closing up the kitchen before heading down to brush my teeth and corral you and your brother into bed. Bending over the couch to turn off a light, I hear your voice from the kitchen.
“Mom, what is porno?”
What the FUCK?!
“Where did you learn that word?”
“It is right here - in the table of contents of your book.”
Dearest Dragon,
What a shining day it was! Making a hand drum with Mark Ressl of The Giving Trees in Rosendale has to be possibly one of the most true experiences of my 49 years on this planet. True as in killing chickens, eating a porcupine, giving birth, my God immersion experience, and sitting with Baba’s body after he passed - that level of true.
Really, Mom, you are saying this about a drum making workshop?
Yup, my dearest, I am.
Life comes from death. Which, in turn, makes more life. It is one big circle. It is all the same thing - just different forms.
The life of a drum comes from the death of an animal. Our life comes from the death of vegetables and animals that feed us. One day, in turn, our lives will nourish worms and plants. This is truth.
Dearest Beloveds,
Recently, we had 90 minutes of time between appointments.
Oh great, we can wander the sidewalks and get a treat. What a perfect summer afternoon.
It immediately became apparent that you two are not experienced in navigating sidewalks. We have been so spoiled with our wide expanse of gravel road walking - the dog chasing rabbits and birds across fields.
Sidewalk walking was jerks and dodges around bikes, parking meters, other humans, mailboxes, and even - each other.
This is the third title I have chosen to delineate posts involving land tending. In 2013 (wowza) I called the posts Farm Beginnings, because, that was the idea right? I was going to be a farmer - growing food and selling it to my community (or at least growing enough to feed ourselves for a full year as an experiment).
Then Bean was born, medical blah blah, Dragon was born, and more medical blah blah. In 2021, Farm Beginnings morphed into Homesteading Middles. To homestead felt less grandiose than to farm. The gingham term felt cozy and manageable. Homesteading felt good.
No longer. Now the word gives me the hives. Why, you may ask?
I was blind to the racist hypocrisy of our government denying formerly enslaved Americans their 40 acres while at the same time allocating 160 acres as part of the 1862 Homestead Act.
“Padiddle!”
“Where?”
“The blue truck behind us.”
“Bean, you have padiddle glasses on.”
And she does.
“Why don’t you wear your sister’s pink rain jacket until we get you a new one.”
“Mom! Nooo! I will bring my other too small one to school.”
Sigh. Is this because it is pink? Or because your sister has cooties?
“Okay.”
No reason to delve. He has to figure out this himself. Just be grateful for all of those years you were dressing him in whatever gave you pleasure.
Dearest Beloveds,
This is a mea culpa for our current nighttime routine - where I tell you to stop reading pleasure books and Turn off the light! Tomorrow morning is an early day! I am serious! No, you cannot have 5 more minutes! etc etc
The reason your mother is apologizing is because I get it. I totally understand the draw/need/desire/ache to turn the page/to see what happens/to visit longer in the fog of an alternative world. I get it, children.
I get it - which is why I apologize. Mea culpa AND I am going to keep talking about whether it is good choice to stay up late reading pleasure books on a school night (nope, not a good choice). Classic Both/And.
Can I blame this obsession, this grounding desire, this NEED on Frances Hodges Burnett? My grade school copy of The Secret Garden has faded highlights from, gasp, almost 40 years ago. The pages are now a collection of loosely connected chunks - barely held by the deteriorating spine glue.
“Please,” began Mary. “Please —.” and then the lump in her throat choked her…
“Might I,” quavered Mary, “might I have a bit of earth?…”
Dearest beloveds,
The Ancient Greeks had two words for time: chronos and kairos. “Chronos is the ticking of the clock, the zombie steps of just getting on with life… Kairos means “the right moment.” - the opportune time. It stops the clocks.” (Thank you Jonny Thomson of Mini Philosophy for that succinct summary.)
Our modern culture thrives on chronological time. Constantly checking off commitments in a schedule of doings causes our awareness to skim along the surface of life. I highly recommend cultivating regular moments where you can slow to appreciate the magic of life.* It is only once once you pause, lower your shoulders, unclench your butt, take three breaths that the opportune time becomes apparent. Kairos resides outside of the rush.