Windy Flats

Yesterday I found myself at 8am, crouching to yank weeds from the fertile brown earth at Windy Flats in the Skagit Valley in north central Washington State. I have the gardening gene, from my Mother’s side, for which, because of some fool notion, I only became grateful as I turned 45. Mom died last year at 85, and I smile now to think that I, at 64 ¾, love forcing out the weeds as she did, roots intact, with a satisfying thonk. Ahh! Next one!

I was at Windy Flats enjoying a friend’s recently purchased gentleman’s farm…..or hobby farm one might call it. The tired farmers in training were still sleeping after a long day in the sun the day before. I didn’t want to wake them, hence the trip out to their new corn field.

A few weeks earlier, my friends had planted 3500 seeds of corn specially selected to germinate and produce ears quickly, in 10 rows 200 feet long. They had had the ground plowed by a neighbor, but with no tractor of their own yet to speed the planting work, the dropping of each seed into its row and covering it with the rich loam was truly a labor of love. Now 8 inches high, the corn stalks needed the rows between them freed of a dozen kinds of weeds, or native plants, as my friend calls them. I weeded energetically in the cool morning air. Looking back I was astonished to see how little progress I had made. It was as though the rows lengthened in front of me and shortened behind me. Standing at the end of the patch, I recalled the lesson in foreshortening from my drawing classes. Far end narrow, near end 5 times as “wide”. And in the middle? Still confused! Fascinating!

There is often a marvelous wind at Windy Flats, hence the name. It is surrounded by 5000 foot high mountains, snow capped, stunning. Looking at the valley from a nearby mountain on a summer day, one neighbor described stillness over all, except for the waving branches of trees in the flats. The earth in which the trees and plants live is incredibly fertile, lying next to the river as it does which has been known to flood, bringing along with the worries of too much water the rich, loamy silt that produces banner crops with no extra fertilizer.

But worry was far from my mind as I enjoyed connecting again with Mother Earth. It has been one year since I moved to a condo from a house with a garden that I loved. I miss the guaranteed pleasure that comes from making a landscape beautiful, trying new plants, watching leaves sprout, plants flowering on queue. It is a remarkable pleasure I’ve only enjoyed in the second half of my life. In addition to rekindling the pleasure of gardening, the setting for the corn field astonished me in the way it brought back memories of my childhood visits from Seattle to my grandfather’s hop farm in Eastern Washington.

As in the 50’s in Yakima, I loved the sighing of the wind in the giant trees, like the wind across the corn field that could make me grab at my hat. As in those long ago days, I took the time to watch flocks of barn swallows swerving and diving, changing their minds of a piece, landing on the fence and then rising over and over against the blue sky. (The birds at my condo are rugged individualists, like me I guess.) I loved the still, dank smell of the empty barn, sturdy at its base but full of future projects for making it a working barn again. Two stories tall and twice the size of my condo unit, it’s dusky interior holds odd bits of lumber, a ladder, a loft that needs shoring up and dust motes floating in thin shafts of light.

Perched on the barn’s cement foundation, I looked beyond the corn field to watch the wind play the field grasses, like a visible manifestation of musical notes of harmony. The grasses sported six or more hues of tan and brown and rose and blue and amber, as restful to the mind and eye as sweet music is to the ear. At the far corner of the pasture, I saw the flashing of red from a 15 foot tall heritage rose bush straining to escape the background shrubs, covered with old fashioned deep pink and pinker roses.

These pleasures of the awareness of the natural world were all as they happened to me when I was at my grandfather’s farm. My friend of the corn field too, had a similar vision created when she, as a girl, visited her aunt and uncle’s dairy farm in Kansas. Oh we are lucky to have such memories! The pull of the land and the quiet is so strong, but it is more than that. It is unhurried talks on the front porch, the slow way of moving, but accomplishing so very much, the willingness, no the desire, and sometimes the courage or patience, to stop whatever you’re doing to talk to a passing neighbor. It’s the strong pull of the cool dim parlor and kitchen, when it’s so very hot in the field, and the sense to come inside for a rest in mid day.

It’s the steadiness of working with Nature instead of ignoring it or denying its existence. It’s using your body and mind to create beauty and order, and wanting to learn what farmers have learned for centuries. It’s a desire to acquire the practical confidence of our grandfather and uncle mastering the tools of farming, to learn to care for what feeds us and gives us health, to complete the circle of the land feeding the body feeding the land.

My friend’s vision does not stop with the corn field. She can imagine more crops and animals gracing the ten acres that she and her husband have already come to love. At 60, she is no fool, but very much the realist, and knows that challenges, sometimes great, will become part of their time at Windy Flats. But she can see them abandoning their city home and moving permanently to the country. She sees plants and trees making the place a real Paradise. She can see different buildings, driveways and connections to the local community. I love drifting with her visions, sparking my mind and heart. Here she is in her corn field. ---->

It is 8am now, and I am back in the city at my computer, writing these words, because I don’t want to forget this gift of finding peace in a corn field. I have more to say, but for now I am stopping at being grateful for time created by gracious friends who are following their dream and have asked me to come and enjoy it too.

In The Now

When I was 18, it was important to be In The Know. To be up to date on the latest ideas, fads, clothes, and activities. Living in our heads was the norm. What a person thought about was primary. The left brain was in charge. 47 years later, in my world, it's important to be In The Now. Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now and The New Earth are on sale at Costco for $8.95. It's becoming common. Or it seems to be from where I sit.

I am delighted by Eckhart's teachings because of their effect on stilling the 36 plus voices I've been carrying around in my head all these years. I realized they were there 30 years ago, and our means to quiet them worked short term. We called the voices "my committee" and we could could conjure up a new committee peopled with those we fancied could give us unconditional love. I chose my sister, a dear friend named Roxie, artist/author Barbara Berger and feminist Gloria Steinham. Whenever I got low, I'd imagine them standing in a semi-circle all telling me in turn "you are doing so great! I can't believe how strong you are! Go for it!"

It helped. It made me laugh, to play like that, which was good and lifted my mood so I could get back into action. But Eckhart's books describe something much deeper. Ever hear the phrase "become the chair", or "become the flower"? I read about that years ago when dabbling in Asian wisdom--and getting nowhere. My writer sister treasured her Zen learnings. But it was all Greek to me. Well, now I think (!) I get it. I'm not sure I could explain it to you, but I tell you I have been there. It's unforgettable. And easy. Is this making sense? Hah!

I understand that my mind/ego is out to get me. A majority of my thoughts are repetitive. Blah, blah, blah. Over and over. And that quieting the mind, dwelling on the now, throughout the day, brings me to a place of quiet presence. No past, no future, just now. The chair, the window, (if I'm indoors, as I am now) the air, the table, the sounds of traffic and birds, the energy pulsing throughout. It's there. It can keep my attention, bring stillness within. It's in the pause between breaths, which I can hold for moments on moments. It's in concentrating on the space present in my body and in everything. We are all mostly space.

The still part of my consciousness, which I am deciding at the moment is "located" in my right brain, has a mysterious energy. When I give attention to the stillness, or non attention, however you want to say it! -- it follows that I am calmer and more creative. Later, ideas fly into my mind so fast I am stunned. I stop worrying about my aging body, or my retirement, or regretting any action I've taken. I'm letting the world be, surrendering to what is.

My mind becomes a useful tool. I say to myself, "wow, where did that idea come from?"

The best part is I don't have to sit down and meeeeeditaaaaate....altho I don't mind that. But I love meditating, or staying in the now, in moments all day, knowing that probably 75% of my thoughts are repetitive. Clearing them out throughout the day leaves room for so much more.

My adorable grandson just had a temporary little blip in his growing up scenario. This is a challenge for his parents and us supporting cast of characters. Living in the now, as I am certain babies do, he will handle this challenge better than everybody else! And I want to transmit my surrender, that is, acceptance to what is, to him and his parents. What is, is always what is, most imperfect and unexpected. Today's challenge is always what we do with what we didn't plan on. I fancy I can affect the presence in us both from afar. So I put it in writing here to give it life, for myself and maybe for someone who reads this. Probably the truth is that I will help baby G by being like baby G!

Graham and Me on the Punee

Soft Spring breeze on our cheeks

Solid chunk of baby boy in my arms

Out on the patio, bamboo screening on the roof above

The whole house empty except for one lady, a boy and his dog

Soft rhythmic rattle of wind through the banana and palm leaves

Patterns of dappled shade playing over us on the punee cushions

Little white dog napping on the sunny deck

Songs of a dozen kinds of birds from all sides

Water fountain gurgling as the flute section

Sparrows, finches, towhees flying about in an air show

One hovering hummingbird observing us from both sides

The whole hour soft and supporting

Nature’s heart disguised as breezes ruffling our clothes

Like a show performed for just us two

We talked--

4 month old Graham: “ouh ouh bl bl aaa”

64 year old me: “boo bah boo pa oh oh tu tu”

G: “bl wa ouh nn aah”

Me: “tut ah pa pa pa mm oo oo”

G: “wuh uh wa ehhhh”

We were considerate, waiting for the other to complete their thought

Our conversation covered many things

With words of peace and connection

I could never have imagined such a scene

Yet it was there for us, with my full presence as perfect as an infant

Languid, quiet, the moments of stillness lived perfectly

Nothing to seek or change or be off to do

A few moments sublime, unbidden, a gift.

I can be there now and wonder at it again.

April 18, 2008

The Empty Book

Would you like it if, when you were a girl, the older women in your family wrote a little book of hints and tips for life and gave it to you? Well, that is what my family is now doing for our youngest cousin/niece. It is an adventure in writing for all of us, the idea created by my writer sister. My sister wanted to give something that would last to the niece’s she enjoyed so much, as balance to her own four boys. She wrote what she called an Empty Book, or Nothing Book, for my daughter when she turned 12 in 1986. My daughter was instructed to buy the next empty book, empty, for the next girl, who was her cousin. My sister filled the book and gifted it. That cousin bought the book for the next in line, it got filled and so on. My sister passed away the October after she wrote the fourth book. There were two more girls to go.

The family encouraged me to organize the project to keep it going and I did so. Together we women relatives wrote the 5^th Empty Book in 2005. That cousin got her Empty Book and has purchased the new book for the 6^th and last book. Next year my young grand niece turns 12. We have a year to do the writing.

My sister’s journals and letters are a source of material for what I put in the empty book. Our version includes pithy sayings, a little advice, some silly jokes and stories, tales of our family she should know and love, pictures of the rest of us at 12, what we liked at that age, on and on. Since the now 11 year old impending recipient lives in a very different world than even the younger cousins, I want to stay close to the origins of the project, yet write in a timely way. We want to have the book honor the vision of my sister who, with her journals, newspaper columns and newsletters, inspired so many women to be brave and daring and gentle and thoughtful and fun loving. Reading through her stories of humor and social comment and rural life and family tales I go back to those years we all lived, larger than life as it’s said, in her stories. My, the descriptions were fun! Full of the best or funniest events, always with passion and wisdom, the writing is still usually timeless.

Tonight I chanced upon the story of a time I hold closely in my heart and often think of when I am missing my sister. She described how one time I visited her when I was ill—with a non-communicable ailment that had me very low in spirit.

“….she came here to the farm and I made her an old fashioned pot roast, with carrots and potatoes and onions. I didn’t eat beef usually, but it felt like the right medicine. I made her bed with sweet sun-dried sheets because I love them so much—and she has never forgotten. She mentions it, time to time. Once in a while I wonder: if all of us women made soup or pot roast or chocolate chip cookies for each other, and massaged the backs of our necks, right where it’s tense…would the world’s cruelty be healed? Would men, as well as women, gather wisdom from our growing strength, and be healed too? My sister nurtures me continually. She sends me articles she knows will be of interest, and goes around telling people I’m special and gives me great gifts, like Magic Mikes and when only a few local people showed up for the party, she drove 230 miles to be here. We women can care for each other when we are sick…..and show up on each other’s doorsteps with pots of soup and bright smiles. ‘You look so cute, honey…’ “ 1995

I can still taste that pot roast, smell its heavenly aroma, marvel at her love and attention, sun-dried sheets and all. Having a writer sister was always a pleasure. I guess we were a mutual admiration society and I always peeked ahead in her newsletters first to see if she talked about me to the world. Then I started back at the cover and devoured her ideas, word by word. Now I cherish these old stories and smile to think our lives are in print for us to enjoy forever. She tantalizes me still.

I regularly swing from acceptance to sorrow to irritation, 5 years after she died. I suppose it will always be a little like that, despite all my efforts to stay “timely” and let her go. The Empty Book project brings it all back again, and I can marvel at her ability to stay with me in this way, and this way she had of gifting her ideas and spirit and love to her descendants.

We women will put in our 6^th Empty Book the imprints of our minds as they are this year. And our young cousin/niece will have them to keep as a cherished possession, just like the other cousins treasure their gifts from our gone missing, but with us in print, writer.

Ski Trip Via The Frontier

I followed the young man who was buying my truck up the hills east of Everett, climbing ever higher. I saw the snow topped Cascade and Olympic mountains lying like immense parentheses around his neighborhood. I was mesmerized by the view. Under that immense blue sky, he pulled into his driveway, collected some things from his old car and brought them over to the truck. I had his bank check in my pocket and happy thoughts of closing the deal. During a few days of negotiations with him, we came to know and trust each other. Tales of disaster in these transactions nipped at my consciousness. But he was the one to first suggest meeting in a public place for my safety. Pretty quickly I could tell he was “ok”, a person more rural than urban. He ferried me to repair shop, bank, his home and mine, to make the transfer, all with good manners. I admired his ability to think the thing through as he went along. At my condo to get the title, he said,

“You have a great view.”

“Yes, but no mountains.” I said.

Later that afternoon, son Scott, who had given me tips on the sale along the way, asked me: “So how do you feel now about the selling experience? Would you do it again with more ease?”

I haven’t ever had a dream of victory that I can recall, but I did on the night I handed the truck keys to that young man---

“It’s a pleasure to hand these to you,” I said.

Though I have never down hill skied, I dreamed I was in the snow smothered mountains. I skied/flew down the paths and glaciers with the expertise of an Olympics star. With narrow misses down curving channels of snow, I was exhilarated by the whole thrilling journey. I came to a swishing stop. I looked over the front of my skis to see a 2000 foot drop. I had known without thinking to end my decent with my ski tips at the edge of the snow cliff. Chuckling with pleasure, I admired the view.

Waking, I remembered rushing to my window to watch my old truck drive off down my hill and onto the road and thought,

“I can see the mountains from my neighborhood; all I have to do is climb to the top of my hill.”