I think I've said enough to convince you that Ed and I are humbled and awed by, drawn to, and respectful of nature, and committed to its preservation as best we can -- he to an almost zealous and fanatical degree. I cannot imagine a year without nature's close presence in my everyday.
However, it's not all pink roses and white gladiolus murielae out there.
It can be a rough world for those whose lives depend on warding off predators, viruses, and human interventions. We see just a tiny bit of this every day. Take this morning: I get up to a wet landscape and continuing rain. I'm reluctant to do my morning rounds, but, animals must be fed and so I step outside.
I've nearly given up on trying to tidy up the flower fields. There's no point to it anymore. Besides, we still have the bugs with us. Mostly mosquitoes, though yesterday I did manage to get stung by a bumble bee that wedged itself into my sweatshirt without my noticing it until it was too late. Ouch.
I've fed the farmhouse cats already. Well, two out of the three. Pancake, the porch cat isn't eating again. He'd been in another nocturnal fight. With whom? I haven't a clue. Not the other farmette felines. They're all unscathed and peppy. A stray maybe? A racoon? Who knows...
In the sheep shed, the other three cats are waiting for their grub. I see their dry food bowl is empty -- a sign that they had a visitor come through the cat door overnight. Likely a racoon, though how it would fit through a small cat door is beyond me. But, it's happened before.
On the shed mat, I see one dead mouse and the remains of a dead bird. Ah. There was a hunt I see. The mice are on the lookout for winter shelter. I picked up some guts of one on the porch. It, too, was the victim of an overeager cat assault. One night, two mice gone. Truthfully, I shed no tears over this. We hate it when mice find shelter in the farmhouse.
Pancake lumbers off to find a place where he can nurse his wounds. I dont know how he manages to avoid infections, but he does. He's a walking example of the maxim that if it doesn't kill you, it may make you stronger.
I retreat to the farmhouse. We eat breakfast inside (it's a cool day)...
... and then I fall asleep on the couch. I don't know why I should be tired. It's not as if I hunted or patrolled the grounds all night long. Maybe I'm tired from witnessing so much struggle out there, on farmette lands.
I have exactly three things on my list for today: a household chore, a Zoom call, and a trip downtown to the market, for flowers. No kids. I need one weekday off, and we chose Wednesday for it. The two older ones are big enough to keep themselves busy at home while a parent works remotely, so for now, this new set up works for all of us.
At the market I pass over all those veggies. Nice, but I have plenty to work with back home.
But the flowers -- ah, the flowers! Dahlias are still going strong. It's a remarkable riot of color in your vase.
It will be tough to return to a muted palate come winter. Being "in nature" then means living with the duller shades of brown and gray. Even the flowering plants that I bring inside -- the rosemary ...
and the mandevilla...
They offer no promise of abundance over their winter months indoors. I lost half of this rosemary last year and I was sure the mandevilla would never be the flower symphony again after its viney messy growth indoors. And yet, here they are: growing like crazy once again. (The coming winter will put them to another survival test.)
In the evening, Ed bikes. I tell myself I should take a walk but the air quality is deteriorating again (wildfires up north once more) and so I have the perfect excuse to take to the couch with my books. Not much nature in my day you say? True enough, but it's there, in my field of vision everywhere I look. The rain has stopped and there is an air of quiet repose. May it last the night.
with love...
