goldenrod

Just tell them you can't help it, you’re in the middle of harvest! – a comment from Ed, as I groan about a pile of tasks and too few hours to get them all done.

breakfast

And he's right. Harvest. That means picking, washing, sorting, and storing. It takes as long (if not longer) to do this as it did to water flowers on hot hot summer days (and it’s not as if that task is over and done with – we’re rolling into a week of warm sunshine and the cosmos is already showing signs of distress).

next door farmer harvests melon, child in tow

But I’m not a farmer or even a home maker of the type who can pause with life because there is a harvest. And when I think I have caught up with what Ed has brought in, he’s there again, picking, picking...

Despite the time squeeze, I take a noon hour pause and go back to yoga class. Out there by the prairie fields.

The meditative, stretched out peace doesn’t really spill much into the rest of the day. I imagine church may be like this for some – you go, you listen to all that good stuff about forgiving your neighbor and loving your enemy and then you step outside and you scream at your kid and curse your co-worker. Resolutions have a way of fizzing out, as if someone punctured the balloon of good thoughts the minute you turn the other way. Pfffft! Gone. But I do appreciate having a brief minute to indulge my inner peace. And mostly, I love feeling a wide range of movements again. I was never a kid who could do contortions and odd twists of the body, but I was nimble and sprite and it’s nice to reach for those motions again. So I indulge in that hour of yoga which means that I now have to stay up late and arise early to meet my work goals for the day.

At least dinner is mean and lean: yesterday’s spaghetti and shrimp sauce is fortified with some dozen more new tomatoes and garlic and all that’s very easy and it makes use of some of the newly picked bruised tomatoes so in all – life is very wonderful.

Sunday

Breakfast.  Porch. It's cool outside, but so very lovely.

Every flower that still blooms is special. Every lily is beloved.

You want to come with me and lift boulders out of the field? You may think that’s a quaint sort of invitation, maybe not up there with dinner and a movie, but I like it, because it has more to do with a quiet walk on a gorgeous morning than anything else.  It’s not about the boulders -- Ed does not ask for help with much of anything.

I hadn’t been out there, behind the barn, where Farmer Lee is preparing the soil for next year’s crops for quite a few weeks. My attention is so focused on the farmhouse that I forget about what happens out back.

When did we come to have a meadow of goldenrod??

So Ed picks boulders out and I watch the farmers to the north do their work...

..until he gets to the biggest boulder of them all...

 

... and this one he does need help with and we put all our strength behind it so that we can slide it onto a wheelbarrow and push it elsewhere...

Where? Ed asks.

Oh, by the tree where some child someday will play and maybe pretend it’s a table, to serve pretend tea, or maybe hide behind because sometimes you just have to hide when the world gets tough and mean around you...
Ed groans at the thought. Or maybe it is that he groans because the boulder is so heavy to move.

In the afternoon, I come outside as Ed untangles string and Isis looks on...

I pull him away to bike to the tennis courts and we put in a decent game there and after, I bike to yoga. A bit ambitious, all that biking, tennis playing and yoga, but it’s Sunday and how many days will we have that are this good, this bright, this delightfully energizing?

In the evening the young people come to dinner and one can’t really keep up with young people, but we try, we try...

The tomato seafood sauce – Ed asks later. All from our tomatoes?
Well of course.

He grins, proudly I think.

humbly grateful

Sometimes I think I buy into the text too much. Of a movie, of a storyline, of a yoga class – I know it is what it is and yet I let myself get all misty eyed just because a yoga instructor tells us that releasing feelings of gratitude can be really healing.

Oh dear, tearing up on a yoga mat in a crowded Saturday yoga class in Fitchburg?

I look around me. Everyone is so young! Initially I think  – my, they are all half my age. Then I reconsider: some are near thirty. Then the truth hits – that still makes them half my age!

I’m glad I went to yoga. Much of the morning had been wasted on searching for airfares. At times I wonder if the savings are worth the agonizing hours spent running through the possibilities. Still we did it and we got mostly nowhere and eventually we had the sense to put it aside and get on with the day. Or, what was left of it after I finally sorted through the tomatoes Ed picked somewhere between dawn an the airfare search.

A canvas of multicolored, variously shaped tomatoes!

And finally, a very late breakfast. With an eye to the cool but pretty day outside.

On with the day... It used to be that we would do big and bold things on weekend days. This year we use free time without great ambition. Airfare searches, tomato picking and sorting, a small cosmetic construction project out on the porch...

We play tennis too. The game isn’t as awful as ones from previous days. That’s reassuring.

And in the evening, I put up supports for toppled flowers. And I sit back and admire the remnants of the summer garden. Including a surprising interloper. See that stalk of what appears to be corn? We have no idea how it came to grow there!

And yes, yes, I let all those feelings of gratitude flow. Because the days are so good here, at the farmhouse!

Supper? Left-over broccoli soup. I was very grateful that I made enough yesterday to last us through this evening.

home

Ed is on the couch snoring lightly. We’re both wiped. Isis made no fewer than five back and forths last night and after the last one, even Ed thought that the cat was a little off his rocker.

In other words, we had a night full of interruptions.

This semester I have a very set schedule: Monday is reserved for work on lectures; Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays are jam-packed teaching days and on Fridays I do all the work that isn’t teaching related. In other words, I sit through countless meetings until my leg gets sore and I can sit no more. After, I shop for groceries and then boom! -- it’s evening.

If you tell me this seems a tad loaded after a summer off, I'll likely shrug and say -- eh, it's predictable, it’s there, nothing will change the hours much and, on the up side, I know that I will have quiet evenings, that I will have time for yoga (though not today), that I will cook supper and enjoy a glass of wine with it.

The only thing that is unpredictable is Isis. He lends a bit of drama to the schedule and I suppose I have to be grateful that my only bit of drama these weeks is that a cat keeps ringing the doorbell to come in, then meows incessantly to go out. All night long.

In other news: Ed and I have resolved all travel related issues. One truth worth noting (and savoring if you’re on the victorious end) is that when you have two people who care for each other, yes, that, but whose interests run in different directions, then the person with the veto usually prevails.

No, I wont camp my way through Central America this winter.

No, I wont go to all events and celebrations surrounding your wonderful daughter’s wedding.

  

A cool and rainy front moved through our town today and yet it was pleasant enough that we still could do breakfast on the porch.

After, I dusted off my donkey car and rumbled off to work.

[And in case you’re not remembering why it became the 'donkey car,' well, it’s because of this:

And here's a funny bit: a few days back, my girl, noting the donkey, commented – I wouldn't have guessed you're the type to put a political sticker on your fender.

Say what? I didn't! For one thing, there is not much of a fender. When I pasted on that donkey, I was remembering the moment I bought it – in Catalan France this summer. That little animal, ensconced in gold and red stripes is a symbol of the countryside around Sorede. At the time, I didn’t remember that here, it has a different meaning! So be it.]

And now finally I am home. That path to the front (or really back) door still looks good to me. Home. Happily home.

meat

A hint: henceforth, the shortest posts will be (for the next fourteen weeks) on Thursdays. You want good writing? Not tonight, dear. Not any Thursday night.

Morning. Engage me in the morning. On the proch, maybe.





But those days are drawing to a close. The morning chill, not here yet, is a threat.

For now, I pick my pear...





...and I get going.

And then comes the part that I don't write about -- the classes, the meetings with students -- such a fine day, a day of great, wonderful progress, but one that runs in the shadows of this blog. And on Thursdays, it is a day that lunges forward without interruptions.

So I finally come home, late and I take a minute to regain the quiet that I need to make me happy. Flowers: there are still those. Hello lillies.





I creak open the farmhouse door. Hi Ed...






He invites me to dinner at the Dane Pub. Come on. We have time for the market, too.  Well, just barely. But we take the Honda and scoot out. And yes, there are a few ears left (we take them). And there are the curds and the other veggies to admire.





So we stock  up and then we do a few rounds of tennis and that's a real bummer because my game has rarely been this bad.

The sun is too strong!

I'm hungry!

I'm thirsty!

I'm tired!

Excuses offered. Surely the last one is the most accurate.

At the Pub I ask if he minds that I order a steak. It's been so long since I've eaten beef. I hadn't missed it, then I did miss it and now I really miss it.
Sure, eat that hunk of flesh.
Have you ever seen a person smile and frown all at the same time?


At home now. Tired, but that's exactly when writing doesn't flow and sleep, too, is tough to hold onto.
Isis is by the door. I can hear him -- the doorbell sounds. I peek out. Oh, Isis, gross!





He's tossing a mouse around. Eventually he drops it. As if it's a gift.

Thank you, Isis. At the end of the day, there's always the possibility of this, a mouse, delivered to my doorstep.

slouch

You don’t even know that you’re doing it: shoulder humped, chin lowered. You’re slouching. So, is this a bad thing? 

Hold on -- this isn’t what I woke up thinking. Let me go back a bit: I woke up thinking that Ed and I are in the middle of a conversation that hasn’t come to any reasonable conclusion. People do that. They dance around points that are being made and avoid reaching agreement because they know that the only way out of the stalemate is to say something like -- oh, all right! I’ll do it your way, but I wont like it! And neither wants to say it.

The question remains – who is going to say this? Him, me, both of us?

I also woke up thinking that I had wasted over an hour watering flowers last night only to find that we were due for severe storms. This is what happens when I get busy with work: I forget to check the weather report.

(slouched flowers after the rains)

The key here is that I woke up early. And I thought, too – I could surely use that early morning for Yoga – there’s a class offered that goes under the label of Peaceful Flow. It’s described in this way: You'll expand your breath, open your body, and rest your mind so when you go back into your world you'll be fully aware of your inner peace.

Before breakfast, before work, before Ed fully awakens, I go to Peaceful Flow.

I ride Rosie out to the Yoga studio and yes, indeed, it is heavenly and very stretching, strengthening and soothing, all by the fields of prairie flowers...

And if I take anything with me it is the realization that I live in a position of “slouch.” At my computer, riding in on Rosie, eating a meal. And here is this morning’s yogi guy telling us that if you just lift up your chest, chin, pull back your shoulders, uplift your face into a smile, you’ll have all this positive energy flowing.

You have to put up with this sort of stuff when you have a chatty yoga instructor.

But the fact is, he isn’t altogether off base. And indeed, his stretches and poses and movements and breathing instructions are so helpful that they stay with me even as I leave the studio, even as I mount Rosie and we travel home. So exuberant and up-lifted am I that I nearly fly off Rosie, though perhaps that's just my imagination soaring.

The fields never looked so golden.

The truck farmers are tending their crops -- you can see them, here, just to the east of our crumbling barn...

It continues to be a beautiful morning.

We eat breakfast on the porch...

I grab a ripe pear to stick in my backpack...

....and I go off for a day of classes. Campus is busy in the way that it gets on school days.

And, predictably, I am tired when I get home. Ed and I have reached a travel compromise and he is the one who has packed up his ideas and put them aside, though we’ll be doing some independent trips in the interim so that neither feels as if she or he has been short changed. More on that as we actually get closer to time off. Right now, I am so far away from time off that it seems odd that I should even be thinking about it.

Ed bikes tonight and because we’re nearing the end of the grocery shopping week, I eat whatever is left, with, of course, tomatoes.

He comes home with a Subway footer and I'm tempted by that too.

You can’t feed me this stuff! I don’t need another meal after dinner!

He grins and floats the sandwich nearer to me. I take bites – one, another, and another. He laughs.

first day

Breakfast today? It’s a toss up! Lee’s flowers at the kitchen table tell me – inside!

But everything, everything else shouts – the porch!

I’m up early. Three classes today and the first one begins at 9:30. I tell myself I will not rush, but I do rush, even as I start the routines of a new semester at 4 a.m. This is the way it is and I am ready for it.

On the porch I tell Ed – a "first day of classes" picture! Take one? And he does, quickly, as if to take into account the faster pace.

And then I’m off. It’s a Rosie day, a beautiful, warm, very warm morning. And still, as I zip by, I notice that the soy is taking on that September gold tone that says we are no longer in the summer season...

I scoot by the lakes (without traffic, you can do the photo straight from Rosie’s seat)...

I turn toward campus, I park and walk up to school and the day begins.

And because it’s the first day, three classes seems like a lot, so that by mid afternoon I’m spent. Like that student outside my office window who looks like she’s not quite with her full energies yet.

In the late, late afternoon, I take Rosie to Paul’s café and Ed meets me there. This is a familiar routine and such a good one and it’s all so serene and peaceful until we speculate about future travels. Ed talks about taking it down a notch. Less predictability, more adventure. On the first day of teaching, I can’t quite wrap my mind around travel where there isn’t a water source, a light bulb, a clean sheet over a bed. And this is what happens when I'm immersed in work again and Ed stays home – I look ahead toward a lighter, saner, easier day, while he itches to infuse it with challenge.

We have to shut down our planning. It’s going nowhere and besides, it’s 95 degrees outside. 95! So the flowers need water and tomorrow’s class needs work and, too, there are the tomatoes – more of them, to sort, wash, freeze, cook.

But those are good, kind routines. I like holding that hose once more – the quiet of it, the discovery that accompanies my movement from one bed to the next. Here, did you know I still get the occasional lilies?

We end with tomato corn bisque. Reheated. Yes, throw in some fresh herbs from the garden and kernels from an ear of corn and call it a meal. 

Do you want popcorn? - he asks late at night. Every person has their own perfect plate of food to offer. Ed's is popcorn, from a bag, done just so. Shared, late at night. An important reminder -- this is what we share, this is what we love.

tred lightly

People dig in their heels. It’s what we do. We take a position and suddenly we have to defend it. Why? Because.

So I have to be careful not to defend yoga as the cure-all for everything that feels off. I recall reading not too long ago that, if overplayed, yoga can do more harm than good. An important point to remember, especially for people like me who tend to leap rather than take small, cautious steps. 

You wont be surprised that I returned to yoga today. (In part, it’s the 'new member' deal – all the yoga you want in the month of September for $30.)

And again it felt better than great.

But... here’s the but. It takes time. On yoga mornings, I don’t get as much work done. And, too, there is Ed, reclining, not needing to do much of anything being retired as he is, which is quite wonderful except when he sets out to distract. With tomatoes, for example.

You think that's a lot? There are more. Triple that amount.

...and I say – stop! No more tomatoes! I cannot deal with them. I don’t have time! And, so long as we're on the subject of dealing with things,may I ask again why are you so difficult about the forthcoming wedding?

My daughter is marrying in three weeks and my oh my, is this ever incompatible with the ways and mores of Ed. And the more I care about his full participation, the less inclined he is to go along. So after the ever so gentle yoga, where I touch my eyes, my mouth and my heart to do all things well (I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do well, but let’s just say everything) I try to work and failing that, I try to establish an Ed commitment to various wedding events, and failing that, I retreat to the porch and lose myself in piddly stuff. Like reading reviews of yoga mats on Amazon.com.

Ed asks if it’s a good day for us to play tennis, clearly thinking that, given my retreating mood, it’s not. Initially I balk (I’m behind! My work is killing me! You wouldn’t understand!). But we go out, just him and me on the Honda...

... and we play one lousy game after another and eventually we end it and there’s tomato soup at home, a good home, where who does what and when rarely matters, where ceremonies come and go and one person wants this and the other wants something else, and we stumble through it all and in the end we nod and smile because it is such a solid, fine home. A wonderful, beautiful home.

The doorbell rings. Hi Lee! Oh, thank you!

om

Most anyone would pick a yoga class by the instructor. Of course. A teacher may really depress your interest in going forth. When Ed and I went to classes some years back, we felt it was like medicine: terrible tasting but good for you. You can’t continue for long on that premise.

But there are many instructors that would work for me. And I need something else: I need proximity and an enjoyable trek over. And so when I search for a yoga lesson, I start close to home. In Fitchburg.  A hop and a skip from the farmhouse.

But first, breakfast. Even as I'm hurrying to get going.

...while Ed takes his time. 

And now it's 10:30 and I'm in a class with a group of very adept women. 

The class is a tad fast paced. I’m not so quick that I can slide from down dog to up dog to roll over dog (as you can tell, I’m not that familiar with the terminology). I can’t become a warrior and open my heart and feel the vertebrae sink into the mat all in one fell swoop. And still, I like the poses, I like the language (I had no idea we carry most of our stresses in our hip! Why not – I’ll go along. Out it goes! Good bye stress!), I like the fact that there is plenty of space and the big windows look out on the prairie.

But what I like best – and this is why I will return, for sure – is that when I get back on Rosie to head home, I am like a different being -- so relaxed that it's as if I can melt right into her in the most comfortable way. We surge forward, with the wind in our faces, the prairie fields flowing to the right, to the left, not much in the way of cars, just Rosie and me, flying home. I do not remember ever enjoying a motorbike ride as much as I enjoyed the one after the yoga class.

Feeling terribly noble (house cleaning before yoga, then the stretches and the movement and the ommmmmm), I retire to the porch and watch the chipmunks play and the humming birds chase each other before me.

Days like this are heaven sent. Ed and I talk more about building out a front ‘winter deck,’ we read, work, talk some more...

 ...and now it's evening and the grill is heating pieces of charcoal and the mustard, sauerkraut, tomatoes (yes, lots of tomatoes!) are out. My girl and her fiance arrive and we sit out on the porch and eat  chicken brats and local corn and watch the sun go down.