One part in a hundred, that would be one per cent. Anyone would conclude that that is not much. A local art gallery is devoting an entire exhibition period to that theme, however. Choose and expand upon the concept of one per cent of anything. Now, since this is an art gallery, one would expect it to be a study of the minutiae of the visual world. Were I an artist, I would cut myself a little cardboard window and start looking at things: the heart of a flower, the end of a banana, the pebbled surface of a blackberry. Or, were I a photographic artist, I'd narrow my viewfinder down to locate texture and detail in a larger picture. I am reducing my field of vision.
But I am not that kind of artist. I am a writer and a poet and my work every day is to routinely seek the one per cent-- or even less. I zero in on a single facet of the life I have been given and examine it, hoping to use it to make sense of the rest, the enormous thunderstorm of thought and experience and sense information that rains in on me each day. Studying a single raindrop, I try to see the universe.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Regret and Rejoicing
There are times when I regret having given up our suburban quarter-acre: in spring, when the tulips and daffodils pop up in the woods behind the house and the dogwoods are dotting the woods with pink and white; sometimes, in the summer, when folks are hauling in fresh tomatoes from the garden (and even, maybe, the zucchini); in winter, when I used to go out and cut greens for the house--holly and ground pine and magnolia branches. I had a garden that I could count on--and, when I found a new plant that flourished there, I was delighted to have added it to the somewhat haphazard design I'd established.
But, in the fall...I am now so grateful for my 20x20 bricked-in patio. No leaves to rake, no mulch to spread, no lawn to mow, no acres (well, it always seemed like that) of frostbitten plants to slimily tangle around my fingers as I tried to clean up beds for the winter. In the fall, I can walk down to the river for my autumnal color fix. I can go to the nursery and replace my summer geraniums with chrysanthemums, and my pinks with pansies or ornamental cabbages. I can even (after a couple years of failure with assorted other plants there) water the sedums in the Wooly Pockets on my wall, stick in a couple mini-pumpkins and call them finished till Thanksgiving.
My various pots of spent lilies and other assorted perennials now host purple fall asters, and the foliage of my baby nandinas is turning bright red. The nameless shrubs that someone else trained into tree-shapes against the back wall are producing orange berries. (And no, they AREN'T pyracantha. I've questioned nursery people and have heard everything from euonymus to bittersweet--it's a mystery!) And all through this, I am within hearing distance of my fountain, burbling away in the middle of the patio, with the occasional bold bird swooping down for a drink or a splash. If my gate is open (and it is, so I can haul my hose back and forth) neighbors (walking dogs or themselves) almost always have a word or two to say about the flowers or the wreath on the door. Putting my 'garden' to bed is no longer a solitary chore--dirty, cold, and wet--but sort of an extended tidying up: an outside room that needs clutter-removal and sprucing up so that my winter windowscape will give me a lift instead of a dose of depression.
Today was the day. All that's left to do is a quick sweep of the bricks, and a wipe across the shed door to remove my dirty handprints. When the chrysanthemums and asters are done, I will cut them back, leaving my rosemary bushes in sole possession of the assorted pots and urns that surround the fountain. I will plant a few bulbs and protect them (somehow) from the depradations of the squirrels. But, for now, I will have a cup of tea--maybe outside in my rocking chair, with the fountain and birds for company.
But, in the fall...I am now so grateful for my 20x20 bricked-in patio. No leaves to rake, no mulch to spread, no lawn to mow, no acres (well, it always seemed like that) of frostbitten plants to slimily tangle around my fingers as I tried to clean up beds for the winter. In the fall, I can walk down to the river for my autumnal color fix. I can go to the nursery and replace my summer geraniums with chrysanthemums, and my pinks with pansies or ornamental cabbages. I can even (after a couple years of failure with assorted other plants there) water the sedums in the Wooly Pockets on my wall, stick in a couple mini-pumpkins and call them finished till Thanksgiving.
My various pots of spent lilies and other assorted perennials now host purple fall asters, and the foliage of my baby nandinas is turning bright red. The nameless shrubs that someone else trained into tree-shapes against the back wall are producing orange berries. (And no, they AREN'T pyracantha. I've questioned nursery people and have heard everything from euonymus to bittersweet--it's a mystery!) And all through this, I am within hearing distance of my fountain, burbling away in the middle of the patio, with the occasional bold bird swooping down for a drink or a splash. If my gate is open (and it is, so I can haul my hose back and forth) neighbors (walking dogs or themselves) almost always have a word or two to say about the flowers or the wreath on the door. Putting my 'garden' to bed is no longer a solitary chore--dirty, cold, and wet--but sort of an extended tidying up: an outside room that needs clutter-removal and sprucing up so that my winter windowscape will give me a lift instead of a dose of depression.
Today was the day. All that's left to do is a quick sweep of the bricks, and a wipe across the shed door to remove my dirty handprints. When the chrysanthemums and asters are done, I will cut them back, leaving my rosemary bushes in sole possession of the assorted pots and urns that surround the fountain. I will plant a few bulbs and protect them (somehow) from the depradations of the squirrels. But, for now, I will have a cup of tea--maybe outside in my rocking chair, with the fountain and birds for company.
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