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Posts Tagged ‘rain water’

I’m writing this five days after the winter solstice, windows open on a 63-degree F night, and waiting for proper winter to arrive. I can’t wait for the aqua-blue evening light, the perfectly still air, the sheets of glassy ice at the curb. And yet…the light brightens just a little more every day. That’s an ancient promise we can count on.

I’ve talked a lot here about communing with the earth. It’s probably my favorite topic. Cooking, foraging, digging around in the ground—all are like butter on a burn to me, and I suspect they always will be.

But the backstory, the one I haven’t yet told, is this: I don’t cook and forage and dig because they’re a pleasant way to spend a Thursday, or because they’re trendy (perish that last thought along with skinny jeans). I do it because the earth is home. She’s blood. She’s safe. Always has been. The earth, the outdoors, consistently gave me what I couldn’t get indoors. And harvesting and eating what comes from her today is natural, if you’ll forgive the pun. It’s one of the dozens of ways I can keep reaching out and grabbing her hand.

The earth and I go way back. One of my earliest memories is when I was a toddler, pulling a long weed from the side yard, and being genuinely surprised that there wasn’t a carrot at the other end of it. We kids spent an inordinate amount of time outside. I learned the best ways to traverse hedges between yards, and it didn’t fail. I waited for certain flowers to bloom every year, and they always did. Spring rain water felt differently in my fingers than fall rain water. (It feels thicker. Maybe it is.) I can still remember the scent of the little white flowers that grew on a hedge at the end of our block, as well as in my uncle’s backyard around the corner. I still have the scent of May in my nose. It smells green. Of course.

(And today, right now, my bedroom is green: On Christmas Eve I hung juniper and white pine branches on the wall above my bed, and willow branches are literally hanging from my ceiling. It was a trick, considering I’m 5’3″, the ceiling is 9.5′, and I only have a dinky stepladder. [Don’t ask. I made it work.] I’ve always wanted to feel as though I was falling asleep in a magic glade, and with the shadows and tiny white lights on my tree, also in my room…it is. And I can have the windows open, no less.)

My earth experiences growing up weren’t all great; I remember the hurricanes at the end of summer, the ice storms and mud and heat waves. Getting pricked by wild-rose thorns and getting poison ivy blisters. But I never felt afraid when I was outside. I always felt protected. Cradled. I knew where to go when I needed cradling, and I was never left wanting.

And that sense of safety remains to this day. There’s a powerful serenity in knowing when I have a crap day that the ocean will be there for me. Always. There’s a serenity in knowing that the underside of a magnolia leaf will be brown and fuzzy, and that the blackberries beneath the canes will be sweetest. The wild lilies-of-the-valley down by the lake will be palest pink, the wild crocuses will be lavender. When the sun comes back, I get to visit them again. I wrap this knowledge around me, and it is profound comfort.

The earth can be messy and unpredictable, that’s for sure. There’s always been mud, and storms, and heat waves. There always will be. I still get pricked by wild-rose thorns, and I get poison ivy blisters on my hands every year like clockwork.

But here’s the important thing, the biggest reason why I take it all in stride: the heat waves always pass. I can count on that like I can count on the crocuses. There will always be beauty at the end of the block. Old friends will poke their noses up from the ground, and new ones will, too. I will get surprises every day, of every year. I laugh when I see them half the time because I never saw them coming.

The earth never fails me. No matter what befalls, good or mud. She always gives the sun back.

Spring always comes.

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