Blooming poet

I thought this quote fitting for a blog named Bloom:

"But anyone who blooms at all, ever, is very lucky."

Sharon Olds

It's Sharon Olds' birthday today. I know this because my aunt Judie sent me one of her poems and a blurb from The Writer's Almanac. (For some reason I cannot copy and paste it here. Frustration. Blogger is not behaving lately. I can't drag photos either. ) I met her once when she gave a poetry reading at my college. Pure delight. When it was my turn to have her sign my (well, her) book, I bowed to her because I was in my Zen/Buddhist phase and in awe. I think she thought me crazy and I was embarrassed, but oh well. I always do dumb things when I meet people I worship.

The gist of the Writer's Almanac blurb is that Sharon Olds was getting her PhD in American Literature at Columbia University. Tried to write her own poetry, but felt like she was only imitating the poets she studied. One day, at 30 years old, she made a deal with the devil on the steps of Columbia's Library: "I will give up all I have learned here if I can just write my own poems, and I don't care if they're good. I just want to write my own stuff."

Seven years later she published her first collection of poems. She was a few years shy of 40. She said, "I was a late bloomer. But anyone who blooms at all, ever, is very lucky."

Remember that all you late bloomers. And all you fellow buds.

There's still time.

I'm not sure deals with the devil are the best way to go though.

Interestingly, her first book of poems was titled, Satan Says. Read some of her poems if you haven't. They are raw and real and brilliant. They read easily, for people who think they can't 'get' poetry.

Orchard Rack

Oh, look at this fun storage for "your harvest." I don't have enough winter crops to justify owning such a thing. I haven't had good luck with winter squash. I've haven't yet tried growing potatoes and I'm not much of an onion eater. My Birdhouse Gourds would fit probably fit only on the top shelf. But it caught my eye in the Gardener Supply Company catalog, says great for drying herbs. I would imagine great for drying seed pods too, and flowers. In the off season, don't you think paper and stamps would fit nicely, or drying sweaters? Any other ideas for this shelf?

Here's the little blurb:

An Orchard Rack is the Time-Tested Way to Store Your Harvest
Years ago, people stored "keeper" crops such as apples, winter squash, onions and potatoes on rustic wooden racks like this one. The drawers are slatted to ensure good air circulation, and they slide out for easy access. For best results, the rack should be located in a cool, dark cellar or shed.
Store your garden harvest for months of enjoyment
Ideal for keeping apples, squash, potatoes and more
Perfect for drying herbs, too

Pear sauce, cornucopia, walks

What do those words have in common?
Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're growing up, maturing, getting OLD, when you have no children to measure your self, your life, by.

Some signs of late.

Pear Sauce:

This weekend my big plan, my excitement, is to make a ginger/lime pear sauce with the gigantic bag of pears Maxine's mom gathered from her pear tree in Maine. She labeled one bag, "Bethany" and one bag, "Bunnies." The bunnies have been enjoying their pear snack each night, but the fruit will rot before the buns can eat them all. If I was properly mature, I would can the sauce, create homemade labels, maybe even give as Christmas gifts. But that feels too overwhelming and intense. I'm living in the moment, man, no canning for me (secretly wishing I could manage the canning ritual).

Cornucopia:

I keep getting sucked in by the evil 40% off coupons for Michael's. I need to just stay away. 40% off anything is still more money than I would've spent if I hadn't gotten the coupon or gone in the store. But so, today they had a 70% off bin out front filled with these wicker Cornucopia baskets. For some reason I've never much cared for the word cornucopia OR the actual thing. I have a general aversion that doesn't make much sense. The same strange way I used to feel nauseous by the color purple. Perhaps because the cornucopia shape reminds me of Bugles, probably the only snack in the world (well besides chocolate covered pretzels, gross) that I don't like. They taste like vomit to me.

In any case, I thought, why am I picking up these cornucopia baskets and smiling at them, checking the price, wanting to tuck one under my arm? I rarely buy things for the future. I struggle with believing in the future, so if I'm going to buy something, I want it to be something I can use now. But there I was, imagining all the different varieties of little gourds and pumpkins I will grow next year and how fun/satisfying it will be to arrange them artfully in this lovely cornucopia basket. Oh, maybe I need two, this large one and the small one. It would be nice to have one for a display at the library.

Actually, when Mike saw me arranging some of my pumpkins and gourds at the circulation desk, he asked if I had a cornucopia to put them in. I almost got hostile with him. I said, "No. I don't like cornucopias. I don't think I have even ever said that word." He threw his hands up and backed away, like, okay crazy lady, carry on with your gourds. So yes, I walk out the store, 2 cornucopias later. They go in the basement for next year. Now cornucopia is officially a word in my vocabulary and look, on my blog. (Hip hop music in background) "Everybody say, (swaying hands in the air), CORNUCOPIA, Yee ah." See, it just can't be a cool, young thing. Shove me in a cornucopia and call me an Old Maid. (Oh, spell check just told me I was spelling it wrong. I was spelling it cornAcopia, which is much better than the proper spelling and pronunciation, I think. The U makes it even more ew.

Walks:
Hi, I'm Bethany, and I take walks.

When Kathy and I were teens and into our 20s, we jogged. Well, she probably ran. She played every sport under the sun, cross country and track included. I can't run. But I can jog. Our mothers went for walks, in their mom jeans, or worse, in their matching windbreaker sets. Yeah, and then they came home and put the kettle on for tea. Kathy and I made a pact. We said to each other, "If I ever take walks for exercise, shoot me." I thought of this last weekend when I was walking the track, pumping my arms, swishing my fanny. Because now, if I walk for exercise, I am quite proud of myself. And I love a nice cuppa.

What is happening to me? After the walk, I did swing on the yellow swings for a quick moment, and jumped off without twisting or bruising anything. That's a good sign, right?

Bragging rights

Sorry, can't help it, my youngest brother has another photo slideshow for the New York Times online. His photos are in the actual paper today too, but I haven't been able to get my hands on one yet. I find that the most thrilling, to feel the newspaper in my hands, breathe in the familiar scent, hear the rustle as I turn the page and see his name and photography. The accompanying story by his colleague is rich and interesting. I can't believe the end, with the damn flags. Sheesh.

Justin blogs every so often and also has a commercial web site that's fun to meander through. Thanks for letting me brag. I'm so proud of him. He picked up a digital camera while he was taking courses at a community college in San Francisco. Started shooting and couldn't stop. Transferred to the city college and in the middle of his photojournalism courses, packed his camera and traveled to Vietnam. He fell in love with the country and people and now calls Vietnam home, but also has many opportunities for traveling, working for or selling his photos to The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Time Magazine and Newsweek. Wow. Little Justin. Crazy boy, following his bliss. Leaping and trusting his passion and instinct. Allowing himself to learn and grow as he goes. Making his dreams come true, seemingly, even before he knew he had them. He's an inspiration to me.

Peek-a-boo Maury

Bunnies need lots of fresh hay to munch on all day long (Guinea Pigs too). It should be the number one staple in their diet (80%). Hay is super important for their digestion, teeth, nutrition and basic health (timothy, not alfalfa hay, for adult rabbits). This means lots of loose hay strands around the house (cat toys!). You can tell any house rabbit person by the earthy hay scent that often permeates their car and home, hay bits on the floors, hay hairs stuck to sweaters. We also get unnaturally excited about yummy looking, second cut, especially fresh bales of hay. My friend Pam who runs the rabbit rescue has a source for special hay from Canada that the bunnies go wild for. She calls in "bun crack."

Maury gets a huge bunch of hay added to the remaining hay in his little manger every morning. I tuck it in there as neatly as I can. Then I vacuum (most bunny people also have at least one shop vac lying around their house) all the hay debris, stray bun poops, etc... so his cage is tidy. In no time flat, he's pulled out most of the hay and strewn it all over himself and his area. He was having a blast yesterday, making a little hay cave, that he then proceeded to eat himself out of. One of my favorite things in the world is watching a bunny eat hay, pulling out the really fresh pieces first, slurping them up like spaghetti, crunching all that great fiber and green.

Here's little Tulip. Often one can tell something is wrong with a bunny by their hay eating. If they do not eat much hay, either you've bought them some bad hay, or something is awry. I can tell when Tulip needs her teeth filed, because her hay consumption goes way down. She's sick right now and on meds. Some sticky, cherry flavored, red stuff that I get all over the place when I give it to her each night. When she gets better, I want to try to bond her with Maury (both are spayed/neutered) so they can live happily every after, in bunny bliss. Tulip lost her bond mate, Henry, a few months ago and Maury has been single all his life, as far as I know. He'd love a girlfriend to hit the hay with. ;-)

Oh is it Monday already? Sometimes I wish I could just pack a bag of hay for my lunch. Munch munch. Happy day, all.

Buried hope

We did it. Maybe not a huge feat for others, but for us, yes. Bulbs bought, bulbs buried. Susie was thinking out color combinations and height placement, carefully raking the areas she wanted to plant, digging the holes the exact depth directed on the package. I was ripping open plastic with my teeth, crawling around on my hands and knees, getting poked by sharp bushes, flinging the leaves out of my way, like a dog burying a bone, grunting and shoving the bulb planter thing wherever I could find a spot. Of course, I broke one of the tools. And I probably had plumber's butt going on. I got a lot dirtier than she did. This is also how I cook (maybe minus the crawling, grunting, butt crack showing) and why she often cooks and I do dishes.

Susie and I are both working around the mailbox. I've got tulips. She's got daffodils. She is talking to the bulbs as she's placing them in the dark holes. And she wasn't doing it for my benefit either. I'm sure if I wasn't there, she'd still be whispering little blessings to them. "Bye little buddy. You're okay. You're all tucked in. See you in the spring." She was also concerned about a monstrous earthworm. I had moved up the driveway by then and didn't really hear what the fuss was about. Gotta love butch women.

At one point she said of the bulbs, "I hope they make it." Without even thinking I said, "Don't worry, they will" and I dug another hole. I am usually the one who has no faith in the future, in things working out, growing. Susie had to teach me to trust the earth, the seeds, the process. I realized right then that I've come a long way in just a few years, and gardening has helped me have faith, to believe in good things, new life and growth.

So, we didn't plant tons, and the selection wasn't fantastic (Lowe's). I would love to take time and peruse fancy bulb catalogs, but I'm always out of money and energy for gardening by Fall. Still, come Spring, we will have some surprise and color. And for now we can hunker down too, allow a little rest, have something to look forward to, because we took the time to dig in the earth and bury those nuggets of hope.

Glow dome

I don't need more plastic. I don't need more THINGS. I certainly don't need toys. What I need to do is get some laundry in the washer and get my butt outside to plant the Tulip bulbs.

But... it's that time of year again, isn't it? When, instead of getting up for more cookies on the TV commercials, children point and jump up and down and say, I want THAT for Christmas. And that and that. The Target toy catalog comes and they are mesmerized, turning page after page, fighting over who gets to see it next, more pointing and wishing aloud. I don't have kids, but I know, because I do the same thing, sort of. I can't HELP it. I just saw this funky art toy in the Michael's circular. It's a glow dome! You draw on it and your drawings GLOW. They even spin. A personalized disco ball, I guess. On first spying it, I thought, oh, what now? And then, oh, hm, that might look cute in the craft room. I could write notes to myself on it. I could use it as a night light. It's magical.

And how bout this? A glow BOARD. Actually, I think it's called Glow Station. Who doesn't need a Glow Station? I would hang this in the hallway and instead of getting up for midnight snacks, I could get up for midnight art, draw cupcakes in illuminated strokes, instead of eating them. Paint some happy stars before bed and let them glow my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Write a silly note to Susie she will find when she stumbles out of bed for her "can't sleep, need a cigarette" walk to the front door (No smoking in the house).



At least if I had some nieces and nephews I could buy them these useless, plastic toys. I could play for a bit, and not feel guilty. I mean, really, I suppose I am just trying to find a way to avoid the real blank page: the art journal, the card, the watercolor paper that all wait for me to attempt some color, some creativity, some movement. I'd rather the flashing lights, the glowing pens, the silly, kid stuff. Since every time I try to sit down with myself, with my supplies, I get frustrated and scared. More on that later, maybe. Or not.


But if I had a niece or nephew, wouldn't I rather take them for a nature walk, do some leaf rubbings when we got home? Or iron our leaf findings between wax paper? Buy them a new set of old fashioned crayons with the sharpener in the back, and a big thick pad of white sketch paper? Mold clay together, paint rocks?


Well yeah. I'm both. I get suckered in by the glitz and materialism. But I want to keep things simple too. That pull. It always gets strongest around now, around the holiDAZE.

Okay, I'm going out now to dig in the earth, to clean up the yard. Something I know how to do, something connecting and energizing and real.

Glow on.