Moving Parts
I’ve given up trying to describe the colors of the morning sky; no dictionary can even come close to what I see. Words like “pink”, “orange”, even “periwinkle” fall short and land on the page as an insult rather than the tribute I want them to be. At this moment, a copper disc of moon is slipping into the wide embrace of the west and it’s hard to concentrate on writing.
Miles from my spot on the couch, a friend is hurting deeply and almost nothing can touch it, yet I’m imagining a small basket of tea things and a comforting mug of some sort, a gesture from a helpless and caring heart.
My right arm is injured and it’s my own fault. I tried to shift a stack of market supplies in the back of the car (two folding tables beneath two packed and heavy totes of product) on the strength of two fingers and felt the tendons in my forearm stretch and tear. Patrick massaged in some capsaicin cream ever so tenderly after we’d unpacked and settled in for the afternoon and that carried me through the night. But it’s morning now and I’m hoping I can grip the handle of my walking stick before I head out to the woods to survey the wind damage from a couple nights ago.
Over-easy eggs sound good for breakfast, the way my mom made them—butter melted in the skillet, then slide in the eggs yolks with their opaque and clingy whites, let them just set before adding a splash of cold tap water and hurry to put the lid on while the bread toasts. Ten seconds in, remove from the heat, keep that lid on and don’t peek until another thirty seconds have passed. Magical, because the water loosens the whites from the pan so there’s no wrestling to get them out with a spatula and risk breaking those golden and perfectly set yolks. If you’re feeling indulgent, mash some avocado on that warm toast, drizzle with olive oil and a sprinkle of salt and nestle the eggs in close (a little white hanging over the edge of the plate adds curb appeal). Sit wherever you’re most comfortable and fall into it all with anticipation and gratitude.
We’re noticing lately at the market that folks are lingering past the point of sale to talk. Sometimes it’s rather weighty and important, not granola-related at all, and we’re humbled at the outpouring of trust that accompanies their heartbreaking stories. We listen carefully and remember their names as if they were family (which they are, in a way), make note of what they bought and wonder how we might be more helpful. It was never about the money when we began this whole market venture; more about connecting with community and offering something relevant and uplifting, with a side of crunch. We think we’re there on the granola end of things; the rest is pure gift and grace. Who are we to be the guardians of their troubles, giving them our undivided attention and abiding reassurance that they’re safe with us, even in the open air of a bustling and friendly market filled with nourishment of all kinds? Sometimes the ride home is quiet.
Mind you, I’ve not done the hard research but it seems our bright scarlet cardinals (the birds, not the clerics) have found their voices again and insist on telling me and everyone that the days are slowly getting longer so why are you still sitting inside? I don’t recall them being this excited when there was a thick comforter of snow on every walking path. I do plan to look into this a little more, but for now it’s enough that I’m not singing in the morning by myself. You don’t even want to get me started on the return of the spring peepers, who made their audible appearance yesterday afternoon under and alongside the narrow bridge that gives us safe passage over a tumbling creek. Hypnotic doesn’t begin to touch it.
If we are the constant thread that connects this busy hive of a life we live, then well done us. But it’s not a mantle we wear with arrogance or self-importance. Sometimes I marvel that the deer and muskrats even let us walk the land with them and most days I feel like a respectful intruder (if those two qualities were to ever team up). When the creek breaks its banks with the greatest enthusiasm and then, days later, it all recedes to a manageable flow, I get to stand where the water combed the young spring grass flat on the rich soil. I see evidence of a deer’s less-than-graceful slide down the Hill to the west and wonder if other deer nearby snickered as they observed the spectacle on their morning run. What’s left to our imaginations here is vast and it’s not like we’re wanting for topics to discuss over dinner, but what does go on in the meadow after we’ve turned off the porch light? Somebody snarling over shared territory or hunting privileges, perhaps, or one of the kittens almost meeting one of our skunks and wisely deciding to leave that relationship for another day.
For the past several weeks, our work-life balance has been in a chaotic free fall and we’re working on finding our surefootedness again. We know we have choices as to what we set our hands and hearts to but…what to set aside or pause for a while? Not the morning walks, for goodness’ sake—they’re my sanity and without them I’d be intolerable and the opposite of helpful. The granola business? Not if we want to pay off the truck early. And this year’s garden is well on its way to stocking our pantry, plus it’s great exercise and grounding. The kittens are economically soft therapy within arm’s reach and somewhere down the road is a place I get to go every weekday to work in exchange for health insurance and selfless colleagues who companion the dying.
Guess I’ll keep doing what’s been working—stay in motion, sit for a while when it’s necessary and wake up tomorrow in the lap of another chance to get it right.
