Author: Meticulosity

Well, I did have high hopes that spring might have arrived. I know April can be a cruel month but this is downright absurd. The snow is accompanied by a very chilly north wind, which my neighbour describes as “clean air.” Like drinking pure water, we have this lovely clean pure air from the north. Yes I appreciate that aspect of it. My lungs thank Jack Frost. But it is so damn cold! To think that five days ago I was cutting back ornamental grass and pruning the raspberry bush. Last weekend, I planted lettuce seeds and had a celebratory beer as the temperature climbed to a comfortable 14 c. Now it is minus six, and all I see are the precursors to spring blooms — I think that the late daffodils will somehow end up merging with the early tulips for quite a show, if the squirrels don’t finish things off first.

To add insult to injury I even washed and readied the hummingbird feeder, just in case they arrived early, pooped and hungry.

Like a confused migratory bird, there is something unsettled in me, about all this. I have my mid season agenda, to sit out on the deck and relish signs of spring, enjoy the smells of thawed soil, and the beginning sounds of the peepers, frogs in the neighbouring wetland, while distant v-shaped tracings of geese shift and ebb from south to north. But now? Now the windows are shut, the wind howls as the clouds race by and I do my best to cheerfully find scarf, gloves, parka and toque for a good natured stroll in the back fields for what surely must be winter’s last hurrah.

 

Just on the tipping point out of winter and into spring. This week the bulbs made a commendable effort before being startled by a cold snap. The morning of this picture was cold, clear, and still. The low light glowed like the embers of an approaching summer heat wave. I am optimistic. I like the warmth.

It is strange how a simple crystal clear day can raise spirits, make you want to plunk down on a wood fence (in your parka and toque) and listen to the silence for a long while. But days move, with their own speed and don’t really wait for you to have a moment. For that you have to be the moment and be in the moment.

I’ve noticed that what nurtures me through this time of year is hope. and the hope is more specifically for the show that the garden will give me, and after the show, the bounty, that I can wander among and pinch at and nibble on. The yard is layered with memory now, of what I planted years before, and what spring bulbs I planted more recently, in the fall. There are victories –– sugar baby watermelon –– and disasters –– the never bearing blueberry bush. I am determined this year to combine visuals, a butterfly garden, with tastes, raspberries where the strawberries failed. I am slowly learning what works, what doesn’t and which plants ask for some compromise, diplomacy, and a little understanding.

While I wait for the first bits of daffodil yellow, I will relish the low light that paints the morning gold, and will soon enough warm the petals and leaves of this grey garden.

A few days ago, a heavy mist “shrouded” our part of the county. Shrouded? Clouded. Slipped in. Grew into. Aspirated itself. Well, all of the good verbs have been used. Let me say then that the fog gave a theatre-set appearance to our world. The way flyes and curtains and backdrops and foot lights never really convince an audience of depth of space, this fog managed to define tree line, foreground and background in clearly defined dimensions. That particular day I did not have my camera, so could not catch a photo of the eight deer feeding in the field behind our meadow…you’ll just have to trust that I saw them. In the mist, on the stage set, leafless ghosts of trees defining a foreground and background.

(I think the mist elicited a sense of security. So yes the mist covered our land like a security blanket, literally.)

When the deer became aware of our presence some collected, joined the others––not at a panicked pace––and then, in a very specific order, one after the other bounced single file to the distant woods, where they could find more security.

Yesterday, in the clear morning air and with camera in hand I came across the deer, only four this time, and they paused for my photo op. I made no secret of my presence and they seemed to find this more reassuring than when I disappeared momentarily behind a nearby tree to continue on my path. It was then that they took flight, and very quickly. Only the white underside of their tails flashing in high arcs in the distance, as I emerged from behind the tree.

On the foggy day, I had cursed myself for leaving the camera, but was later reminded as I recounted my story and my carelessness, that it would be the mind that would have to record this beautiful tableau this time.

I have become obsessed with that perfect night sky picture. We live under a perfect night sky, clear enough to see the spontaneous flare of a shooting star, a passing plane or satellite.

Photographing the night sky has reminded me more of being in the moment than most other moments in nature have done. In the winter, with a still minus 25 Celsius night, the fingers pinch, bare feet (yes) sear –– I am too lazy to dress properly –– all because the night sky has caught me by surprise and I have to dash around to get camera, tripod and perhaps a coat.

Photographing the night sky can bring you into the moment, as you wait for the 25 second exposure, staring skywards, or it can take you far from the moment as you stare longingly at the camera, hoping that the picture will be clear (meanwhile the night sky revolves over head, clear as a bell, wondering if I’ll have the wherewithal to take note).

One night I half cursed as the camera focused on the Southern sky, while a shooting star streaked overhead, not that far off from a fish that got away story, but I do see them from time to time. Nothing that you can plan on.

I post this picture because I think it may be the clearest one I have taken so far, you can’t set focus on infinity, it must be just short of infinity, and for some reason I managed to set the focus just right, somewhere between here and forever. Indeed I must have been in the moment to remember all of this…

I looked out the window this morning expecting some more cloud cover, some grey, some chill. A soft layer of morning cloud, lay between me and an unmistakable hint of blue. And on the horizon, behind our closest Juniper, sparks of sunlight broke through the branches. For one day, or several hours at least, a temperamental winter had loosened its grip.

We set out towards the woods and the ravine, for our “long” weekend walk. The whining wail of coyotes greeted us, a sound normally heard after sunset and then in the deeper hours of the night. But they must have been hailing the changing texture of flash frozen stream and path beds, where rain followed by deep freeze had created a shiny, slippery landscape. Even my dog knew to walk around these obstacles. Me, not so much, as I teetered comically (and ignorantly) to keep up.

I had to unzip my parka, and soon I was sweating in the generous heat of the sun. We passed a trickling stream, found smells that had been preserved throughout the season, to now melt, rot, act as clues and guideposts and way markers for the busyness of wildlife traffic whose prints criss-cross our path.

With the help of our neighbour we have forged a path for the spring, but with this optimism I must remember that March hasn’t even given us thought. We lie in the way of a moody month whose history is the stuff of legends, as we recall mid-month snowfalls of years gone by. And as always April will promise more than it delivers. For now, we grab a doggy toy and head for the yard to break through a softening crust with all the satisfaction of popping a layer of bubble wrap, and sink into a granular layer of diamonds.

We had a whole lotta snow this week, for one day, and it was just like snow days as a kid, where getting to school was impossible, but not so to bundle up and play for hours until soaked through with sweat and boots full of melting snow from tunneling, rolling, constructing, swimming, drowning and face washing in the stuff.

My dog expresses the joy I feel at the snow as he delves and dives like the Loch Ness monster towards the back of the meadow, only to collapse again indoors from the rigorous workout.

I look at the garden and am optimistic this year. This year, less failures and more flowers. A neighbour planted a garden from seed in a tiny plot in the back fields, the likes of which struck me as magic and secret and perhaps not planted by anyone during the past century. Such was my thinking until I asked her. It provided waves of colour from poppies to cosmos to bachelor buttons, a shock of colour visible from half a kilometre away.

I have no idea why I feel the way I do in the grayness of melting snow right now, perhaps optimism mixed with a bit of ego. We’ll see. We’ll eat lettuce early, beans middle and then tomatoes followed by squash. And among it all butterflies will flutter from bloom to bloom. And my dog will be there to help with the harvest.

Well it hasn’t been a harsh winter; I can tell by the number of times we have been able to venture through the meadow to the farmer’s fields in the back. Recent winters have meant double layers of ice, and snow in between, like a large cake made of a rock hard icing, a combination which makes our forays to the back nearly impossible.

Today is one of the coldest, minus thirty last night and only minus twenty this afternoon, but no wind, no clouds, full sun that felt warm at times, on my cheeks. It was silent and holy out back. Both I and my dog stood stock still, listening to the nothingness and wondering if we would look back at the photograph of this precious moment, once we were far away in time and space, in heaven perhaps, or nowhere. You cannot help but wonder on a day like this.

A few weeks ago I found a dead rabbit by the house, feet away from the deck under which they hide, or live, or hibernate. Did he freeze to death, feet from his den, I wondered. he only had a small bit of blood coming from one eye. Since last year, and another unfortunate rabbit and a squirrel as well, who have found themselves whole and dead in the yard, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps a bird of prey had dropped the prizes and was unable to retrieve it.

The other night the dog was barking at the distant whoo, whoo of an owl. Later in the night, actually early in the morning he started up again as had the owl. I turned on the white noise making machine I keep in the bedroom for such moments; the sound of waves crashing dulls the noise of coyotes, owls, other dogs barking. I looked out the living room window and in the pale light of a crescent moon I could make out a large mass atop one of the junipers. He hooted again, periodically, and evenly timed I imagined, between hoots. Suddenly the mass grew, dropped from the tree top and curved in a grand fashion towards me, before turning and heading west. A mixture of surprise and fear swept over me, as did the satisfaction of almost seeing an owl.

What I noticed in the seconds following the departure, however, was the shape of the large juniper outside the window, upon which the owl had perched. The mid branches seemed much longer than the others, both above and below, and in the dimness had the look and feel of huge arms reaching out to embrace the house. It was with this image, being embraced, that I returned to bed. Once again I felt the comfort and security that this land offered, there to be acknowledged and noticed if one took the time.

Well I have written about road kill and various stages of life out here, so this may be no different. I was cleaning out the shed and adding a new shelf yesterday. I removed a box with a small piece of machinery in it, left by a repair man. Tucked in around the machinery was a lot of fluffy stuff, fabric, the kind of stuff you find in the dryer vent. I unpacked the machinery, deciding it was now destined for the dump, after spending the requisite number of years in our purgatorial shed. From the stuffing fell six little mice, only old enough to be covered in hair and no longer in the pink stage. Other than that, eyes were closed and mouths hoping for a tit to suckle. I hated myself for disturbing these little guys. They tried as best they could to burrow into the grass, but I pulled at their wee tails and replaced them into the box, with some amount of stuffing. Each one had his own particular character, and one, who nearly got left behind, if I hadn’t gone back for a second or third look, was quite bold and adventuresome, and finally quite content to be in the warmth of my palm. I returned the box to the shed with the hope and yes, prayer, that the mother would return. I fear I may find a box of dead baby mice in several days.

Some, even I, might have just as easily flushed them down the toilet, but we had been down this route before, with a younger family, who immediately died at exposure to the sun. Not only was it their vulnerability that touched me, but it was the unique definable character of each one, already, only days old.

Earlier in the day, on our walk on the road, my dog and I came across a dying baby snake. The vehicles leave them stunned, flattened or dead. This one appeared dead, but when I held his soft body, his tail started to move. I brushed the gravel from the little bit of blood on his mouth, and invoked all I could with my non-existent miraculous powers, to let the creature live, or then, I decided, at least die a painless death. I placed him in the grass and we went on our way.

As you see, the photo posted only shows the scale to which this tiny world exists, the size of a thumbnail, baby carrot or raspberry or less.

When we have time to stop, things happen, bright red dragon flies alight on our knee for a tiny conversation; a large fly with huge eyes explores my hand and then climbs on the finger I offer, with no threat of squashing him, not this time anyway. I look a the big eyes, and the proboscis as it taps my skin, tasting something.

Later though, as I open the sun umbrella on the deck, something huge and hornet-like falls out and seemingly takes a chunk of flesh from my back before soaring off into the tree. I wail. Long and loud. I am sure this will leave some swollen scar or that I will sink into shock. But there is no evidence of the painful event. I wonder now if it was the same wasp I rescued from the window sill yesterday, held by its wing as I pulled the screen from the window and flicked it out…

Regardless of the fact that my gardening philosophy is a somewhat slipshod mosaic of trial and error, there are moments of unplanned flora nearby that are quite orderly and not of my doing. While walking in the back fields –– many tens if not several hundred acres –– of fields cultivated from time to time, I came across this patch of wildflowers. I can only describe it as in the middle of nowhere. Once upon a time there was a farmhouse, but all that remains now are some disorganized slabs, a spring fed pool, collapsed fence and not much else. Trees and nature have grown up around this area, at least a kilometre from the road.

I first noticed this area as a blazing patch of red on the far edge of a field into which I had never ventured. What was it? When I stepped toward the patch, it was as if I had set foot into a magical field; I saw a luna moth and there was a serenity surrounding me and my dog as well. The camera battery had died, so this picture is from the following day, when I revisited the site. I wonder why this little place, no more than a hundred square feet exists. It is a burial ground? Sacred ground? Magic? I have been told that there is a thin veneer between the sacred and profane world, on our property. Is this a sign of such a phenomenon?

I was by the area yesterday, and it continues to thrive, different annuals now, mixed with poppies, wave in the breeze. meanwhile my own garden chokes itself with weeds and thirsty perrennials.

 

I was in Toronto this past weekend attending a conference and, after taking the wrong turn to get into town, ended up following Bayview all the way to the Rosedale Valley Road, which, for all the years I had lived in Toronto, I had never come upon. It was charming I thought to myself as I followed the latest, sportiest and most silver Mercedes, up the valley. It was a place I would have found myself walking or biking frequently, were I to ever live there again. The city is blessed with lungs, the Don and Humber Valleys to name two, which provide recreation for humans and a natural highway for fauna moving north and south through the metropolis.

But there were other times as I navigated the concrete that I felt the distinct secondary place nature has in the life of the city. Since I moved to the country, hours that I might spend in a coffee shop, restaurant, or simply indoors planning and then attending an activity, concert, show, gallery, are spent sitting on the deck staring at the meadow and being enthralled by the crowded and busy world around me.

I woke that night realizing that all the houses, so close together, were covering the little worlds that had become so familiar to me. Yes, the tree frogs buzzed and crickets chirped, but they had to make there way though this maze of habitation.

What struck me, as I made my way to the conference centre (while bemoaning the fact that everything was covered in concrete), was that, as soon as I got to that little park you see in the picture (appearing to be at the foot of the CN Tower), the sound of nature filled my ears, surrounded me, and distracted me, a huge accomplishment, from the busyness of traffic on that corner, people going to the Jay’s game, a concert and waves of tourists. I felt for a moment that this acre was speaking my language.