Putting it to rest.

I dug up my squash plants. The leaves died, no more blooms. The end of my sweet yellow summer squash. A demise in a forest of weeds in my ‘compost’ pile. Time for the earth to renew itself. Time to let that corner of the garden rest for a few months. Next to go will be the increasingly dry cucumber vines. No matter how much water I carry, it never matches the quality of a soft summer rain. The plants just soak it up, they don’t appreciate it. And the smell isn’t nearly as sweet. The only thing still clinging to life is a few tomato plants, the few remaining of the second planting, as the first were killed off by the blight and half of the second got annihilated by tomato bugs. So much for the wonder of sevendust. Those big green horny moth-wannabe’s certainly ate their fill from my garden. My two metal planters, large washtubs, are slowly meeting their demise also. Soon the one full of watermelon vines (as no watermelons have been allowed to survive thanks to my woodland friends)  will be filled with fall colored pansies, ready to soak up the cool air and the fall chill as much as I am.  The only thing really thriving is the line of marigolds at the back of my little golden. They are almost ready to bloom, planted late, with buds now bursting at the seams. They will bring an array of sunset oranges and wheaty golden yellows to my garden just as the leaves begin to change into brightly colored candies.

My garden will rest for the winter. Fortifying itself for the spring planting season. I will begin gathering seeds and flats, soil and fertilizers so that the spring thaw will not be ahead of me. The garden will sleep amidst the clang of horseshoes and the crackle of a pine campfire. For there is nothing more peaceful than the crackle of pine, a sky full of stars, and the laughter of friends as a garden sleeps.

Autumn Glories, Fading Fast…

I love when fall begins it’s descent. You can feel it in the movement of the evening air. It’s a crisp sunrise, with a bite and a taste, that slowly gives way to a soggy summer morning heat. It ambushes us in our sleep, turns the forest into a painting, and the starry sky in to the clearest of dreams. The crows call differently, and the hayfields lean slightly more. The creek water rejoices in the renewed purity of the ever giving mouth, those feeding waters that grow colder and purer as the air changes with our breaths. It consumes us, and before we are fully aware of it’s coming, we have succumbed to it’s glory, we’ve resigned to bask in it’s glow.

Mountain Momma

When I get in my car and I turn it East (towards education, towards the buzz of neon lights, towards intellect and opportunity, towards Towson), I get the sense that part of me stays behind. I believe, fully, that parts of our soul belong to certain places, and the further I travel East, the more I feel my soul drain from my body to remain with the Mountains of my home, these Mountains of my heart.

At first my leaving is full glory, full speed ahead. The promise of the unknown being so close that I can reach out and grasp it. But like the fog that rolls through these valleys on a cool morning, I am shrouded by the Mountains, embedded in them and protected by them. The emergence is a slow process, as you feel yourself adjust to a gentle roll rather than a constant battle of climb and descent. But it is within this battle between depth and clarity that I can sense that my essence, my breath, my security is slowly being left, like a trail that the Mountains know that I will return to follow, picking up the pieces, and restoring them to their rightful places.

Love completely, without complete understanding

Some things simply have to be experienced. No explanation will do them justice and no opinion could change their individual effect. Listen to the words that no one is saying, and learn from the depth of each worldly thing’s soul. Only then will you catch a glimpse of true understanding.

Life Among the Living

There is something remarkable to be found in the life of the living. The exciting, the daring, the invigorating. For surely every man dies, but not every man truly lives. The man who lives will seek out life, finding it hidden in the most inexplicable of places and exacerbating his options until a new opportunity arises. This constant clashing of ideas is the sound of freedom. It resonates in the gloriously lined halls of ambition, and lingers in the mind laying in the shadows. It brings a smile to the face of the memory holder and it can arise in full glory at the next chance of execution.