April 11, 2010
seeing green
To see, really see, green you must see spring. I cannot seem to come inside during these near perfect southern days; the outside is so alluring and I am so pathetically weak. I mean, who really cares if the laundry is not folded; you can easily find what you need in the heap on the floor – it is all clean. And what if the dishes are not put away; there are several plates and cups in the dish drain, easily accessible and squeaky clean.
I have to be in my garden now, for summer’s heat will soon enough roll in and I will be inside escaping it. I look at the pear trees and think of late July when the twins were in high school and loaded up on pears to take to the lake.
I look at the blackberry bushes and I see my kids when they were small filling little buckets of berries and I would bake cobblers in the afternoon when the day broke and we came inside to rest.
I see the honeysuckle vines sprawling on fences and in the woods, soon it will be May and the night air will be sweet from their fragrance and I will know school is nearly over. These days are fleeting and I must capture all that I can.
My cousin, Glenda, sent me something that is the essence of this feeling, a poem by
Louise Erdrich.
"Advice to myself."
"Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs at the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew in a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls under the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzle
or the doll's tiny shoes, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic.
Go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementoes.
Don't sort the paperclips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in through the screened windows, who collect
patiently on tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience."
"Advice to myself."
"Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs at the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew in a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls under the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzle
or the doll's tiny shoes, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic.
Go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementoes.
Don't sort the paperclips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in through the screened windows, who collect
patiently on tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience."
Go outside and plant a packet of seeds, embrace the season and...
b u,
p.s.
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