a sort of essay about the beauty I witnessed this morning.

If ever I doubt that beauty can exist in Los Angeles, I stand corrected. Watching a morning unfold as I did today was astoundingly graceful and I can only hope to describe it true to form.

I awoke this morning at 5:15 feeling rested and ready to start the day. This is probably due to the fact that I lumbered into bed at 9:30 last night, the weight of the last four days of constant going finally coming down on me. I slept like a log. It really was no surprise to me that at 5:15 I felt ready to go. I was hungry, but I ignored the grumbling in favor of a cozy bed and a library book and savored this extra time to do as I pleased. I'm currently reading "Prodigal Summer" by Barbara Kingsolver, the beginning of which is riddled with poetic descriptions of springtime beauty. As she described the different types of birdsong to be found in Appalachia, I realized that a symphony of chirping was beginning out my own window.

I decided to arise when the light through my window had brightened from little blue lines between the blinds to something warmer. It was 7:15. Two hours of relaxed reading bliss? Excellent. I walked to the second bedroom and peered through the curtains. I'm not sure what I expected to find as that window looks straight at my neighbor's stucco wall, but daylight was there, fresh and crisp, and in the sky there was a blanket of white and gray clouds. Fresh. Cozy.

I opened my front door and stood, looking through the screen. Birdsong now amplified, uninhibited by the sound barrier of the door. Washing over me. Beautiful. I opened my back door and stood on the landing. The morning is cool, fresh, alive. Still in my fuzzy robe and slippers, I padded out to check the seedlings. Tomatos: thriving. Lettuces: now have three leaves instead of two. Chard: far surpassing any of the chard I attempted to plant at the community garden. Hope that I have done something better the second time around? I walk a little farther, off of the cement and onto the little path I made with brick squares. I examined the buckwheat I planted, now sprouting everywhere, hoping it will improve the soil in my little dirt yard.

I'm startled by the sprinklers when they turn on; almost laugh out loud when I jump backwards in attempt to avoid getting wet. They interrupt my thoughts and they interrupt the peaceful sounds of the morning: the birdsong, the quiet hum of the highway, the occasional car. I realize that the sprinklers come on in sections, starting at the top of the yard, I am at the bottom. I think to myself that I've never actually watched them run before, and so this is good. Good to make sure they're all working, since at some point I'd like to plant vegetables in the dirt and it's nice to know that everything would be watered evenly. The buckwheat sprouts stand in contrast to the darkening ground, looking proud and green and prolific.

I turn my attention to my seedlings once more, leaky hose nozzle making me wonder if as much water is spilling onto the cement as is going into my watering can as I fill it. I water my seedlings, and as the buckwheat did they stand out against the darkened soil.

I head inside and turn my attention to breakfast, pulling leftover pancakes out of the refrigerator and heat them in the microwave. I remember that the blueberries I put in the pancakes were not so good, but I asked too much of them: I made blueberry lemonade with them twice and then not wanting to throw them away cooked them in pancake batter yesterday. They tasted mealy. I searched the cupboard for some homemade jam: I know there must be some in here somewhere, a Christmas gift from my aunt and uncle in New York. Aha! Behind the canned beans. Strawberry Jam, 2010. I find half of an avocado in the refrigerator and sprinkle some salt on it. I heat up water and make hot chocolate. I spread butter and jam on my pancakes.

Where to sit? I'm not through enjoying this morning, I decide. Besides, the kitchen table is covered with half-finished wedding invitations and the back door has a beautiful beam of light coming through it. The doorway it is. I really must invest in an outdoor table, as I've taken to eating more and more meals on my back step in the sunshine. I sit. I savor my breakfast (picking out the blueberries, apologizing to my taste buds and the berries that I tried to make their flavor last longer than it could), sip my cocoa, watch, and listen.

From my doorstep I can see the balconies of my neighbors. Not a one has stirred. I can see the top of the tree that grows in front of their house. It is in bloom. It is the same kind of tree that grows outside the kitchen of my parent's house, and the yellow blossoms have an intoxicatingly sweet smell. Something like jasmine or honeysuckle. A woodpecker drums away. A large black bird flies determined across the cloudy sky. A swallow alights from the sweet-smelling tree. An ant climbs among the fibers of my fuzzy blue bathrobe. The cool air bathes my face with the most gentle of breezes, almost like the morning is inhaling and exhaling around me. I get the feeling that I'm camping, except I'm here, eating breakfast on my back step, in a suburb of Los Angeles, and the freeway is within walking distance.

The morning has blossomed before me. I am glad I took the time to experience it.

lessons in patience, then joy

I made some "row" markers

I'm learning that this whole growing your own food thing takes a lot of patience. And a lot of trust that what you plant in the ground will actually produce something edible! I've been checking on the mini-farm about every other day, and while there is progress it is slow going.

Pea 11/24

Pea 11/ 29

 

Pea 12/5

Pea Signage

I'm sure this impatience is a symptom of living in a fast-paced society where anything I want is fairly easily within reach. If I wanted peas I could just go to the store and buy some. Why plant them myself and wait for them to grow? I mean, really; if I wanted soup I could just go to a restaurant and buy some. Why make it myself?

Turnips 11/24

Turnips 11/29

Turnips 12/5

Why? Because the art of caring for oneself, of knowing how to nourish oneself from the ground up is becoming lost and I want to keep it alive. And I know that in learning to tend to the lives of the plants that will sustain us, I am learning how better to sustain myself.

Broccoli 11/24

Broccoli 11/29

Broccoli 12/5

Broccoli Signage

Besides being a place which will contribute to our physical sustenance, I am finding that the mini-farm is a restorative haven. I love visiting. My favorite part is listening to the ground absorb the water. It sort of snap-crackle-pops its way down to the roots of the little baby veggies.

Radish + Beet 11/24

 

Beet + Radish 11/29

Radish 12/5

Beet 12/5

As a nurse, I work three twelve-hour shifts a week. Sometimes I have to stop by and water on my way to work at about six am. On Friday I did just that, and knowing that I would be taking care of a patient who is dying I took an extra moment to thank the earth for giving life even when life is being lost. That act helped give me the perspective I needed to keep my attitude positive throughout the shift.

Carrot 11/24

Carrot 12/5

Carrots 11/29

Another joy I've discovered is in sharing the garden with others. Today J and I watered the garden after church, and in doing so attracted some of the children. We showed them what plants we were growing, and they giggled with delight when the water "accidentally" squirted them. As we were about to leave, a couple of our friends asked how the garden was growing, and we eagerly led them back to the garden to show off its progress. It is fun to share the joy of new growth, a foretaste of the joy that will come in sharing the harvest.
 

Leek 11/29

Leek 12/5

Except for the parsnips, everything we have planted has begun to sprout! The chard and kale look a lot like the beets and broccoli, respectively.

Chard 11/24

Chard 11/29

Chard 12/5

Kale 11/24

Kale 12/5

I've saved the best for last; my favorite are the fava beans!

Fava 11/29

Fava 12/5

Waiting for the crops to grow is an exercise in patience, but there is joy to be found within the process.

What are you waiting for? How can you find joy in the space that is created by waiting?

Blessings,

M

a role model.

Found this video on http://www.howtohomestead.org/

Someday I hope to be like this lovely woman: resourceful, strong, confident, and joyful.

Well, with one exception: no matter how much water it saves, I won't be washing my pet's dishes in the same water as my own. But then again, she's a microbiologist and appears pretty healthy.  Maybe doing so presents no harm to our health after all.



My favorite part (besides the rain barrels, ingenious ways to flush a toilet, and the sheer charm of the lady)?

The absolute joy that radiates from ear to ear when she cuts her homegrown artichoke for dinner, as if it's the first time she's ever done so.  It's obvious that she has learned to enjoy the every day pleasures life has to offer!

Now that's a character trait I'm after.

I think it may even be the secret to happiness.

<3 M

P.S. If the video doesn't load, try refreshing your screen. Or you can just go to the website referenced above.

What it's truly all about.

I've been trying to buy as many of my groceries at the farmer's market as possible lately and have found myself in a slight conundrum - which sellers to buy from. With some, it's easy. There's one guy who sells honey. Buy his honey. There's one guy who sells bread. Buy that bread.

But when I get to the fruit and vegetables, it's a toss up. I wander around the stands a few times, waiting for the perfect produce to jump out at me and scream "pick me! pick me!" as if one grower's crookneck squash could really be that different from his neighbor's. I've thought about buying from the grower who is the closest, or who is the most organic. But I haven't really felt like asking all of them detailed questions about their farming practices, or doing the math to find out which one uses the least amount of gas to get to Myrtle Ave. every Fri. night.

And then my coworker gave me the "well...duh" answer I needed. I was blabbing at the breakfast table about how I've been buying from the farmer's market and I get stuck wandering as I try to figure out who to buy from and she simply said just buy from the people who are the nicest. I mean, let's think about it. What is the most basic point of the farmer's market anyway - to foster community, to bring consumers a step closer to the land they live off of, and to eliminate the middle man between the farmer and the hungry farmer's market goer. Does it not make sense to buy from the people with whom you could forge a relationship? Alright, so maybe one guy's produce is a little bit more organic (whatever that means) than the next guy (or gal's). But who cares if the next gal is someone you look forward to seeing every Friday night? I mean really!

I got to thinking about the time I gushed about the farm-fresh chicken I brought home (and then had to figure out how to get it off the bone! spoiled by boneless-skinless all my life...eek) and I realized that I really look forward to seeing the chicken farmer and his wife (whose names I now wish I knew, and will ask the next time I need eggs. Or chicken). They are familiar faces, and they provide me with something I really need - food - with no gimmicks, no song and dance, just a smile and a nice to see you again.

And then there's Sam, the fruit guy with whom J bonded over plums. We can't go to the farmer's market without stopping by Sam's stand, sampling all of the plums we've already tried before and chatting it up with our pitted-fruit pal. And he always slips us a new variety, gratis, just for being loyal. Or maybe just because he likes us. Regardless - thanks, buddy.

J, thanks for remembering what is important - the people. As I got all caught up wondering how organic Sam's plums were, you were asking his name. I'm glad I'm marrying you.

Like my parents always said: Let's keep it simple.

Living in the Interim

Life often takes us to a period where we are meant to rest, to wait, and to grow. These are not the times we yearn for; but times we yearn to move past from, to escape, move beyond to what is bigger and better.

A good thing can not be rushed.

I currently find myself in an "interim" period. As J and I wait to get married, seeing each other only on the weekends, there is a temptation to speed up the process. If I try to fight time, I get tangled up in the weeks and minutes and seconds that will tick by as they will, ever constant, ever steady. The only thing to do is wait, and learn to enjoy the events that will come to pass before this big life change that we are eagerly anticipating.

In my previous post I made a statement about choosing to be happy. Sometimes happiness is not a choice, rather sadness is the appropriate response. In fact, sadness is often the appropriate response to reality. Instead of stating that we must choose to be happy, I'm changing my approach: We must choose to be content.

Therefore, even though I am sad that J and I must have this "commuter" relationship for now, even though the words we say to comfort ourselves are beginning to fall flat, I will choose to be content. I will choose to take each day for what it offers, be it happiness, sadness, or somewhere in between. And I will choose to enjoy this time, the friendships I have in proximity, this final year and three months of "singlehood."

Blessings,

M

"Perfection of virtue is not required of me. Perfection of love is, and that is a very different thing."

Madleine L'Engle