Aging time
How do we tell time?
It’s the time of year when the blueberry patch is closed. The pick blueberries sign painted blue is put away, the tent taken down, the plants turning brown. I think about the blueberries we didn’t pick this year, our own blueberry patch unsure of itself. My freezer wanting - the signs of picked blueberries from last year, frozen, but gone. Empty.
It’s the time of year when the chickens lay their first eggs. When we no longer wonder - are they roosters or hens or both? When Misha climbs up the ramp into the coop and finds a nesting box, makes low guttural sounds, emerges, and leaves behind an oval treasure. We find out that Misha is not a rooster, and I find that it’s the time of year when I have to rethink the last month of wondering. I have to pause and ask again, but is she? It’s the time of year when I wonder what other ideas I’m holding to, that aren’t quite true, that will alter my reality when I learn the truth. It’s the time of year to release stories.
It’s the time of year for goldenrod and iron weed and thistle. A pink, purple, and yellow. While the green turns brown. The mornings are cold and misty. The days are still filled with sun. I see the first leaf fall. It’s the time of year when we count days between the first and last leaf falling, where we peak the leaves and see the show of change and color that airs each day. Until it stops. But it hasn’t yet. It’s a limited showing.
It’s the time of year when the garden slows down. The squash ripens on the vine. The calendula has been infused into oil, the goldenrod infusing still into glycerin. The queen anne’s lace hanging to dry. We think about sowing more seeds for the cooler weather. It’s the time of year when our neighbors deliver a cubic yard of soil for new beds for the spring. When more stone piles up. When the garlic seed arrives.
It’s the time of year when we revisit what happened last year - a hurricane. We venture into neighboring towns and find more deposits of the storm. There is stone in the yard. What the river spits out as it eats your house. Or when the tree falls and diverts the water away. A tree knows sacrifice. The water isn’t discerning, but every place rebuilt has been washed clean. I wonder about the ways we can cleanse a place with gentler methods.
It’s the time of year when a wool blanket gets added to the bed. We found an old Pendleton one at the Antique Tobacco Barn a few weeks ago for $20. A gingham black and tan. A blanket of my dreams. It’s had some repair, imperfect, but I find I love those things. Used and loved already and worn. As if I don’t have to dance delicately around it.
It’s the time of year, eight years ago, when I met my C, a year ago, when we got married here on this land. It’s a blink and a lifetime. It’s the time of year when I realize time means everything and nothing at all.
Always enjoy reading about what is happening in Marshall