A Garden Story

I wrote this for a snail mail swap project with a theme of "writing about your garden." The photos were unwieldy for the email, so I've posted the letter here. Please note, if you want to see a bigger photo just click on it in the blog post. Also, I am in garden zone 9b (San Jose), meaning it rarely falls below freezing and provides a long growing season. It falls in the Heat Zones 7 or 8 (about 60 to 120 days of extreme heat per year). Because USDA zones do not account for coastal fog or ocean breezes, the specific UC Master Gardeners of Santa Clara County highly recommend checking the Sunset Climate Zones. San Jose is primarily Zone 14 or 15 (which accounts for the mild Mediterranean climate with marine air).

Dear PK and RR,

I joined this swap after reading the note of encouragement to do so, when it was made clear that having a Better Homes and Gardens quality garden was not required. 

I am, despite many years of aspiration, not a gardener. I'm the daughter of master gardeners who has made many attempts but lack the discipline to persist. At least when it comes to gardening. Below is a recent photo of my backyard. Typically in the summer drought it's brown (we don't water the grass, to conserve), and it grows hugely during rainy season. I mowed it once a few months ago after it was 3 feet tall, and drat, it grew again! A bout of illness prevented me from mowing again. Here is what it looked like until last weekend. We had several volunteer trees that had grown by the orange tree, and weeds taller than my husband on the side yard. (My husband has for years taken care of the front yard in an effort to not be a blight on the neighborhood, but he has no love for gardening either.)

It made a wonderful little meadow for many birds and lizards, but the grass that grows produces seeds with needle-tip points that catch on clothes. Ouch! Our visitors include raccoons, opossums, rats, squirrels, and neighborhood cats. Birds in my yard include Mourning Dove, Western Screech Owl, Great Horned Owl, Anna's Hummingbird, American Crow, Northern Mockingbird, Cedar Waxwing, Chestnut-backed Chickadee, Bewick's Wren, Dark-eyed Junco, California Towhee, House Sparrow, House Finch, and Brown-headed Cowbird. 

However, on June 4 (my son's high school graduation day), we had an auspicious visitor using our yard as a day spa -- a California gray fox! We live near the foothills of the Santa Cruz mountains and wildlife is only about 1 mile away. In all 16 years of living in this house, this is the first time a fox visited. 

He or she lounged in the yard about an hour. I've heard it said the foxes are dog hardware that runs on cat software. I hadn't known until that day that they (gray foxes) can climb trees and fences, as their wrists rotate!

Anyhow, I finally broke down and hired someone to come out and clean up the yard, and I will have him come routinely from now on to mow and blow. Here's what it looks like now and what was dragged to the street. And hope rises eternally in me. I can feel my aspirational gardener thinking, "Now that we've hired someone do maintain it and to help with special projects like mulching, trimming, and managing the sprinkler system, I might tend to it more..."

Even though I'm a crap gardener, I do appreciate flowers. Below are some photos I took of flowers in my parents' garden in past years. They are no longer alive, and I like to think their energy is now flowing into all growing things. 

My parents had many decorative signs in their garden. One was a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson from the poem Hamatreya, "The earth laughs in flowers." The other sign was a stanza from a poem by Dorothy Frances Gurney: 

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.

Wishing you a vibrant Litha and a joyous summer season!

Warmly,

MindfulOne/Kathryn

There’s Always Looking After

There’s Always Looking After

A tree is a guardian angel.

Trees talk to us, they
whisper stories and secrets,
slip us clues to universal mysteries.
Do you see the forest, or the trees?
Sap murmurs up the trunk in spring. Listen.
The apple falls (not far from the tree), its
crisp honey tang for the taking. Notice
how the air changes when you approach
a woods; the fresh, spicy scent of leaves
and needles performing their gift of tonglen.
Handle limbs gently. Despite their
coarseness, trees are benign as babies.

Autumn. My favorite elegy. Red orange yellow
each color a note, a symphony of glorious
death. Gaia’s last hurrah before hibernation.

Glorious death. The nativity of Jesus in
Bethlehem was honored by his parents, wise
shepherds, angels — even animals. But not
one tree except for the remnant serving
as his crib. Look what happened to him.
Whereas Buddha, under a Bodhi tree,
received the gift of enlightenment.

Beware. Trees are destroyers. When touched
by lightning (not an angel), in a rhumba
with the wind, trees release limbs as
geckos lose their tails. They surrender
responsibility, abandon stability,
crush what lies beneath. A shard
of wood thrown by a tornado can kill you.

How many angels are there? They number
more than all the leaves on all the trees
since Big Time began. Earth — head
of a pin on which all trees dance.
Those trees, they krunk in a hot minute.
We just don’t see them. They move so fast.

A baby is born. A sapling takes root.
As roots grow, her neurons multiply.
They amputated the tree in our yard
the other day. Am I going to die now?

A tree is a livin’ thin’, wif it’s own
varmintality, expressed by it’s shape,
texture, locashun, seasonal variashuns,
shade/sun alterashun, th’ emoshuns it
invokes in th’ obsarver, th’ memo’ies
it stimulates in th’ obsarver. A tree
lives as long as a hoomin, o’ longer,
an’ faces th’ elements day-in an’
day-out. To sacrifice a tree is a kind
of euthanasia. A tree thet yo’ plant
today will outlive yo’, an’ affeck other
hoomins in th’ future junerashuns… but
will only be thar IF yo’ an’ yer projuny
own th’ lan’ on which th’ tree thrives.
Own SOME lan’, somewhar, an’ put trees
on it, an’ viset an’ watch them grow.

The ancient forests of knowledge
hidden in dusky, musty library stacks
have become my land. My mind, my tree
of knowledge, thrives. It is all I have.
On this moonless night everything
telescopes, clarifies. Brightness erupts
from inky black. The dark night of the soul
is really a form of enlightenment.

I fall on my knees, praying to No God.
The god of no. I sway in the wind, yearning
to be struck, to plummet, to become the abyss
that annihilates, that looks into me. Oh,
the ecstasy of descent! I cry for it.

Mindful One, she thinks too much. She dwells
inside her head, sips the ink of books too
often. For all her lofty talk about meaning
and nature, she lives indoors, estranged.
Reconciliation is possible. The priest
intones, you are dust and to dust you shall
return. So it shall be. A reunion.

Yes! A gorgeous reunion. A gorgeous death.
It shall be as it is, unless it is as it shall
be. Remember, nascentes morimur. The voice is
relentless, paralyzing. Death, inevitable from
the beginning of my existence. My destiny, our
destiny, is to become nothing.

Not so, whisper the trees. Willow weeps over my
rigid despair. A pine tree caresses my hair.
You do not become nothing. You become everything.

The body becomes a corpse. The corpse rots, feeds
maggots and beetles, enriches the soil. A squirrel
foraging embeds a nut, forgets it. The nut germinates.
A sapling grows, slowly. Outside of time. Watching over.
Witnessing the Mystery. There’s always looking after.

-Kathryn Harper

I wrote this poem 20 years ago, following this exercise from The Practice of Poetry:

This exercise comes from page 119 of The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell. The goal of the exercise is to write a poem that includes these twenty suggesetions:

1. Begin the poem with a metaphor.
2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.
3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.
4. Use one example of synesthesia.
5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8. Use a word (slang?) you've never seen in a poem.
9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.
10. Use a piece of "talk" you've actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don't understand).
11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: "The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . . ."
12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13. Make the persona in the poem do something he/she would not do in "real life."
14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.
18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19. Make a nonhuman object say or do something human (personification).
20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that "echoes" an image from earlier in the poem. 

Greenland Defense Front - The Hungry Giant (Official Music Video)

Walk Off the Earth - Fireflies

You would not believe your eyes
If ten million fireflies
Lit up the world as I fell asleep
'Cause they fill the open air
And leave teardrops everywhere
You'd think me rude but I would just stand and stare

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
'Cause everything is never as it seems

'Cause I'd get a thousand hugs
From ten thousand lightning bugs
As they tried to teach me how to dance
A foxtrot above my head
A sock hop beneath my bed
A disco ball is just hanging by a thread

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
'Cause everything is never as it seems
I fall asleep

Leave my door open just a crack
(Please take me away from here)
'Cause I feel like such an insomniac
(Please take me away from here)
Why do I tire of counting sheep?
(Please take me away from here)
When I'm far too tired to fall asleep
(Please take me, please take me away from here)

To ten million fireflies
I'm weird 'cause I hate goodbyes
Got misty eyes as they said farewell (we sailing away)
But I'll know where several are
If my dreams get real bizarre
'Cause I saved a few and I keep them in a jar (we sailing away)

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
'Cause everything is never as it seems (we sailing away)
I'd like to make myself believe (believe)
That planet Earth (turn, turns) turns slowly (slowly)
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
'Cause everything is never as it seems (I fall asleep)
I'd like to make myself believe
Planet Earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
Because my dreams are bursting at the seams

The Library, Mid-Winter

The Library, Mid-Winter

The library chair holds the shape of a body
better than the body holds the news.
Outside, the rain is a gray slant of percussion,
drumming a rhythm for a march starting 
somewhere south of our borders.

We ate eggs while discussing our work
of mending, healing hearts and minds.
We called out each other's blind spots
to examine, completely safe within
our connection of love and respect.

But it’s time to undress the Christmas tree,
to stow the baubles and lights, yet I dawdle.
The branches hold beloved memories
that visit once a year. There is no guarantee
I will unpack them again.

I think of the earth, waiting for the pine,
waiting for me -- to be turned back into
something that helps the flowers grow.

-Kathryn Harper

In Your Bones

A blessing, a wish, and a prayer for you.

 

Haiku

Oh, Mother Morro!

Steadfast refuge for wildlife;

sacred ancient land.

-Kathryn Harper