Confession #1: I think I’ve been harboring a witch in my house, for the past month.
Confession #2: I’ve loved every minute.
Confession #3: that “witch” is…a bouquet of flowers.
Who me, my pretty?
Specifically, this bouquet. Gifted to me by Son Two when he picked me up from the airport a day after my birthday. I took this photo a day after that: October 27.
Pretty, right? There’s even a rose, which I manage not to show in this snapshot. But nothing out of the ordinary. Just lovely flowers from a lovely young man who happens to be my son.
A week later, the bouquet was still going strong, except for that one rose, which I removed. I send Son Two this photo to share my pleasant surprise at his gift’s longevity.
Nov. 3. Who misses a rose? Still vibrant!
Two weeks later, when the bouquet continued to stay glossy and bright, I started having my suspicions.
Nov. 9. Ok, that one yellow flower’s getting a little mussed, but it’s been TWO WEEKS!
Week three began. We’re talking the first weekend after the election; hell, half the country needed flowers! But I had these, still giving their weirdly ageless joy.
Except for adding a little sugar to their water when I first got them, and changing the water once a week, I did NOTHING to these flowers. It’s all them.
We didn’t even need those extra dahlias. Doing just fine.
Granted, I freshened them up with a couple of dahlias rescued from a different bouquet, gifted by my Ironwoman Goddaughter Allison, but really…they were just bonus. Son Two’s bouquet was holding its own after THREE WEEKS.
That’s when I decided it must be a witch. But SUCH a good witch.
Finally, FINALLY, I made the decision today to liberate my lovely witchy companion to the compost heap. But not before taking its picture one last time.
***not…dead…yet!***
I seriously think I might have repurposed that bouquet one last time, in a smaller vase. But we’re coming up on Thanksgiving; counter space will soon be at a premium…and let’s face it: ONE MONTH is more than twice the joy I’d expect to receive from any bunch of flowers not planted in dirt. Why be greedy?
Unless somebody wants to bring me a new bunch. As witchy as possible, please.
This is going to be one of those participatory posts. Ready? Show of hands: who’s familiar with the term Opportunity Cost?
That’s a term I had to learn about 35 years ago, when I took my first public school teaching job, in North Carolina. I was sentenced to given five sections of the same class: 9th Grade ELP, or Economic, Legal and Political Systems. Thanks to my undergrad classwork, I was pretty up on the Legal & Political part, but Economics? I studied hard to keep a step ahead of those kids.
And I learned about opportunity cost, a.k.a. “the loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one alternative is chosen.” (Thanks, Oxford Dictionary Online.)
In other words: you do one thing; what you don’t do = opportunity cost.
Get up to see the sunrise? Your o.c. is sleep. Sleep in? Your o.c. is…wait for it…sunrise! But also a TON of other early-morning things.
Obviously, for every action, there are a LOT MORE o.c.’s. So you don’t want to let them get the upper hand, right?
The trick is to recognize the opportunity costs, give ’em a friendly nod…and keep doing what you’re doing. That way they can’t blindside you with their secret weapon, regret.
The other day while walking in my Big Backyard, part of the San Juan National Monument, I came upon this particularly beastly lovely flower arrangement:
*shudder*
Bull thistle, seed pods popping. Invasive as hell. I vaguely recalled writing a blog post about my personal war with these devils about a decade ago. Back then, I was actually optimistic about ridding this stretch of public lands from thistles by my own sheer persistence.
So what happened? Opportunity cost.
Choose to save your back & knees by withdrawing from the Thistle Wars? The opportunity cost is living with thistles.
The more I think about it, the more I see opportunity cost at work in my life. Move across the country for the beauty of the Pacific Northwest?
Fine–but your o.c. is a full (expensive) day’s travel away from your folks.
And Dad may still rack up the miles on his e-trike, but he’s not riding to Washington State.
For that matter: move onto an ISLAND? OK…but you better be ready to give up HOURS, waiting in ferry lines.
Because this really isn’t a commuting option.
I chose to devote time (and money) to pursuing an MFA in fiction, so I can write a better novel…
…but my songwriting Muse has taken these past two years to decide to visit some other songwriter. THAT was one o.c. I hadn’t considered.
[not pictured: my songwriting Muse. “Hmph. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”]
On that music theme: I only get to play with friends who are willing to be informal & flexible, rather than join an ongoing band…
Me with “flexible” Justin & Lance!
…because I leave the island WAY too often, for places like this:
(to choose a recent, random example–the Chiricahua National Monument in AZ)
I’ve had to give up Spanish lessons because of (pick one): bakery work/neighborly commitments/ political phone-banking/spending down time with The Mate
OK, that last one: always worth it! No cost!
Choosing not to plant an organized garden gives me extra time, and saves my back…and my o.c. is a Kale Forest (vale of kale) masquerading as a garden.
Hey, at least this o.c. is edible.
Getting exercise means I’m always moving around this beautiful corner of the world at TOP SPEED…which means I’m not LINGERING.
That last one really caught my attention. So the other day, I took my journal, my lumbar support pillow, and a peach with me out to the Point, and we LINGERED.
Do I dare?
What did I journal about? Opportunity cost. I duly noted a long list of things I haven’t been doing, making, accomplishing or experiencing lately, because of all the other things I’ve been doing, etc. I read the list. I thanked it. I whispered promises to a couple of the o.c.’s on there that I might be back at a later time, so don’t give up on me.
And on we go. No regrets. (Or at least none that I feel like sharing in a blog. 🙂 )
Just keep looking at the view…don’t give that o.c. any power!
So here comes the participatory part again. What are some of the opportunity costs you’re currently noticing in your life? How about acknowledging them here? Then wave ’em adieu.
One year ago, I was soaking up the sights and sounds of Culver City on my daily walks to the campus of Antioch University for the first residency of my MFA program in Creative Writing. Mostly I was dazzled by the Southern CA flowers.
Oh, this old thing along the bike path? I just threw it on…
What I should have used as a photo was a full-blast firehose, because that’s what Residency #1 was like. Back home, I likened my new venture to a switch from hiking to rock-climbing. Not long after, I chose to step away from blogging altogether, devoting all my precious writing time to my most precious writing. Residency #2, last December, received no analysis.
But this summer, riding along that same bike path, I was stopped by a new metaphor: this rainbow tangle of flora:
Whose story is this? Everyone’s! Whee!
You gardeners will spot pink and red oleaner, scarlet bouganvillea, orange trumpet vine and blue morning glory, all rampaging joyously over a substrate of purple jacaranda. What I see? A message to stay focused on more stories than mine.
YES, I am writing a novel. YES, it requires my time. But not so much to keep me from this blog’s renewed mission to AMPLIFY voices for justice and understanding. Which is why it felt so perfect, on the same day I took that picture, that I turned on a car radio and discovered House/Full of Blackwomen.
Nighttime Procession, March 2017, Photo by Robbie Sweeney
CreativeCapital.org describes the group this way:
House/Full of Blackwomen is conjure art, the insistence movement, activated in store fronts, streets, houses, warehouses, museums, galleries and theaters of Oakland, California. House/Full began as a two-year project and morphed into an eight-year process of 15 public “episodes” which unexpectedly appeared as street processions, all night song circles, secret rituals of Black women resting and dreaming, sacred ceremonies on the track, and multi-media offerings. Black women gathered around a dining room table to recall, rage, rally and restore themselves, while creating ritual performance strategies towards shifting systemic evictions, displacements, erasure and the sex trafficking of Black women and girls: all driven by the core question, “How can we, as Black women and girls, find space to breathe, and be well in a stable home?”
Dreaming Blessing, March 2017, Photo by Robbie Sweeney
As I listened to Episode One of The Kitchen Sisters’ podcast on NPR, which describes the group’s mission, I was filled with excitement, hope, awe, empathy…and the immediate desire to share all those feelings.
So here you go! The above description, not to mention the podcast itself, says more than I could about the power of this group of 34 women. All I want to do is steer you toward them. Creative Capital says,
The final episode of HouseFull, Episode 15: this too shall pass will premiere March 4–12, 2023. Performance times, venues and details can be found here. All events are sold out, but you can sign up for the mailing list to learn about future performances and project iterations.
And me? I still have a few more days in LA. I still plan to drink from that hose–a little more carefully now, sipping the drips, letting them soak in. Or, to go back to florals, I plan to gather some individual roses as they offer themselves…
Stop and smell me.
…be they writing advice or part of the more tangled, brilliant stories around me. Please join me in discovering House/Full of Blackwomen!
“What IS that flower? Is that Small-flowered Lupine or Bicolor?”
“Why do you need to know? What possible difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to ME.”
“Why? So you can show off your rad amateur naturalist skills?”
“No! I don’t need to tell anyone else. I just want to get it RIGHT.”
“Pfff.”
I have this same conversation with myself, on nearly a daily basis, during wildflower season. Wildflower season in the San Juans lasts about 9 months, so that’s a lot of conversations.
Point is, whether it SHOULD matter or not, to me–it does. Supposedly, I go for walks as exercise. Power walks. But gods help my fitness regimen should I venture out with a camera.
It starts as appreciation. “Oh wow, look at those wild roses go.”
The rest of the year, they’re just brambles.
“Let’s just take a closer look. Mmm, sweet!”
Ready for my close-up.
“Okay, walking fast again. But–oh my, have you ever seen such a THICK clump of Hooker’s Onion?”
Seriously, Mr. Hooker? Couldn’t you have named this flower after your wife or something?
By now my “walk” is a goner. “Ooh, wonder what the world looks like from the perspective of one of those Harvest Brodaeia?”
Not a bad life down here.
“PRICKLY PEAR’S IN BLOOM! ALERT THE MEDIA!”
Or better yet–don’t. Let’s just keep this rarity to ourselves, shall we? Cactus in the Northwest!
For that matter, why should the flowers have all the attention? Aren’t the new leaves of this Salal just as eye-catching as its blooms?
Caught MY eye, anyway. Silky-soft too.
And the new fronds of the Grand Fir? Good enough to eat!
Some people–and lots of deer–actually do.
Even Madrona bark looks floral in the sun.
Photo credit: My Special Tree
But the worst are those darn ID’s. “What IS this one? Gotta remember to look it up when I get home!”
Non-native, I’m pretty sure. Do I care? Nope. Just wanna KNOW ITS NAME.
…Often, when I encounter a new moss species and have yet to associate it with its official name, I give it a name which makes sense to me: green velvet, curly top, or red stem. The word is immaterial. What seems to me to be important is recognizing them, acknowledging their individuality. In indigenous way of knowing, all beings are recognized as non-human persons, and all have their own names. It is a sign of respect to call a being by its name, and a sign of disrespect to ignore it. (p. 12)
Yes! Right?! Yes. That part that I highlighted in red…THAT is what drives me to name flowers, to get their names “right.” I want to recognize them, call them out, respect them. Would it matter if I got those names “wrong”? Of course not. I might as well call them Fred or Cindy. But taking the time to look up those names, talk about them with other flower nerds, think about where those names came from and whether they fit or not…THAT matters. To me, and, I like to think, to the flowers.
Hello, Fred. Or Cindy. (Or Menzie’s Larkspur, actually. No, I am NOT showing off.)
As for mosses, and Robin Kimmerer’s book…more on that, next post.
Are you a wildflower nerd like me? Care to weigh in on what drives you to NAME?
It started with lettuce. You can’t freeze the stuff, right? Or bake with it, or make lettucesauce or lettuce jam. It’s just…lettuce. And there’s only so much salad two people can eat.
So I brought a bag to the neighbors. They were grateful.
Next week I brought some more, plus some arugula. Same story. Except Neighbor Rick mentioned they were going crabbing and would bring us some if they got lucky.
For a time, they didn’t. Meanwhile, I brought them more lettuce.
Then the crabs found their way into Neighbor Rick’s pots.* He brought us two–cooked and cleaned. We dined in ecstasy. And I brought them a small bowl of raspberries.
[One of my favorite sayings is, “I don’t want a ____, I just want a friend with a _____.” In this case: boat, pot, crab license.]
Couple days later: two more crabs. “I work at a bakery,” I told Rick. “Can I bring you some treats?” But no–Rick and family are trying to stay away from those kind of temptations. Curses! Nothing for it but to bring more raspberries.
Then Neighbor Rick upped his game. “We’re gettin’ a buncha crab now, gonna make some gumbo,” he told us. “Can we bring you a little?”
We were imagining a wee side dish for our dinner, and we were excited for that. But when Rick came over with the gumbo…well.
Unfortunately, I did not think to take a picture of the beautiful domed island of white rice, sprinkled with spices, rising from a sea of okra, tomatoes, shrimp, chicken, andouille sausage, fish, with four more crab-halves dangling their claws over the edge of the dish. But here’s what the leftovers looked like the second night:
This is only about a third of the leftover crabmeat…
…which is also when Neighbor Rick dropped off the rack of “extra” baby back ribs, barbecued in a marionberry sauce. This time I remembered to take a picture.
So…full…but it still makes my mouth water!
At that point I FORCED him to take home a fresh baguette from my bakery, and a bowl of truffle balls from my freezer.
If we don’t achieve some kind of detente soon, I may forget how to cook. But I see no end in sight. And me with no zucchini!
It’s August. Anyone have a food-gifting story to share? (I still have raspberries.)
My raspberries have gone crazy this year. Out of control, fill-the-fridge-wait-no-start-filling-the-freezer crazy.
I’m not bragging, understand. I’m simply gobsmacked. Because my raspberry patch’s fit of overabundance owes NOTHING to me. I’ve done diddly. Weeding? Nope. Fertilizing? Are you kidding? I didn’t even water them.
Note: this is a salad bowl, not a cereal bowl. And I’m filling it daily, and then some.
Wait, take it back–I did fight off a few salmonberry bushes a couple of weeks ago, which had insinuated themselves into the razzies–just enough to reach the good stuff. I won that little war, but the salmonberries definitely left their mark:
…and I’m not even showing you the scratches on my arms.
Point is, though–I didn’t EARN these berries. And yet I still get to enjoy them. Apparently Nature ain’t no meritocracy.
This is what benign neglect looks like.
Ironically enough, though, as I’m picking my way through this undeserved bounty, I find I’m practically killing myself to get every…last…berry…through the salmonberries, through the chain link fence the original planter of these berries put up…ooh! those ones just out of my reach look even better than the ones I just picked!
Just walk away, Gretchen.
Which tells me…what, exactly, about myself? I am perfectly happy to accept good fortune–so happy, in fact, that I unconsciously turn privilege into right and strain for the very last drop of goodness as though I had worked for it.
Hmm. Lesson? Learn to accept the berries I cannot reach just as delightedly as those I can? Gratitude AND grace?
Three years ago, when Son Two hacked a couple of rows out of our backyard’s over-shaded, overgrown onetime raspberry patch and stuck a few seeds in, that’s what I called it. Didn’t take any responsibility beyond watering for a few days when he went off-island.
Fast-forward three years. Son Two’s long gone to the east coast. Last year I decided I could handle the responsibility of planting and watering my own seeds. So I did…full of trepidation about getting tied down to another 20 years of garden maintenance (which I thought I’d left behind when Son Two graduated and we moved to an island full of organic farms).
So it’s MY kid garden now.
Nothing ambitious–a few rows of greens. Some broccoli and potatoes. And some strawberries, originally planted by Son Two. Sure, I can handle that. Didn’t even get too bummed when the raccoons beat me to the ripened strawberries.
This year, I cleared a little more. Still didn’t plant anything I wasn’t sure could thrive in such shady conditions.
Secret to success: low standards!
Still didn’t commit myself to fertilizing, beyond a few shovelfulls of compost, or staking. Got too much going on to spend hours out there. But regular minutes, weeding, watering, harvesting? In MY garden, once more?
Yes. And I’m not even counting on those strawberries. The raccoons are even more committed to my garden than I am.
Try not to notice how big those berries are getting…
Thanks, Son Two, for getting me re-started. And my hat’s off to all you COMMITTED gardeners. This semi-committed one is glad you’re there. Got any strawberries, just in case?
Usually I enjoy weeding. Yeah, it’s violent–all that chopping and yanking, and today, since I was digging up salmonberry plants, wrestling and scratching–but it’s very satisfying. Such a simple job: getting rid of bad stuff in order to grow good stuff.
Today, though, I came inside early, and not because of the scratches. My heart just wasn’t in the violence of the job. I kept thinking about LeBron James. He’s arguably the most famous athlete in the world, and probably one of the richest and most-loved American Black men (unless you’re a Golden State fan). And yet even King James isn’t immune from our current climate of hate. Someone spray-painted racist slurs on his property.
“No matter how much money you have, no matter how famous you are, no matter how many people admire you, you know being black in America is tough,” James said. “And we got a long way to go, for us as a society and for us as African-Americans, until we feel equal in America.”
I know most people who voted for Trump are probably not racist, thuggish bullies. But the guy they elected has empowered racist, thuggish bullies to crawl out from under their rocks. Some say it’s good that at least we know they’re there. I say…
…what do I say? I think that’s why I’m writing now. I want to grow something at this moment, not weed it out. And my thoughts are turning to Brian Doyle, a sweet, wonderful writer who died last week in Oregon. I am thinking about how he found goodness and joy in the everyday. Like in this “proem” from his little book, The Kind Of Brave You Wanted to Be:
And Then There is This
Here is who is really cool. Here is who is really
Admirable and to be emulated and what is holy:
The few people who get up instantly when their
Sister is suddenly sick, in awful ways, at dinner.
They just jumped up and dealt with it. It’s dirty,
And there’s no advantage in it, no money or sex,
No fame, nothing but stench an bleah and eww,
And then a young woman sat with the sic sister,
Letting her rattled sick aunt lean on her shoulder.
I saw all this. There’s all this talk, and then there
Is this. You know exactly what I am saying here.
Live another day, salmonberries.
Do you know exactly what I am saying here? Can you give me something admirable and to be emulated and holy from your life right now? I need a little of that.
If yes, congrats. If no–don’t worry. I bet most Americans don’t. That’s why I was so pleasantly surprised when my third-grader “Little Sister” correctly identified it in my garden the other day. And that’s what gave me the idea of using salad as our weekly afternoon activity.
I’d been thinking we’d go for a walk, maybe climb on on some rocks and play pretend games–good, healthy stuff. But then we stopped to water my garden and I started asking her about plants.
She knew peas, broccoli, lettuce (not all the different kinds, but hey, she’s eight!), and kale. She even recognized carrot plants, though they’re nowhere near big enough to harvest. She recognized potato plants–yup, that’s what that picture’s of. She didn’t know arugula and she didn’t like it one bit either, but again–eight, people. I know I would’ve hated arugula at that age too.
“I know what,” I said, “let’s make a world-record salad!”
“What’s that?” my little friend asked cautiously. She’s used to my hyperbole by now.
“That’s where you make a salad and try to set the world record for how many things to put in it. I think the current world record is, um…fourteen.”
“OK!” She liked the idea, and immediately began helping to gather peas, lettuce and baby kale. But no arugula.
Of course, not having planned this activity in advance, I didn’t have all that much salad-y stuff in my fridge. No tomatoes, no cabbage, no red onions. I did have carrots and an avocado, so in they went. We were only up to nine. So we had to get creative. I found an apple, and that led to a new category of salad-toppings.
“Blueberries?”
“Sure!”
“What about this? What is it?” In went a chopped-up apricot. To my disappointment she vetoed anything pickly or cheesy, but she was happy to use nuts, so we toasted some almonds and sunflower seeds. And she kept count.
“Fourteen…does lemon juice count?” We had squirted some on the avocado and apple chunks.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But you know what would? Arugula.” I swear I wasn’t intentionally playing “gotcha.” But it worked anyway. Arugula brought us to 15 and set a new world (or at least south-end-of-our-little-island-on-a-given-day) salad record.
The reason my young friend is so knowledgeable about plants is that her school has a garden-to-table program, funded by grants and community fundraising. The kids are intimately involved in producing and preparing their own food, and they’re not scared of it. When I pick my Lil’ Sis up from school on Tuesdays during the school year, I frequently learn they ate squash soup or roasted cauliflower for lunch. At an American public school! Makes me proud.
But that wasn’t what I intended to write about. That salad that we made? It was the afternoon activity that kept on giving. When my little friend asked me why avocados were healthy, we googled it. That led to more googling, about the difference between “good fat” and “bad fat.” Then we googled Potassium and started learning about cell membranes. All from a salad!
At the end of our time together, I kept some of the salad for me and sent the rest home with her so she could teach her family about cell membranes. She may or may not remember that, but I know I learned something: fresh food is as good as a trip to the library when it comes to generating learning.
But now it’s your turn to weigh in. Did we aim too low? Should we have gone for 20? What else should we have put in that salad?
I need help. I’m in way too deep. Into lilacs, that is. A full-bore passion.
I simply cannot pass by one of these oases of burstingly bushy blooming globules without burying my face in it…and then stealing a fat sprig to tuck into my ponytail.
You know you want me.
I’m a lilac thief. I can’t help myself.
Come to think of it–don’t help me. Let me drown in happy, scented lilac love. Just tell me, if you know…what IS it about these flowers that is so entrancing? Is anyone else suffering from their delightful bewitchment?
You’re MINE, lilacs! Oh, wait…you actually are mine. Heh.
Or do you have a secret flower lust of your own? Go ahead and share. I’ll never tell*.
Wing's World 