Wedding Day Wildflowers Everyday

On the day before our wedding, Michael and I picked bunches of wildflowers from a local meadow.  We decorated our home with  Black-eyed-Susans, Daisies, Goldenrod, Queen Ann's Lace, and Coreopsis  for family and friends that came to celebrate with us.

The days before and the day of our wedding were deliriously colorful.  Michael and I painted our shed with wildflowers and words and my best, dearest college friend Carlene was snapping pictures of our everyday love, swimming and running and wildflower picking.  The morning of our wedding ( I could not sleep a wink at the inn), I drove back to our home to wake Michael before sunset and we watched it rise in all its pink orange beauty to welcome our day.  We then went for one of our blessed early morning swims in Skaket. A few friends and family, other lovers of swimming, joined us.

Here it is necessary to include that we saved a shark.  Coming out of the water, our friend Ethan noticed a black dorsal fin moving across the water.  He is not a big fan of open water swimming, so this was particularly unsettling for him.  Mind you, this was not a big fin, but it was a fin nonetheless swimming  in circles, disoriented.  With closer inspection, it was about three feet long, blackish on its back, grayish on its belly, with a pointed nose and large eyes. It was not a common sand shark or dog shark that we could tell but maybe a baby Mako shark.  Whatever type of shark it was, it needed to get to larger open waters of the ocean side, so Michael walked alongside it guiding it in the direction of the open sea. It finally seemed to find a course and went on its way.  It was an exciting story to add to the day.

After all the excitement, I had less than thirty minutes to get back to the inn, change, and return to the beach where friends and family would meet to witness our love and commitment to one another.  I kept the salt in my hair, pulled it back, slipped on my glove-fitting Nicole Miller dress, took the simple handful of Russian Sage that Michael had put in the room, and made it just in time to see him dressed in his handsome linen rolled-up pants and shirt that hung as naturally as our love. People close to us were there and our friend and judge Steve married us among the sea, the sand, and grasses, under a cloudless, cerulean sky.  It was perfect for us in every way.

We married on the morning of our first collaborative art and poetry exhibit opening at Cape Cod Art Museum, so the day continued to be a joyous and memorable one.  We hosted a reception and got to share the collaboration of not only our love, but our art and poetry too.

We created a wildflower garden that represents those wonderful memories and more.  When we first sowed the seeds in March, we thought none had taken because we watched robins and finches snack on them.  So we planted more.  Still we thought none had taken as what looked like a field of weeds were staring at us.  Unsure of what green leaves were what, we picked only the certain weeds we knew.  Now we do understand that "weeds are wildflowers looking for a home", and I admit I felt guilty picking any weeds, but the monster ones that looked like something from Little Shop of Horrors, well they had to go.

Almost three months later, we have a delightful, airy array of wildflowers in every color that bring joy each time we come home.  Every day we see a new poppy pop.  We have pink, yellow, and orange poppies, and larger red ones too. There are Coreopsis, and several varieties of Daisies in yellows and whites like Tidy Tips and  the African Daisy.  There are Crimson Clover, Bull Thistle, Baby Snapdragons, and Baby Blue Eyes with Sweet Alyssum sprinkled about and so many more I do not know the names of.  I adore our wildflowers.  They hug us with happiness. We talk to them, sing to them, and encourage their place in the world.

Oscar Wilde writes "With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?"

I will add art, love, and the sea to the list.

Dear carrot friends, what's on your list of happy things?

Wishing you all things happy!

~Bess

Little Ducks

Michael and I have just survived ten days straight of teenagers, lots of them! First we had our niece Hannah from Houston, TX with two of her friends, all graduating high school seniors, spend five days with us as their graduation present.  We had fun taking them to our favorite Boston spots, the MFA, The Union Oyster House, and Mike's Pastry.  Of course, we took them to our training ground Walden Pond, where they chose to shop in the gift shop rather than join us for a swim...our New England waters are a bit too cold for them, They went strawberry picking, ate ice cream  which apparently is more of a New England thing than a Texas thing...its more about frozen yogurt there, and the remaining three days we spent on the Cape Cod seashore, from Orleans to Provincetown, touring lighthouses, and beaches, teaching them to surf, and of course, more shopping...it was a treat for them to buy t-shirts from all the different areas, especially the Cape Cod black bear shirt ( highlighting the first ever known black bear to be seen on the Cape).

We dropped them off at the airport on Sunday, and on Monday we were carting ten students back to our home in Orleans, to host Art of the Sea Endersession educational/recreational/cultural week for Megan's high school.  We taught ten more eager teenagers to follow Emerson: "Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, and drink the wild air". We surfed, we ran, we clammed, we swam, we biked, we saw a fantastic play called The Hound of the Baskervilles complete with backstage tour and meeting of the performers, we talked of art and poetry by local Cape Cod artists and poets such as Charles Hawthorne, Hans Hoffman, Mary Oliver, and Stanley Kunitz, and did sun salutations at sunrise.

In these ten days, we listened and observed this upcoming generation, and were impressed at the intelligence and grace in which they are handling the growing pains and decisions facing teenagers. In light of the uncertain economy, social stressors, and shaping identities, all of the teens we "hung out" with demonstrated thoughtful and optimistic plans for their future. It is refreshing to see the hope and dreams in their eyes.

At one of our sunset reflections with the ten students we observed them from a distance.  Michael sketched them and I wrote.  Some of my thoughts for a poem:

Ten in a row, like ducks
without their mother, wondering about the world,
sitting, feathers tucked, quiet.
Three waddle to the water, stray
from the row beyond wonder and warmth
to feel the cold spray.
Four find the rocky edge hard
against their soft, white feathers.
Two more lost in the grasses
try to find their way.
And one remains, still
sitting, feathers tucked,
content with the setting sun.


They will find their way, their center, their carrot friends.

xo Bess

2012 Phlebotomy Schools

Cloud Flats

There are sand flats that we are graced to witness frequently at our beloved Skaket Beach in Orleans.  I love to observe the flats, especially while gliding over them with each stroke taken in the celestial salt waters. Skaket Beach has especially pristine flats, easily seen in the creamy water days when the sea lulls the sleepy shores. They spread for miles when tides are low and one day we were able to convince our friend Steve, a talented local potter, to meet us in the early morning hours to make an impression of them with plaster of paris.  To our delight, he showed up, and with wheelbarrow, two-by-fours, and plaster in tow, we found picturesque flats to frame and mold.  We shaped clay into the impressions and made a unique Skaket Beach sand flat bowl for us to cherish and to hold.  Michael and I were married on Skaket Beach in 2010 and it continues to nourish us everyday, if not with salt, in spirit.

Today, while swimming on one of these creamy water days, I noticed the clouds above mirroring the reflection of the flats.  I will call them cloud flats. They shared the same rippled movement, the same contours of our spine spooning. Their whites woven with blue, like waves lapping the shore. Michael painted such a scene, once, spontaneously by memory, with the same blues and whites and lapping lines. It stayed here in our studio, forgotten, leaning against the corner wall.  Today, I saw this painting in the sky...cloud flats...and now it hangs in our newly renovated bathroom with an aqua wall that was waiting for this painting.

Nature reflects its beauty in the hearts of sky, land, water, and us!  Our spine and sinew, which holds our posture strong and flexible, is figure-lined in the dunes, and sand flats, waves and clouds.  A reminder of the continuum we exist with.  A welcomed knowing of the threads that weave our soul.

Carrot friends, embrace the figure lines of nature, of our soul!

xo Bess

With a Little Help From Our Spider Friend

It never ceases to amaze me how nature finds a way to balance itself ...and us.

Michael and I were enjoying an early morning breakfast on the deck with our niece Paige who was visiting. We made her our favorite homemade oatmeal mixed with yogurt, granola, and berries, alongside juice and fresh coffee from our latest travels to North Carolina.  Paige was filling us in on her freshmen year experiences at University of Vermont and she was happy.  It is energizing to talk to a young adult who is  happy with where they're at and where they're going. Paige has decided to switch majors from NeuroScience to Biomedical Anthroplogy...who even knew that was an option?  Sounds exciting!  Spring is in full bloom and the feel of summer was felt in the warm breeze coming across the table. We remarked how glorious of a morning it was...what joy...we're all smiles. The breeze gets breezier and brings pine needles down upon us...pine needles and something else pelleting our skin, like seeds of some sort.  We are curious to what is blowing in the wind and it takes a delayed second to realize that what is falling down on us is moving...teeny, tiny white worms, all curled in fetal position, landing on our arms, in our hair, in our oatmeal and juice...literally, there were hundreds of them...think Hitchcock here.

Okay, so gross.  A delightful morning turned horror film.  We scurried indoors, picked off any of the curly critters we could find, and searched for them on Google.  Bagworms or Winter Moths...both like Birch trees and Pine trees, both of which have boughs hanging high above our deck.  We have since found out that they are Winter Moths and after they chomp on all the leaves they can find, these Eric Carle caterpillars will burrow in the ground and hibernate until Fall. Ugghh!

We have now found them, bigger and plumper, foraging away at our beloved roses.  Winter Moths also love rose bushes. This is not good.  The Birch and Pine trees are bad enough but the delicate rose bushes have us worried. We pick them off and squish them by hand...much easier to stay calm around these Hitchcockian creatures when they are not in hordes. Daily, we find at least a dozen...but yesterday we noticed a most intricate silk thread design between the lattice fence and a rose leaf...a spider friend has come to save the day.  This is how nature figures it out.  Worms eat rose bushes, spiders eat worms, and the beauty of nature prevails. Can it be this simple?  I think often times it can.  It may not be as perfect as a red, red rose,but we too, can figure it out. We do have the insecticide with the picture of the worm handy, but our friend Charlotte taught us nature's greatest lesson...patience.

This leads to one of our other trials of gardening...our first year wildflower garden...trying to recreate a wildflower field reminiscent of the field we pick from, that Michael picked from on the morning of our wedding. We sowed seeds from several packets eight weeks ago and believed all we had were weeds.  I know many of you feel that a weed is a wildflower looking for a home, and that can be true...but these were not flowering weeds, and, well, we wanted a colorful wildflower garden.  The spiky Candida Thistle were not yielding to be picked for an airy bouquet. Not all weeds are created equal (but that's writing for another day). Here comes the patience part....we discovered a poppy in our field...it was rolled into a little orange conical hat, and there were several of them.  Today they opened to the sun.

"Adopt the pace of Nature.  Her secret is patience."- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Have patience carrot friends!

Thin Places

I'm writing from the 15th floor of a chic boutique hotel in the fabulous city of Chicago. Michael and I have been traveling a bit these past two weeks, three states in ten days. Much more than we usually travel, but what a wonderful way to explore and experience life. It does take some mental strength for me to see beyond the hectic schedule- rearranging and allow myself to transition quicker than I like to.  As with running or swimming, I do best when I have a chance to warm up before finding my pace.  I also face a twinge of mother-guilt when we're not home to share dinner and stories.  Fortunately, Meg and Owen have learned how to transition well, between activities, between two homes, and texting has come in handy for staying in  touch with their generation.  They were able to join us on our trip to San Diego which made all this traveling easier and added a level of value to it because it allowed them to see how and what we do when we travel.  Basically, we find a body of water to swim in, we run to become familiar with our surroundings, we eat foods specially known to the region ( fish tacos in San Diego, grits in North Carolina, deep-dish pizza in Chicago), we visit the art museums, look for retro/vintage shops, and whatever else comes our way. Tonight, we have tickets to the Second City Comedy Club which is where many of the Saturday Night Live and other famous comedians have made their debut, John Belushi, Tina Fey, Steve Carrell to name a few.

With all the traveling we do, and we have been to some remarkable and memorable places like Paris, London, Barcelona, and Beijing, but none have given me the sense of a "thin place" quite like the places closest to me. What is a thin place?  I only recently heard of it, in an article I read from the travel section in The New York Times. A thin place is described as a place where “we become our more essential selves.”  It is often sacred, but need not be.  Its location, population, or its cultural reverence, does not matter.  What matters is that it both invigorates and calms the senses, a place you feel alive and safe.  You cannot plan a trip to a thin place.  There can be no expectations.  I suspect, only a veil separates you between heaven and earth, where I imagine, the veil feels like skin.

For me, the garden is a thin place.  So is Nauset beach and Skaket beach, and Herridge’s Bookstore, and Michael’s skin.  These are places where I can breathe, feel air.  I can let thoughts in my head get wet, rinse, spin out. The colors, the smells, the textures burst.

The garden is earth and heaven.  Dirt under the fingernails makes it real.  Sprinkled seeds in a quarter-inch row open to sky. Thick, dark soil, full of possibility, smudges my jeans. The smell of roots, rock, and left-over kale mixes with sun and rain. Always a weed to pull.

To swim at Skaket beach is to ride across land and sea where the pink vista hypnotizes, waves sing me a lullaby, and sand flats cast a spell. It teeters two visions: the verduous depths of the sea and blue with a sun.

Nauset beach has its own magical way of carrying my bare feet along the firm sand. I love how it exposes itself like a Polaroid picture when the tide ebbs. I connect the rocks, casted like stars, with my sandy toes.  Michael runs zig-zag in softer sand beside me and we stride to the furthest point, free of beachgoers, and free for a quick skinny-dip.  The head of a seal, like a periscope, is our only witness.

Drive towards Wellfleet Harbor at dusk and you will see the light on in a little house, piled with books.  Herridge’s Bookstore smells of dust and cedar. I never make it past the first few feet on my left.  Here,the poetry books sit on disheveled shelves.  Michael finds his place a few feet to the right in the art corner.  Two feet behind me are the young adult books, a genre I’ve never outgrown.  The owner, with his easy smile, chats on the telephone to his neighbor.  In this space, nine feet by twelve, I have all the time in the world. 

 

Under well-worn cotton sheets, where my form traces his, I find the space I long for most.  Smells of linseed oil, chlorine( in the winter when we cannot swim open water) and sweat intertwine, and the hum of night seeps in from the window above our heads, a Christmas candle light still taped to the sill.  My essential self sleeps.

I loved the description of a "thin place." It made me think of mine, and realize you don't have to go far to find it.

"It’s a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy.” – Lucille Ball

Thank you carrot friends for allowing the space to speak of  matters important to me, and for sharing what I find beauty and truth in, and hopefully inspire you to do too. What are your thin places?

xo bess

Call Me Bess

When I was in college, my best friend and I took an Introduction to Jazz class.  It was a welcomed break from the conservative sciences of Physical Therapy's core curriculum, and the diversity of students was terrifyingly more interesting, in a good way. Wild hair, nose rings, drumsticks tapping us on our shoulders.  This was how the other half of the campus lived and I loved it.

We learned to sit in a room with headphones and count the beats to Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, and Coltrane. Carlene was a quicker study because of her high school band days.  My high school days of soccer was no match.  I shouldn't have quit  piano when I was nine, but there I was, engrossed in the rhythm of sound...was it a trumpet or trombone?  And then there were the great ladies of jazz--Ella, Lena, Bessie.  For an entire semester we became them.  Carlene took Lena, Maureen took Ella, and I took Bessie.  We crooned our hearts out, karoke-style in our dorm rooms, studying of course.

Carlene, never stopped calling me Bessie, eventually shortened to Bess.  She even named her daughter after me...Tess ( it rhymed with Bess). When Michael heard her call me Bess, he immediately caught on...yes, Bess is your name.  He had a favorite Nana Bess, and now he had me.

Michael and Carlene are the only two that use that name...the two people that know my most intimate self, but I'm ready to share, to open the name up to the creative world.  Christine, I'm sorry to say, doesn't have a poetic sound, and being a lover and writer of poetry, it just won't do.  I've tried.  I've submitted a few pieces of poetry and exhibited under my given name, but it doesn't resonate with my emerging poetic self. Bess is singing in my ears...Love, oh love, oh careless love/ You fly through my head like wine.

Patience of a Raisin

It takes one month and twenty-three days for a cluster of grapes to become raisins.  That is how long it took us to make our own raisins.  We were staying at a chic boutique hotel in NYC last month and ordered oatmeal for breakfast, our favorite. Atop the milky oats, were the plumpest raisins we've ever seen, and we were surprised when we had trouble getting them on our spoon.  That is because they were still attached to a stem. Homemade raisins...what a great idea!

We like to take something of our travels back home with us, and not always something material, but a creative idea or an inspiration sparked by our experiences. Our stay at this boutique hotel gave us the idea to keep a large bowl of walnuts to crack on our counter.  The bowl says come in, crack a walnut, let's have conversation. We were also inspired to make our own raisins.  So our next bunch of grapes stayed on the counter for fifty-three days.  We never imagined it would take so long, but how interesting it was to watch the gradual process of grapes shriveling to become a gourmet oatmeal-topper.

The drying stems turned to gnarled talons clinging to the ceramic fruit carton on the counter. The green fruit tinged brown and turned browner by the day, the week. Dehydration and depletion isn't pretty. A small reminder to drink plenty of water and also a thoughtful pause on the aging process.

 A youthful grape takes on the renewed life of a ripened raisin. It is sweet!


And in honor of National Poetry Month here is a poem for you...happy poetry reading and sweet patience!

Patience by Kay Ryan

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.
Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.
Or that in
time's fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn't be
distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.