There was no doubt about it.  The bees were staring at me.  Looking at me straight in the face.  Half a dozen of them at least.  Hovering – as bees do – like tiny fuzzy helicopters.  

They maintained a respectful distance, maybe 10 inches or so away.  Not threatening, but definitely trying to get my attention.  Moving as I moved.  Turning as I turned.  Focused on my face and eyes.  Watching me, telling me … something.

I had just started to fill up an old cement birdbath in my front yard with fresh water. Its current level was low, not much more than a small puddle of leftover rain.  And it took me a minute to even notice:  But there, lined up side-by-side, all along its crusty cement-rough edges, was a neat row of small yellow bees, drinking.  Or at least they were trying to drink.  Until I and my big splashy hose began disrupting everything, stirring things up, flooding the basin, slooshing them over the edge.  

And thus the bees sought out my face … staring at me … communicating with me.  Asking me to notice them, please.  Asking me to pay attention, please.  Asking me to stop and just come into their moment with them, if I would be so kind.   more “Bees in my birdbath.” …

Quincy the dog is an avid puddle walker.  He’ll purposely cross a street or double back down a road just to take advantage of every puddle possibility.  He values all sizes and depths, in all seasons and weather, regardless of time of day or temperature.  He splashes and slooshes and glides his feet along their bottoms.  And then he holds his ears straight out from his head and grins up at me for the pure joy of it.  It fills my own heart with a sense of joy just to watch him. 

Not long ago, heavy rains had left behind great pools of fresh invitations for him.  But the spring pollen had thickened the compelling puddles, clouding their surfaces like heavy cream in cold coffee.  And yet Quincy never hesitated to slide through them all the same – perhaps with extra care and lingering.  And with his slow, deliberate steps, the pollen broke apart and altered its sluggish, clinging nature and released its hold on the water.  I watched, with fascination, his subtle yet undeniable impact on the puddle – and it stirred within me random thoughts and suppositions, just as it stirred the pollen within the water.
more “Please DO disturb.” …

Jolene likes warm summer rain, being read to under a tree in the shade, old movies, slow dancing, soft dog noses, and good conversation.  Perhaps I ought to tell you that Jolene is a potted plant.  But a potted plant with a definite personality. 

Jolene was a gift to me from a human friend.  It was about a year ago.  The human friend did not know that I have never been very good with raising potted plants.  And Jolene is a succulent.  A plant that confounds me even more than usual.   more “Consider Jolene.” …

“Secondhand books are wild books, homeless books; they have a charm which domesticated volumes lack.” – Virginia Woolf

Wild books, homeless books, charming books … used books are the best sort of books, I think.  I even tend to judge a town or place by the quality of its used book stores.  And this morning, I began to suspect that Quincy the dog may have a similar type of cataloging for local corners and walking paths. more “Dog corners and secondhand bookstores.” …

The boy coming toward me in the grocery store aisle was young – perhaps 11 or maybe 12 years old (I’m not terribly good at guessing these things).  He was close  to my own height (so not tall) and had a certain sense of vulnerability about his face and posture.  He was definitely younger than 14 – that time in life that in legal terms is called “tender aged” – a term I’ve always appreciated for its sensitivity to this gentle, unsure, inexperienced, age of being. more “Being twelve, awkward, tender, and wise.” …

The man was a farmer, deep in rural Indiana.  He was physically strong, perhaps due in no small part to the fact that he still plowed and harvested with a team of horses.  He was equally strong in his religious beliefs – so committed, in fact, that after every fall’s harvest, he gave away his team of horses.  He was that convinced of the imminent second coming of Christ.  He was absolutely sure in his heart that God’s love for the world would be manifested in this real, tangible way, before Christmas, certainly before the end of the year.  When, in the following spring, this miracle had not yet happened, he would dutifully buy a new team of horses, and plow and plant another crop.  more “This time of hope and faith.” …

“God, in his infinite wisdom, created the earth.  Man, in his infinite impatience, has been rearranging it ever since.”

These are the opening words of a video presentation that I wrote for a client more than 40 years ago.  The client was a manufacturer of large earth-moving and construction equipment.  

But suddenly, 40-some years later, the words had jumped up and were poking me in the head again.  I was looking at pictures of hedgerows at the time.  And variations of this theme kept coming to mind. more “The beauty and wisdom of hedgerows.” …

I always have to stop and consider how to spell the word “spirit.”  There seems to be a conspiracy between the “r” and the “p” and at least one “i” to try and trade places, or want to duplicate themselves far too many times.  But spelling it correctly has become rather important to me just now.  Because I may decide to literally etch it in stone.  Or brick.  Or cement.  Or perhaps wood. more “Gardening with words.” …

“Leave the edges wild.”

I read those words someplace recently.  They aligned absolutely with my heart and soul.  I believe they came from the lyrics of a song.  They do sing in my thoughts.  “Leave the edges wild.”

Perhaps it is because I have been working in my yard so much lately, but “leave the edges wild” certainly seems to apply to my gardening philosophy.  It lets the wild things just be – all vines and moss and dragonflies, bird nests and grasshoppers, worms and clover and roly-poly bugs.  It’s mother nature with torn pockets and messy hair. more “Leave the edges wild.” …

It was just a slight graze – the nose of one car slid across the back bumper of the other car.  No one’s fault more than the other’s.  Just too much traffic.  Too much hurry.  A blind crossing.  In the blinding heat of the summer.  

It happened right behind me, so I saw mostly mirror images of it all.  But I heard the anger as it railed through my open windows.  I felt the fierce and hostile energy as it slammed against my ears and eyes and heart.  Where was the compassion?  I expected more from women.  I always do.  No one asked, “Are you alright?”  No one claimed “I’m sorry.”  Just accusations and assumed righteousness.  And the lone daughter in one of the cars watched.  Her face was twisted, as she watched and listened and learned.

The light changed then, I had to move on.  I couldn’t help, and it made me cry.  Tears as hot and wet as the day.  Sadness for the energy that broke into my heart and crushed down into me.

As I drove slowly forward, my eyes lifted up and caught in the wires and cables over our heads as they carried their own currents of energy and power.  And on the wires perched rows of birds.  Birds watching.  Birds listening.  Mockingbirds. more “Look for the Mockingbirds.” …