Beets or Beats?

Mountian High River

A row of beets, nicely spaced and weeded well is a lovely sight to see. A rhythmic beat in a good line of prose is a good ear thing to hear, and it stays with you like an ear worm--not a beet worm--at least, that's what my choir director said to me one day. When you hear that song in your head, "Rocky Mountain High" and it plays over and over, that's an ear worm. Beets, on the other hand, are red things that when sliced and pickled keep for years, or when made into Borscht are delicious beyond belief. My only problem with them, besides being not my favorite thing, is that they are so red. And they stain your fingers, your mouth, the dishes, the counter-top, etc.. That's why I decided to try white beets. But, like I said at the beginning, I'm a bad gardener. I left them there last fall to bolt and turn woody. A bolted beat is an lovely sight...just kidding.

Today I will plant beets for Barb and Mike, because they like them. There's nothing better than a community garden, even if you're the only one gardening. But I had another offer from Peggy , the neighbor who watered for me while I was gone, for a local gardener who wants space. So I think I'll follow through and see if her friend wants some garden space. I'm happy gardening about half of what I have. Mike just wants to paint landscapes, and his face did turn a little ashen when he recounted the story of the deer eating his green beans last year. Just doesn't got the desire for gardening now.

This a.m. I'm having breakfast with my daughter and grandbaby. We will eat at Harris Ave. Café—one of the best places in town for sausage and Americanos. Did I tell you that when I ordered Americano in Italy, they just smiled and said "Ah, American coffee," and sort of shook their heads. Like it was a sin or something.

After breakfast, I'm going to the garden. A report will follow.

Ciao!

Nighty Night, Deer

The deer here look a little mangy and they wander everywhere, sauntering past the writing group at Fishtrap as we sit outside in the crotch of the rocky peaks, eating our pork and applesauce as the sun leaves the area. The thing about meadows nestled between mountain peaks is when the sun goes, it's gone and then it turns cold. The weather is hot, especially noticeable as we hiked into Eagle Cap Wilderness yesterday, and cold by the river at night. Which has made for two good night sleep, cold room, piles of blankets, the river crashing past.

Abbe, Brenda's dog is happy as a clam, and on our hike yesterday, she lead away, scampering up the horse trail. I was happy as a clam, too, discovering wild strawberry plants and columbine and gooseberries, and a grove of aspen with leaves shivering in the wind. What I discovered about myself up there wandering over the Wallowa River where it crashes between the narrow rock canyon, is I so miss the out of doors. I feel good outside, different than inside my noisy condo. And all the plants brought back my desire to write an herb book when I was in my twenties. Jack and I (first hubby) did a lot of camping in the mountains outside of Priest River. The terrain here reminds me of that area, the pine, the tamarack, the smell of warm pitch, spicey. And the sweet smell of blooming bushes. And a orchard in a meadow that looked like old gnarled fruit trees, they weren't, but what they where escaped my plant identification skill.

Today, we will swim in the Wallowa Lake, which I think is a caldera, but I haven't read up on this area, so I'm not sure. I'm in Joseph right now, named after Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce—the natives that roamed this land. I'll find out more about that on a field trip tomorrow. So for now, that's about all. Happy summer days and gardening. I'll be watching for the wild strawberries and anything else edible in the woods.

Flower

River Garden

A contemplative week in July and we're staying outside Joseph, Oregon at Wallowa Lake Camp. Wallowa Lake is nestled in some pretty dramatic mountains, one particularly large peak rising majestically at the end of the lake and East of the camp. To arrive here on time, we left at six in the morning from Bellingham. We had a few minor setbacks: we got lost on Seattle trying to get onto I-90; we were pulled over for exceeding the speed limit (and let go, phew) and I left my cell phone at home. The cell mystery (I'm never without it) sent me into a tizzy for at least half an hour. Honestly, I felt naked without my modern day connection tool. Once we both recovered, we enjoyed the drive through central Washington and on into Oregon, soaking in the mix of landscape, some more barren and sagey, some lush with orchards and grapes, and some rolling patchwork fields that perhaps influenced the Pendleton textile designs.

As you already know, my garden in Fairhaven is being lovingly tended by my garden neighbor, Peggy, whose garden is looking terrific, I must say. Mike will be back from his trip to California, so he'll be managing the section he's caretaking. He's going to plant beets—did I already say that? I haven't finished my garden room, nor have I strung string for the pole beans. But alas, the garden will be there when I get back. I need a break and a change of heart.

Fishtrap, where I'm not a participant, is a popular conference. Folks sign up before they leave for the following year. Since I'm here as a guest, I'll spend my mornings working on a revision of my novel, "Celia's Heaven". And since I need a vacation—not the sun and tanning and drinking and dining type of vacation, but more of the vision quest "vacation." Perhaps that's not a vacation but rather a vacating of my busy life so I can dive deeper into inhabiting myself. That's what I want, especially after all the disruption of divorce, the dickering with the ex, the meeting with the lawyer, and then the drawing up papers and show-me-the-money-meetings. And now what? That's my question. What do I want to make of my life during the next however many years I'm alive? What laws do I want to lay down for myself?

The tarot card "Command" from the Medicine Woman Deck proclaims me the lawmaker of my life. This is an interesting concept, me being the lawmaker for me. As a woman, I've been taught to think that others are the makers of my life and I'm to wait on them for decisions; I'm to wait to see what is needed of me, what is expected. But I can have a life that I make for myself—this is astounding in some ways. And freeing. I can decide when to sleep, when to eat, when to play, whom to love. I'm not on call 24-7. Sigh.

Back to Fishtrap http://www.fishtrap.org/. Brenda and I are staying next to a river here at Wallowa Lake Camp. It's not a large river, but it is definitely galloping past. I wouldn't want to fall into it, of course, but it a good reminder of what "Command" teaches. The flow is always there, always available for us to join with—or we can step aside and think we're doing this life on our own. Once I was told something similar by a spiritually astute person. "You cannot stop the flow," she said. If I cannot block it, then there is no writers' block, no artist block, no block to the abundance I can experience—and I believe this is apparent in the garden. Everything grows, dies, sprouts and grows again. There is a continuous cyclic pattern to life that never ceases. The secret to happiness then is joining the flow.

The opening talk to the conference included a quote by Rumi. Something about truth, and how only the telling of it will bring joy to one's life. Ah—there is relief in this quote.

Best wishes, Nancy (aka Flower)