Being Home

The fields on the drive home from the airport.

Recently, after nearly a week on picturesque Prince Edward Island, Canada, I returned home to the flatland.  I left behind rolling fields of clover and goldenrod and potatoes, and views of water from nearly every window of the house my brother had rented for the family.  I was a little sad to leave.

I flew in to landlocked central Illinois in the evening, and on the drive home, I marveled at the golden light on the cornfields.  The sky was dramatic--as it so often is here in the Midwest--with layers of rich gray that made me want to reach for my watercolors.

Early the next morning, before darkness had lifted, I stumbled to the bathroom still half asleep.  In the hallway, I bumped against the ironing board on my right, Marilyn's work clothes laid out on it for the day.  Touching that old ironing board, I felt a rush of affection for the ordinariness and predictability of my life. 

I was home.  And it felt good.

Beautiful even during the drought.

Marilyn stopped to show me horses she had seen on a recent drive home.

Last Friday afternoon, on the way to work, the sky seemed almost unreal--and yet very Midwestern.  (By the way, the slope leads to a bridge going over a highway; the land is still flat.)

I parked the car on campus and then had to take another photo.

I pulled over to admire the big sky while driving home from Saturday errands.

This was my view of the backyard as I ate lunch and read on the deck on one of my last days before returning to work.  A hummingbird has been visiting the zinnias quite regularly but isn't in this photo.

Paying Attention to the Petunias

Not watching the clock constantly—that is my favorite thing about summer break.  As I transition to the fall semester, I mourn the loss of the peace of being in the moment, really being in it, without one eye on the clock that will tell me to move on to the next responsibility. 

Every year, I wonder how I will cope with the change from contemplation to rushing, from solitude to teaching multiple groups of students five days a week.

A pot of petunias reminded me how I cope. 

The pot is in a corner of the deck; pale blooms with dark centers flow out of the pot like an extravagant bridal bouquet.  I noticed this cascade of flowers on a recent evening as I ate dinner outside with friends.  My eyes were drawn to the petunias even as I listened to the conversation and joined in the laughter.  The beauty of those blooms filled me up. 

Paying attention to the petunias grounded me and refreshed me.  On busy days, focusing on such beauty, even for a few minutes, will bring peace.  When the rushing is wearing me out, I will remember to pause and to pay attention to the petunias. 

August Haiku on Prince Edward Island

Lone lupin swaying
among Queen Anne's lace, purple
cone and white doilies.

(Thanks to my sister-in-law for spotting the lupin and to her and my nephews for working on the haiku with me).

Chicory in Bloom

 

We are in the middle of a drought, but along the roadsides bordering the cornfields, chicory is in bloom. When I drive along those roads, I see patches of pale blue-violet, like so many tanzanites sparkling in the sun.   

On a recent walk,  I got a closer look at the flowers: I came across chicory growing by a drainage ditch between a busy road and a sidewalk, as though the plant had taken the opportunity it could find instead of looking for a perfect spot. 

The chicory blooming in this otherwise unattractive ditch made me think of my writing process.  Sometimes, I  put off writing because my desk is untidy or my time is too brief or I do not feel inspired.  And yet, if I make myself sit down with paper and pen or at the computer, no matter how short the time, how messy my desk, I feel the pleasure of writing and the satisfaction of having done it.  Sometimes, my ideas, like the chicory, can “bloom where they are planted.” 

Not Knowing

I do not have photos of the plant I write about below, but it lives among these others.

Walking in the prairie recently, I noticed a plant I had not seen before. It stretched sideways rather than reaching up the way most other prairie plants do. Small, green fruit hung on its branches, and its leaves were flat, shaped a little like the leaves on jade plants. Its green, though, was paler. From some angles, its leaves seemed to have deep blue shadows, almost the color of delphinium. The shifting blue made it seem the plant had sprouted flowers all of a sudden, but only temporarily.

I do not know the name of this plant. And I do not mind not knowing.

Because I did not know its name, because it was unfamiliar, I looked at it more closely. Pale purple bee balm was also blooming that evening,and though I remember its flowers well, I cannot tell you the shape of its leaves—and I have been familiar with that plant for years. Knowing it was bee balm, I moved on. Not knowing the other plant, I stopped and paid attention.

Unexpected Gifts

Who knew there were so many shades of test-tube slime?  (Who knew there was test-tube slime?)

When our nephews, nine-year-old-twins, were visiting last week, I played more than usual.  We went to the dollar store and returned with treasures.  Test-tube slime in a rainbow of colors was a highlight.  I found myself as fascinated as the boys were by the liquid-like substance that felt wet to the touch and flowed off my hand but was spongy and stayed whole.  We also bought fireworks that came in small tablets which, when lit with a match, sprouted a black snake or a glow worm.  The smell was one I remembered from the Diwali celebrations of my childhood in India, as was the delight in the creature that suddenly appeared.  “It looks like it’s growing straight out of the ground!” one of the boys observed. 

One evening, when we were throwing small fireworks on to the driveway where they made a loud sound, I looked up at the house from the bottom  of the drive.  The garage door was closed.   The lights in the house were on.  Inside, the dinner dishes sat in the sink and on the counter.  I was outside because the twins had invited me to play with them.  I watched them from the bottom of the driveway as they divided up the fireworks equally, throwing them down and picking up the paper trail so that they did not litter. 

Our house felt different with children here, more like some houses I pass on my walks, with kids’ bikes leaning against porches or chalk drawings covering the driveways.  Much as I love my life with my partner, with its room for art and writing and travel and movies, and am passionate about my teaching career, I was glad to be a part of that other world for a little while, to be on the driveway in the evening not to weed the garden or to bring in the trash can, but to play, to laugh, and to know the dinner dishes could wait.

 

They experimented with mixing all the shades of slime.  The result looks like an opal, the twins' birthstone. 

Silences and Sounds

In Abu Dhabi, where I was in transit, the sun rose while a bus took us from the plane to the airport terminal.  After Bombay, with its tropical air and its intense colors, this landscape seemed to belong to another planet.

This lone bird, on the plane I was about to board in Abu Dhabi, appealed to me.

After I returned from India--where I had been in big cities, moving quickly, making the most of every day, and talking with many people--I needed to turn inward, slow down, and be silent.

My partner, Marilyn, had returned a week earlier, so I made the long journey home alone.  For those twenty-four hours, I didn't have to speak to anyone except airport personnel and the flight attendant. The solitude was blissful--and striking because I was surrounded by people the entire time.

The shoreline of Chicago appeared as we flew in over Lake Michigan.

Every year, I plant this strawberry jar with a different combination of flowers. 

Marilyn nurtured this pot of geraniums over the winter, and now it lives on our deck again  Red geraniums are among our favorite flowers.

After returning home to the Midwest, I have spent time in the garden, deadheading flowers from the pots I planted and stripping dried lavender from its stems to make sachets. I have watered the hostas and filled the birdbath. I have listened to cardinals and doves instead of to honking cars, and I have spent hours being silent.

The twins played with the spinning tops I bought them in India.  I have a small collection myself. 

Now our nephews, nine-year-old twins, have arrived for "Aunty Camp." The quiet has been replaced by giggles and questions, knitting lessons and pillow fights. Sometimes, we stop to read in perfect silence.

As I washed dishes the other night while listening to the twins squealing in glee in the next room, and later, as we watched videos I had taken in India, I was struck by how all these worlds, all these silences and sounds coexist in my heart.