I spent the day unpacking and doing a general pick up around the house, focusing a good bit of my energy on the patio. I am reminded of how very alive it is out there when I attempt to sweep the floors, particularly during this time of year. The broom uncovers one baby spider after another, running for cover. I quick! rush to sweep up the dirt and clutter before they find their way to safety within the newly swept piles. (I don't want to throw them away. I help them to safety. Find a new spot. Spin a new web. ) Ants, spiders, dried flowers, piles of Eva's drawings, knitting projects in mid-stitch, squirt guns.
The liveliness- the very aliveness- is tangible when I walk out to the compost pile with the last of the squash. (Man it was a good year for squash. Is it just me or was there enough squash to feed everyone and their dog this year. {Of course, I mean those dogs who will actually eat squash. Of course. Which leaves out my dog. Of course. Which may be why I had so much squash left over? Perhaps.} I had my fill, of course, back in November or December and simply bided my time over the next couple of months until I could carry the last of them out to the compost pile in good conscience. {That's not entirely true. I must have eaten more squash than I remember because I usually do. The large quantities of squash were most probably extra-punctuated by the complete lack of cabbage. That's all. That, and the fact that once the greens start flowing in earnest, I tend to forget about other vegetables like winter squash. And green beans.})
I walk through a part of the backyard near the compost pile that has been slightly flooded from all of the rain. The ground is saturated and there are several large puddles of standing water in one area in particular. Large worms lay on the open ground, half submerged in thick mud. I see others making their way across a few of the round stepping stones. I smile at this, glad the stones can help. I can't resist and stop to help one of the worms who immediately scrunches himself in that way worms do that prevents any but the smallest fingers from taking hold. It's the worm's equivalent of going limp, making it impossible to pick him up. Don't eat me. Don't eat me. This squished up worm hides as best he can among the stone crevices.
I move on. A good bit of mud squishes between my toes as I walk barefoot to the higher ground where the compost pile actually stands and I comment in my head how once again the woman-who-lived-here-before-us was so incredibly thoughtful about each thing, right down to making sure to put the compost pile on slightly higher ground so that it was less likely to flood when even the area with the elijah blue has flooded. Even there, though, the worms have congregated in heaps just under the lid. The ground is too thick with moisture and they must find higher ground. Safety. Inside the bin, slugs crawl along the debris, spiders spin what are possibly the most productive webs I have ever seen. Copious amounts of fruit flies make their home in this compost pile and while I am aware that this signifies an imbalance {technically} in the composition of the pile, I know I am not going to do anything to remedy it. I am fine with the fruit flies inside the bin. Fine with the spiders and the slugs. Fine with the worms gathering in heaps. Fine with the mud between my toes. Fine as I stand and look around at the yard, for once blocking out any directives my mind produces to take care of the lawn or weed the iris bed or listen to any one of a long list of things to do, things that need to be done. Always things that need to be done. I am free of it all for this moment, appreciating the roses and irises in bloom. The piles of buttercups overflowing now that the gardener has cut back the roses. The mud squishing further between my toes. It's lush. It's glorious. It's this amazing aliveness that I am able to notice and appreciate in this moment. And then it's gone. And I am walking back up to the patio, lingering as I smell the thyme. Picking a little lemon balm.
Back up on the patio, I toss out the last of the debris and move the garlic up to the shelf with last year's Chamomile and Calendula left overs. And that's when I notice my pogo stick. Right there. Where it's been for the last, oh I dunno know, four months? Five months? Gosh, it's been such a long time since I made time to pogo. Such a funny verb to use. I play with it in my mind for a split second. Bounce. Pounce. Pogo. And I grab the stick and head out to the open area just outside the patio. A perfect place for pogoing.
I bounce and it feels free. I notice the flowers in the neighbors' yards. The ones I rarely see because they are blocked by the fences surrounding us. We have our privacy, our own space. I bounce above it. I think of bouncing when I was a kid. Of jumping rope. Of flowers. Of smiling uncontrollably. Of counting. After about 50 bounces on the pogo stick my dog comes out to join me. As usual, he play bows and bounces in his own doggie way. I stop my own bouncing for fear of pouncing on one of his paws as he jumps forward and backward, up and down with the pogo stick, barking at me, at the action, at the fun.
He can feel it. He is it. He grounds me in this moment of noticing this life around me, this life in me. All of it. The pogo stick. The flowers. The rain starting to sprinkle down on us as we make our way into the relative dryness of the patio and finally into the house where I am able to see, at least for this moment, the aliveness inside. My kids. The guinea pigs. Spiders in the corners. An extra dog. And me.
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