For the last few days I have carried my digital camera in my pocket, hoping to catch a shot of one of the many noisy birds celebrating the pre-spring weather we’ve had off and on since January. So far, no luck. A bird novice I, only the most familiar by sight and sound are recognized by me. Cardinal, mockingbird, crow vocalize, while woodpeckers are busy in standing or fallen decaying trees out in the field where giant rolls of hay are stored. Starting in pre-dawn and lasting into dusk, sounds and flurry fill the air as the feathered ones populating this oasis sanctuary remain in seemingly-constant motion. They are the symphony that accompanies my solitary efforts to prepare this garden for spring and to make sense of the human evidence that suddenly is so apparent here. If tables and chairs and assorted concrete and clay were capable of flight, couldn’t I just shoo them all away?
Yesterday I jumped the gun on rose pruning, which I have been told on authority should begin on Valentine’s Day in this part of the world. Today is that day, and while it is sunny, the various wind chimes that ornament this garden are telling me that I was right to prune my 30-plus roses on the eve of St. Valentine’s celebration. The weather in January and February has been unusually blustery, and not welcome, for it dries out the ground, robbing us of precious moisture from the stingy rains we are having this winter. How glad I am—and knew I would be—to reflect on my focused efforts yesterday to groom my roses. Still waiting to be reduced in scale are the shrubs that dominate the view from my kitchen.
When I started the work on converting this two-story barn to a residence, one of the first additions was a long, lean-to porch on the northwest side of the building. For awhile this porch offered respite, ceiling fans whirring on warm days, shelter in the rain, and an unobstructed view of the garden-in-progress. Necessity is the mother of invention, however, and because the kitchen that had always existed in the bunkhouse of this barn was barely big enough to turn around in, logic led me to claim the lean-to for a kitchen space. The view into the garden, depending on how you see it, is at least very green. Ah, but what to do on rainy days. Another shelter emerged in the northeastern edge of the garden, and I should have realized the difference between walking out the front door to the rain and walking through the rain. One more outdoor room means one more place for earthly treasure—a self-induced maintenance hell, and for sure a violation of all the principles of feng sui. Still, it is a patch of heaven as well, a sort of yin and yang.
The birds and the chimes have graced my efforts in the outdoors here. Near at hand at all times are leather gloves, wheelbarrow, rake and shovel, pruners, lobbers, and shears, paintbrushes and sawhorses, my camera, and of course, the profound recognition that I have my hands full. I read a book some months ago about learning to be and letting go of the driving need to do. It seems that some people I have known make that transition more successfully than others. And for those of us who keep on doing, it can seem like moving in circles—no, it is moving in circles. A friend who hasn’t made the shift from doing to being told me today that she has kept herself almost burdened with activity since the death of her husband 22 years ago. Her house always appears in order; the same for her garden, even her garage. She loves having house guests. All things being relative, though, some of us are lesson-challenged. As I peel away layers of garden and layers of earthly possessions, I realize that I will most likely spend the remainder of my life peeling away layers. That minimalist dream buried deep in my subconscious is but a dream.
St. Valentine’s Day—Normangee, Texas (February 14, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
Yesterday I jumped the gun on rose pruning, which I have been told on authority should begin on Valentine’s Day in this part of the world. Today is that day, and while it is sunny, the various wind chimes that ornament this garden are telling me that I was right to prune my 30-plus roses on the eve of St. Valentine’s celebration. The weather in January and February has been unusually blustery, and not welcome, for it dries out the ground, robbing us of precious moisture from the stingy rains we are having this winter. How glad I am—and knew I would be—to reflect on my focused efforts yesterday to groom my roses. Still waiting to be reduced in scale are the shrubs that dominate the view from my kitchen.
When I started the work on converting this two-story barn to a residence, one of the first additions was a long, lean-to porch on the northwest side of the building. For awhile this porch offered respite, ceiling fans whirring on warm days, shelter in the rain, and an unobstructed view of the garden-in-progress. Necessity is the mother of invention, however, and because the kitchen that had always existed in the bunkhouse of this barn was barely big enough to turn around in, logic led me to claim the lean-to for a kitchen space. The view into the garden, depending on how you see it, is at least very green. Ah, but what to do on rainy days. Another shelter emerged in the northeastern edge of the garden, and I should have realized the difference between walking out the front door to the rain and walking through the rain. One more outdoor room means one more place for earthly treasure—a self-induced maintenance hell, and for sure a violation of all the principles of feng sui. Still, it is a patch of heaven as well, a sort of yin and yang.
The birds and the chimes have graced my efforts in the outdoors here. Near at hand at all times are leather gloves, wheelbarrow, rake and shovel, pruners, lobbers, and shears, paintbrushes and sawhorses, my camera, and of course, the profound recognition that I have my hands full. I read a book some months ago about learning to be and letting go of the driving need to do. It seems that some people I have known make that transition more successfully than others. And for those of us who keep on doing, it can seem like moving in circles—no, it is moving in circles. A friend who hasn’t made the shift from doing to being told me today that she has kept herself almost burdened with activity since the death of her husband 22 years ago. Her house always appears in order; the same for her garden, even her garage. She loves having house guests. All things being relative, though, some of us are lesson-challenged. As I peel away layers of garden and layers of earthly possessions, I realize that I will most likely spend the remainder of my life peeling away layers. That minimalist dream buried deep in my subconscious is but a dream.
St. Valentine’s Day—Normangee, Texas (February 14, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
1 comment:
Harold,
I was looking through other blogs and found a name that rang a familiar bell. My name is Olivia or Livvy as my grandmother and late aunt called me. My grandmother is Sue Goodson and my aunt was Janet Watson. Seeing you on here is like a feeling of home, especially knowing that my family has found some great treasure from you. I will continue to read your blog and hope that soon I can make it down Normangee way.
Livvy
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