PASSION
Red winged blackbirds are coming to rest in groups of ten or twelve in Shiva, the apple tree. Talking incessantly, “kerrrrrr-jeeeeet!” I love the sound of them. They are all business. Very bossy. The green is up now, swallowing the brown leaf cover like a slow blaze spreading outward. Spring is raging. I have to clean out the bluebird houses and prep the hummingbird feeders before it’s too late. The scolding I get will be vicious, haha!
I have not started any garden seeds this year. The first time in fifteen or so years. I have just been too sad. The part of me that plants seeds is excited, over-ambitious and hopeful… manic even. I need to find that part of me again. Where’d they go? Hiding someplace. It’s the me that is also kindly passionate. I have left off my art projects and embroidery and other things that brought me joy as well. It seems wrong to force it, but it also seems to need rescuing… The most I can seem to muster is ineffective house cleaning, which I am normally really into. I am also supposed to be singing…
At least Paul comes for some work soon and we are going to see Rickie Lee Jones! One of my musical heroes. I wrote a piece about her incredible autobiography, Last Chance Texaco, a while back, it is one of the best music bios I have ever read. I can’t recommend it enough. I am hoping to find creative me at the show. There are no guarantees but I remain open and positive.
I am however, continually bolstered by the students, educators and concerned, outraged humans around the country protesting the genocide in Gaza. THANK YOU, I love you. Don’t stop.
Where do you look to find yourself when you are lost?
The perfect image for my state of mind courtesy of Mara from the GREAT Fact and Fiction bookshop is Missoula.
When my cat died, six weeks into the pandemic, I had to wait on the balcony while the visiting vet took a fur clipping for me and wrapped her in a blanket. A red-winged blackbird landed beside me and I thought, is it you. It flew away.
Of course I’ll never know if my cat’s spirit visited via the blackbird, but it kept returning and I believed she was there. I fed it despite my neighbour yelling at me to stop: I needed some form of life in close proximity. When I got replacement cats and named them Martie and Emily after The Chicks, their behind the window fury every time the blackbird showed up led me to nickname it Toby Keith. “FUTK,” they fumed through the window while I kept feeding it.
I have since documented TK’s annual arrival in my journal (it inches earlier every year). March 1 this year. The Chicks kept watching. We got a Mexican kitten and named her Geddy, making the band complete. She wasn’t quite smart enough to catch TK when he came by.
Yesterday morning, I packed up the remainder of my things and left my Toronto home to head to my new city. As I locked the door and got in a cab, the calls of the neighbourhood blackbirds erupted. They are the only thing I will miss as I head into my new life.
I believe it’s time for you to grow something. On the other hand, it may just be your fallow period. Whatever it is, it’s ok.
Planting seeds is so hard. It’s not about the gardening it’s about preparing for a slim chance at joy months in advance with a minimal success rate. I’m a professional homesteader who lives here full time. Gardening is a death cult ✨