wakefulness

The last few weeks have found me haunting the rooms of the house in the middle of the night. I can construct all sorts of reasons for why I might be experiencing insomnia but, unless I choose to medicate myself, this is just my new reality,... for now. 


The moon was full last night. I watched it move in and out of the the branches and leaves on the south side of the home as I perched on the farmer's porch at 2am. It's hard to remember at times that it's a sphere up there, perched in the universe, reflecting back the light of our sun. The glow hurts my eyes. It lights up the lawn and gardens around the home, reflects the contours of Mt. Kearsarge miles north of us. My white t-shirt glows. The sun alighting the moon alighting me.


26 hours later, 4am, it still glows profoundly but the screen of my computer captures my corneas and the moon has given way to a sliver of shadow on its right shoulder. I can hear the hum of Interstate-89 rumbling in the distance, the occasional night traveler heading north to Burlington or south to Boston. The crickets and peepers and other night crawlers sing around the screened porch, the dogs doze off beside me on their beds wondering why breakfast hasn't yet been served. But it's still so dark. And so still. Even with all these noises, it's so still. I feel grateful, perhaps for the first time in these 2 weeks, for my insomnia because there's something so magical about this stillness, found only in these hours.


Coffee tastes better at this time of day too.


I've been learning much from this home. We've been here maybe 13 weeks or so. The gardens, in particular, have been my teacher - both cruel as well as patient in nature. In purchasing this place, Bradford and I stepped consciously into the challenge of becoming good stewards of the land. The previous owners put much energy and skills and time into creating the landscape and I assumed for myself the responsibility of maintaining and building on their creations. Unfortunately, I've discovered my thumbs are black rather than green.


Let's just say that I have real skill when it comes to ripping plants out. This I've learned. My favorite garden implement is clearly a shovel. As far as growing plants, I have been frustrated, stymied. Until 2 weeks ago, I was stressing myself out because I was failing to manage the gardens as I judged they needed to be kept. I assumed without question that I should garden like those before me, like those around me. I never thought to ask myself what type of garden I liked or what sorts of plants appealed to me. I just took on what appeared around me to be the status quo.


Perhaps from my frustration and stress, two weeks ago I began digging deep into the earth and ripping plants out that were failing for one reason or another. Plants whose names I never learned were been torn from their home and added to a burn pile down in the lower half of the property. Earlier in the summer I had been walking through the gardens with various visitors who ooh'ed and ah'ed their way on the garden paths identifying plants, commenting how fortunate I was to have so many mature and varied species. Not so much anymore.


Somewhere in my exuberance that hot Saturday afternoon I stopped and looked around me. I had dramatically altered the landscape from one of bounty, complexity, and shrubbery to spartanism, simplicity, and space. And I realized I liked it. I was breathing deeply for the first time in months. 


It might seem obvious to many that one need not follow the status quo. One is welcome to put their unique fingerprints to the creation of their own life. I feel like it should be obvious to me, like this is something I should have learned decades ago as I tripped and toppled around the choices of my life. There's a theme that repeats itself time and again; I attempt to walk the ways of those around me and those who have travelled before me and I get lost. I forget to ask myself "what do I love?" "what do I feel is true for me right now?" But time and again, I migrate back to the interstate and hope that its momentum will take me somewhere meaningful and righteous, will dump me out into happiness and success.


I appreciate the gardens here as my teacher; the scars on my shins and forearms write a story about an old lesson newly learned. 


The sounds of peepers and crickets are giving way to morning birds and the hum of the interstate is gathering more energy. The sky has shifted from blue-black to periwinkle. The moon tilts closer to the west. My coffee cup is empty and the dogs are likely ready for their breakfast. Some images from the homestead to bring depth to the two-dimensionality of words.