Friday, November 10, 2017

Between rains, between my ears


Yesterday between rains and windstorms I was able to clear the gutters and downspouts of fir needles and birch leaves. The fig now is mostly bare. The stack of empty flowerpots continues to grow. I also cleared the front flowerbed, full of leaves and a few straggly blooms, gave it a good deep digging, and then another after adding manure. It was quite mild out, in the mid-fifties. Behind the house, the ground is thick with fir needles. This happens every fall. The wind cleans the trees, scatters all the spent needles and cones. The gutters catch the cones, the cones block the rain, and the gutters overflow. I go out again and again to clear them and the water runs freely once more. There is nothing I can do about it. The trees belong to the neighbors to the south. The storm winds come from the south. And if the trees were in our yard, what would I do? The same, of course. Unless they were a danger, I couldn’t bear to take them down. Besides, it’s good to be out in the weather, whatever it is. Sometimes I get soaked. Sometimes I shiver. The wind whistles through my ears — there’s nothing to stop it in between. And so, gutters or no gutters, I make a point of going out several times a day. The exposure does a body good. And you can see what it’s done for the mind. But the mind is part of the body. Just as the body is part of the dream. And what is the dream part of? Everything. And everything is good.



9 comments:

Jan said...

William...this was great!!!
I loved every word!
Wind thru your ears with nothing to stop it?
You have a wonderful brain...sondon't be absurd :)

William Michaelian said...

Ha! Well, you know me, Jan — I like to air my thoughts....

Anthony Duce said...

Enjoyed.

William Michaelian said...

I’m glad. Thanks, Anthony.

Stream Source said...

Gutters and needles and cones, OH MY!

I heard that whistling across the entire breadth of the country! It must be some wind a blowin' ....or is it my own empty head I'm hearing?

We're bracing for 19 degrees tonight. This after my 70 degree weekend only a few hours away. I've dug up or wrapped up every living thing in sight that I for some reason feel the need to preserve a while longer or to winter-over.

Do you think I have issues with letting go? (grin)

If I could just keep those stalwart geraniums, standing guard on both sides of our front door. Maybe 34 degrees will return and I'll have them until Thanksgiving. Maybe...

You're more of a gardener than I it seems. I trim back some, we mow the leaves into mulch and blow them onto the beds creating (a)earth-enriching blanket of sorts, so we tell ourselves, at least. I won't be turning soil or adding fertilizer until spring. But then, our climates, though sometimes similar, have different growing seasons, so it seems, from where I sit - far across the way.

Enjoyed the window to your world. Or was I just dreaming, again?

William Michaelian said...

Well, judging by some of the pictures I’ve seen of your yard, I doubt I’m more of a gardener. But I’m probably more of a farmer. The farm experience was baked deep into my bones, and I’m sure the baking process began well before I was born. Or so the dream goes.

I’ll be back out again shortly, this time to cut down the dahlias; we’re a week or so from lifting them for winter storage. They went absolutely berserk this year. But finally, after two or three frosts, they’re willing to call it quits for the season.

Thanks for peeking in. And yes, you are dreaming.

Stream Source said...

oh thank god... for a moment I thought this could be real ~

Farm on

Stream Source said...

I just woke up with a start and thought of your story and my reply. Sorry to come crashing into the room and sitting on your prose, but you make it so inviting!

Another beautifully William bit. A simple thank you said while looking through the front door would have been more polite.

Now, goodnight dahlias... goodnight moon!

William Michaelian said...

No, no, no, your response is beautiful. The fact is, from the very beginning, I have looked at each entry as a kind of meeting place. I treasure nothing more than a sincere, spontaneous reply, be it brief, wordy, or in between. Because the truth is, each chance may be our last. And so, good morning, dahlias, good morning, moon!