Summering

A non-dramatic update plus a little Nehemiah

View from a Window Stanislav Zhukovsky (1875-1944)

It’s been raining a lot. As a dirt-road dweller and garden tender, I welcome the sweet relief of water falling out of the sky; petrichor makes me want to simultaneously curl up on the porch with an Irish novel (Niall Williams¹ to be precise), and wildly twirl with face tipped up and feet in the silver grass. Lucky for me, I live on a back road where the Pharisiacal eyeballs are few and far between.

Despite the absence of words in this space, ordinary life carries on. No big headlines here. One of the unsung gifts of middle age is the ability to see that sentence for what it is: sheer mercy.

We are summering to the best of our ability.

June has given us smoky fires at supper, mushroom collections on the side table, and epic hair tangles from hours in the pool². Sibling squabbles and run-ins with stinging nettle are the obligatory, unwelcome summer accessories that somehow never seem to fall out of fashion.

We abandon all clocks (save our stomachs) and roam free from the tyranny of jackets, socks, and schoolwork. I buy sugary cereal. Which is met with a rousing cheer until two days hence when the natives grow disillusioned and beg for a return to the fried eggs of Egypt. #smallvictories

In garden drama: I planted way too many gladiolus and—according to the empty stare of my freezer—probably not enough green beans or carrots. Apparently we shall fill our stomachs with beauty. Pink peonies have taken their final bow and surrendered the stage to delphiniums hypnotizing sway. Both are perennial divas, eager to throw themselves headfirst in a fit of despair at the slightest threatening breeze, but they’re also beautiful enough to get away with it. I’m glad for a mom who not only taught me to love flowers, but how to stake them as well.

Yesterday, I attempted to preserve the delphinium blossoms in watercolor—a (mostly) fun and (tiny bit) frustrating exercise. Fun because playing with color lights me up inside, and frustrating because (for some inexplicable reason) my work doesn’t look like Redouté on the first go. Rude.

Ruby (5) “weeded” all the radishes, so I’m forced to make do without my elite early-season snack³. Thankfully, the butter lettuce and scallions were spared her virtuous tending. Meanwhile, I have resumed unholy war on the moles intent on constructing condominiums beneath my garden beds. Trapping used to be the surest bet, but I’m beginning to wonder if Gen Z moles are less gullible than their grandparents; the steel jaws of Josh’s traps remain mostly empty and tunnel construction continues below.

Every evening like clockwork I receive fresh wildflower offerings from aforementioned five-year-old: wood violets, trilliums, purple clover, white yarrow, wild roses, ditch daisies⁴. Every morning, I sweep away the evidence of death: drifts of wrinkled petals from beneath her windowsill bouquets. The circle of life writ small.

Alongside these Edenic pleasures of summer, foreboding joy⁵ slithers in and I take and eat the low-hanging fruit. Surely there is merit in contemplating hypothetical diagnoses, tragic eventualities, and the probability of my children making poor choices? Right? Right?! But the fruit that pretends to manage future disappointments is bitter. Instead of the promised control, I’m left with a racing heart and sour stomach.

The Spirit’s breath meets me in front of the kitchen sink. I’m thinking a whirlwind or earthquake might help me remember better, but instead he just offers a stack of syrupy plates and the prophetic voice of Nehemiah: the joy of the Lord is your strength.

The bad news: Nowhere in my striving, planning, pushing, fixing, balancing, optimizing, worrying, micromanaging, catastrophizing, boot-strapping, white-knuckling, grasping-for-control efforts can strength be found.

The Good News: The joy of the Lord has sustained me yesterday. The joy of the Lord empowers me today. His joy already inhabits tomorrow—so there’s little use in running ahead. My part is to remember and rehearse:

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

I tape the good news to my kitchen window: The joy of the Lord is my actual strength. Light shines through the words. And the darkness cannot overwhelm it.

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1. That droll Irish wit! Those characters! The exquisite aphorisms and lyrical prose! Thanks to Gina for introducing me to this author.

2. The first of June also afforded us the gift of hosting boys class. Which gave me lots of thinky thoughts which (perhaps) I’ll write about at a later date.

3. Everyone extols the glories of a summer tomato sandwich. But a sandwich of thinly sliced garden radishes on soft homemade bread with Hellmans(!) mayo is a close second. Fresh dill too, if you’re feeling it. Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.

4. She knows how to atone for the radishes.

5. A feeling of joy underlined by the worries of impending doom. The belief that if life is going well, bad news most assuredly is on the horizon; the other shoe must drop; etc. etc.