I fell asleep listening to Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain, read by Tilda Swinton. Lulled into a sweet, pacific slumber by the gorgeous prose dripping with delicious descriptions of nature, I was jolted awake by these words:

“It is, as with all creation, matter impregnated with mind: but the resultant issue is a living spirit, a glow in the consciousness, that perishes when the glow is dead. It is something snatched from non-being, that shadow which creeps in on us continuously and can be held off by continuous creative act. So, simply to look on anything, such as a mountain, with the love that penetrates to its essence, is to widen the domain of being in the vastness of non-being. Man has no other reason for his existence.”

A single tear spilled from my right eye upon hearing that final sentence. I silenced the book so that those words would be the last to enter my ear for the day. That continuous creative act involves a special attentiveness to the riches of sensorial experience dropped at our feet in every moment. It is an extra, but I suspect necessary, second step to weave those enlivened impressions of these riches into an artifact of some kind. How else will the uninitiated find the secret that is no secret at all, but a deluge swelling all around us, waiting for us to cast a glow over it?​

Important too, not to underestimate the power of forgetfulness. The artifact I make may be for my future self. One who knew but forgot is as uninitiated as one who never knew. It isn’t a shortcoming, not a sin, but it is a deprivation. I should like to kindle that glow in myself and others whenever I can. Why not lovingly widen the domain of being?

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I sift dried rosebuds and petals out of the basket with my bare hands, removing stems and pointed leaves. The desired bits are placed carefully in a glass apothecary jar. A litter of dried stigma or pollen, tiny yellow crumbs from the center of the rose, falls through the weave of the basket, remaining on the tabletop. Placing the lid on the jar, I admire the multicolored confetti of petals contained within the shapely glass vessel. A petite black cat hops onto the table to examine the installation.

I place the clippers and gloves in the basket and carry it, hanging from the crook of my arm, until I am standing before the roses. Then I pull the gloves over my hands and select from the two pairs of clippers. The basket hangs in the kitchen all year long. In the winter, it was full of drying mandarin peels, ribbons, and paint. Now it is time again for roses. I clip close to the bloom, letting the flower heads tumble into the basket. Then I prune the branch properly at the node to stimulate future healthy growth.

Neon red, maroon, white, and yellow. I bring my harvest inside and set it on the ground for the four young cats to enjoy. They encircle it, sniffing. One watches a spider run from the basket. Another snatches a yellow rose between her teeth and scampers away with it. Rescuing the spider with a jar, I return him to the garden. After collecting my stolen rose from my sleek little thief, I hang the basket of blooms from the hook in the kitchen.

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Attention devoted anxiously to the copper kettle and coffee grounds, I hear the chirping of a bird, dimly, dully, through the fog of caffeine addiction. I turn my head, registering a hummingbird hovering over the nasturtiums, very close to the ground. Across from the bird, the cat is taught, strung like a bow, prepared to pounce. It happens. I see them connect, and I’m out the door like a shot fired, both hands around my ferocious feline friend. Nothing in mouth or under claw, I spirit her away.

She complains as I plop her hastily inside. Shutting the screen door behind me, I return to the bed of nasturtiums, heart racing.

”Are you okay? Are you okay?” I ask again and again, voice trembling. Lowering a hand, I gently push aside leaves, flowers, pods, and vines, searching. Nothing. I know what I saw. My pounding heart and the flood of adrenaline that propelled me are confirmation.

Gingerly, my fingers creep along, lifting nasturtiums. With a feral cry, the tiny bird reveals itself, wings thrumming in a clumsy but speedy take off. Shooting past my ear and away, he is alive enough, well enough to vanish in an instant. Relief doesn’t quiet my heart. The rain and the empty feeder were critical factors, I decide. Rushing inside, I replenish and then replace the hummingbird feeder. Still in shock, I return to my kettle. All day, I will watch birds feed and wonder, Is it he?

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Thunder? The clouds in the sky indicate it’s a possibility. I turn off the fan to listen. The absence of kittens is telling, too. The sound sent them to their favorite hiding places before I could register anything at all. Coffee half consumed, brain wrapped entirely around the creative task in front of me, I consider the rumble at least two whole minutes after it has passed. Not entirely. While I had been copying and pasting and reviewing edits, the question of the sound filtered slowly into my consciousness. I contemplated the impact of self-doubt. Now that I am so close to becoming the creative dragonfly that I’ve always dreamed of being, I quiver, hesitate, and backtrack. Time to find a job. Feed my life into the dollar-making machine.

It is self-doubt clothed as practicality. Mortified by the costs of perfumery materials and medical expenses, paralyzed by ISBN numbers, struggling to draw a flower, covered in kittens, I think, Lady, you gotta get a job. I turn the fan off to listen for thunder. The wind blows the blades of the fan around, the curtains dance, wind chimes tinkle. No thunder, but after a few minutes, I hear sirens wailing in the distance. Not a kitten in sight.

​Then I consider another possibility. Tomorrow is trash day. Early in the morning, the day before trash day, some neighbors will roll their cans out before they go to work. This way, they may come home late and go to bed without worrying about the detritus left by their existence. Thunder? Or garbage cans rumbling? This is the question I face about my creative work. It’s the suburban representation of self-doubt. Is this awe-inspiring beauty shaking the heavens, or smelly rubbish rumbling down driveways on plastic wheels?

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My calico cat sits on the retaining wall, watching the sky full of roiling gray-blue clouds. I race against them, my fingers bumping into wriggling pink worms as I work. This contact fills me with electric joy. Hastily, I cover unearthed worms with soil, losing track of my planting pattern as I go. There’s no time to worry.

​I’m nearing the end of the garden bed, dirt embedded under my fingernails. I feel a drop on my cheek, push a clove down. The water breaks, clouds bursting overhead. I scoop up the loose, unplanted cloves.

”Come on, Pumpkin, it’s raining!” I yell, dashing for the house. “Come on, run!” A black kitten is waiting for us at the screen door, prancing excitedly at our approach. “Move! Let us in!” I push her aside with my hand, holding the door open for Pumpkin. The excited kitten’s tail puffs out, achieving unprecedented volume. She dances around us with her bottlebrush tail as we shake the water from our fur and clothes. The rain slams violently against the earth beyond the screen.

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I am tired, but I am awake. It is morning, but it’s still pitch black outside. Hoping for some stars or the moon, I pull open the blinds in the kitchen and stare at a reflection of myself. I had a glimpse of cool white stars before closing these blinds at bedtime. It hadn’t been as dark then. Little wisps of violet were still visible around the tree tops.

Now drenched in tar darkness, I withdraw from the window. The midcentury clock on the dining room wall features a four-pointed star. I content myself with this, watching the second hand travel over the face of the tile. There is no other clock like this one in the world. It was made by my grandfather. To the right of the time-keeping element, there is a mosaic of a ballerina.

Not just a ballerina. She is a depiction of a very specific ballerina, the first black ballerina that my grandparents saw in a televised performance. She is Janet Collins. My grandmother wept when she saw her dance. My grandfather made the clock for her as an anniversary gift. Remembering this, I am more than content. I am awe-struck, filled with love and joy. I couldn’t wish on a brighter, more unswerving star than this.

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Wrathful spirit, be still. Waves of yellow pollen rippling on the wind, be done with your lusty exercise. I threw open the windows and welcomed you in, dear spring, so lovingly, as a friend, but you’ve come with vengeance in your heart. The snowmelt and sunshine embolden you. You push against balance, away from center, unwholesome in your zeal.

​City forefathers planted the pines along the streets, thinking they could rule the earth, selecting only male trees to prevent them from propagating as nature dictates. I never knew those so-called planners. My innocent wheezing kitten was born long after their time. We suffer the decisions they made brashly, without humility, thinking themselves wiser than you and all of your kin.

​They didn’t consider the four seasons or the four winds, or even me and my asthmatic kitten. They, no doubt, thought about paychecks, promotions, and budgetary considerations. Perhaps they sent their children to private schools with the wages they earned by placing trees as if trees were merely scenery rather than living members of the community themselves. Now, spring, you’ve come to my house enflamed. My head bends in helpless sorrow.

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Welcome, fair spring, wherever you find her. It is early, just a tad, but she is here, warm and gentle. We wouldn’t dream of asking her to go and come back later. Always a welcome guest, we go out to meet her at the gate, welcome her into the yard, throw open our windows, and call her into the house. Graciously, she glides in, train of green flowing behind her, golden sunlight for hair streaming all around her, cheeks that are the blush of fresh blooms.

​Time has transformed me into one who understands that toil precedes pleasure. There is always digging, hauling, pulling, washing, and pruning before seeds can be planted. Only after that can we begin the gentler work of watering and watching. Much later, we will do whatever harvesting there may be. Deciding what must be removed and clearing it away is a prerequisite to selecting and cultivating what one desires to grow.

​Gardens are filled with such universally applicable wisdom. If you long for a teacher, find a garden to work in. Then you will have four mentors: fair spring, wild summer, prudent autumn, and solemn winter. In truth, there are myriad instructors nested in each of these. We are all composite beings, not least of all these mighty seasons, the personified ebb and flow of life. Their character changes, adjusts, and evolves with every iteration, and so must we if we are alive and wise and part of the great composition.

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Golden sunrise. Brilliant half moon dawdles in the morning sky. Luxurious scent of pink jasmine blooming over the fence. Nervous spring energy. Birds singing. Bumble bees visit during the heat of the day. Hummingbirds chat with us through the open window at bedtime. A first poppy bud, yet to unfurl, waits for the perfect moment.

​Weeding makes a green imprint on my mind. When I tuck in for sleep, memories of root, stem, leaves, and flower flash over my fingertips, flicker in my mind’s eye in hues of emerald, ochre, white, pink, and black. The plants I lovingly touched are all imprinted there too, along with their pungent, fresh, herbaceous aromas. The sleep is heavy and deep. It comes quickly, early. Morning finds me bewildered.

​It’s darker than I’m accustomed to until it is suddenly luminous and filled with sun and moon and birds all at once. Morning doves coo. The scrub jay complains of the calico cat in the yard. A crow laughs at everything. I recall discovering an owl pellet on the garden wall while weeding. The limbs of all the trees framing the moon are green again.

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Once upon a time, we threw birdseed into flower beds, lined the beams of wooden fences with it, poured it over stepping stones, or heaped it on the cinderblocks of a retaining wall. The birds so favored also carried alien seeds into the garden upon their feathers or in their droppings. It was a collaborative chaos. Many strange and wonderful things grew around these impromptu bird cafes. Wild grasses, tall sunflowers, mysterious shoots. All burst unabashedly from the soil.

Our promiscuous behavior with birdseed had come to Wonka-esque fruition. Giant sunflowers grew to towering heights before turning to seed again. I removed most of our strange harvest before the entire neighborhood succumbed. One renegade seedling whispered to me as I approached with my deadly trowel in hand. It was no more than four inches high, sporting substantial, lovely, dark green leaves on its woody stem.

“I’m really something quite beautiful,” it whispered.

I hesitated. Part of me thought that real gardeners show no mercy, but I said, “Excuse me? Did you say something?”

“Yes,” it replied softly but assuredly, “I’m really something quite beautiful. Please let me live.”

I was skeptical, but readily acquiesced, granting sanctuary. I didn’t need to be a real gardener. Years have passed. The stranger has grown in that spot at the edge of the garden, near the wrought-iron fence, nodding to me whenever I pass. She now stands at an elegant five feet tall. Today, for the first time, she bore clusters of white blossoms among those lovely green leaves of hers.

“You’re really something quite beautiful,” I whispered as I snapped a photo for a Google image search.

“I know,” the mock orange tree replied softly, “thank you.”

“Pittosporum.” I replied in awe.

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Before sunrise, the full moon hangs pendulously among the branches of the great old oak. I dreamed of oak branches while I slumbered, and oak branches are among the first things I behold upon waking. I gape at the cool, bright moon, so visible in the clear dark morning sky.

​I want to talk to my husband about this moon. I mumble incoherently to the cats about it as I walk around opening blinds to prepare for sunrise and the day to come. Brewing coffee, I wonder if this moon had so spellbound my husband while he was out on his run. Would he tell me about owls and coyotes and mice traveling along the path with him under its silver illumination?

​As the sun begins its ascent, a Gaussian blur of mist pours into the neighborhood, filtering out trees and rooftops. Gone is the moon. I can’t help associating this vaporous veil with the lunar visitation. Surely this is moon mist. I catch sight of a golden disc reflected perfectly in the bedroom window of the house behind mine. Momentary brilliance before the sun becomes a diffused light somewhere beyond the mysterious fog.

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After the rain, little fat birds sit on the fence and hunt in the mulch below for worms. They find seed, too, broadcast upon the earth when an anxious squirrel toppled the small table that serves as a bird feeder. This destruction of the tower transpired before the storm. The following morning, the lightning flashed. Thunder shook the house. Kittens took refuge under beds.

​The cat did not hide during the thunderstorm. She has always been bold. That boldness has served her well for nine years, compounding with every event survived. She remained alert, eyes wide, ears attuned, body seated, composed like a perfect statue of a cat. Not unaware, no, but not about to flinch over a little weather. After the exciting bit passed, it rained hard all day. In the morning, there was snow on the mountain.

​Today, little fat birds climb on the limbs of the rose bush, flit excitedly from branch to soil, fence to limb. Kittens watch from the desk at the second-story window. Sunlight peeps brightly over the rims of some particularly voluminous clouds migrating eastward. We hear the geese, but they pass unseen over the roof. The cat sleeps peacefully, unfazed by shocking patches of blue sky and rowdy birds.

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We sat in the sun, cold wind cutting through our sweaters like knives, whipping our hair around our faces. Eating hot clam chowder with plastic spoons from paper cups, we imagined it was all balancing out, that somehow, cold wind versus hot soup equals a comfortable neutral state. We split a mini baguette with our hands and drank cold bottled drinks. Surely that was the unbalancing element that left my chest cold. I felt as though I was topless.

​Sometimes the wind stopped, and I thought I would be warm, and maybe it would not return, but then it did. I thought of my jacket left in the car, but felt that going to get it would only make me colder. The soup would get cold too if I backtracked to recover what I should have brought in the first place.

​Ah, but the sun. It made me optimistic. I believed a sweater would be enough. It was beautiful and bright, and I imagined we could eat outside, bathed in its radiance. Huddled on the bench, I focused on eating my soup. It was gritty, as if sand was a crucial ingredient. I ate faster to stay warmer, clinging to every morsel of heat.

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Roses. In time for Valentine’s Day, they start blooming. It’s such grace to a parched soul recently returned from the desert. Peach. Red. White. Neon pink. Couched in green of every hue. Among the baroque emerald foliage, the crimson leaves of the berry bramble encircle precocious white blossoms.

The sun gives warmth, touching my cheek and temples through the window. Cats recline behind me in the rectangular patch of light cast upon the floor and foot of the bed. Bird song mingles with the distant growl of a leaf blower, drifting in with the fresh air through the cracked window. Just a small opening. The air is still cold.

​I watch birds chase each other across the blue sky. A breeze pushes a wind chime to sway and call softly. The leaf blower nearly drowns it out completely. It’s the toll one must pay to live in the beauty and peace of the suburbs. There is almost always a leaf blower, a lawn mower, or a chainsaw at work somewhere. I endeavour to regard their drone as an essential element of the sweetest music.

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A series of cups of hot tea. An ever-flowing river of feline friendship purring softly at the banks of awareness. Wildbirds feasting beyond the window in the cool morning light, framed by red geraniums with velvety green leaves. A squirrel dangles from the fence to add a little rodent drama to the scene outside. Like a street magician, he mesmerizes an audience of birds.

​Warm scarf around the throat. Soft and patterned with blue florals. The most recent cup of tea tastes of quince and Darjeeling. It cools too quickly. All tea cools too quickly in January, necessitating a series of cups.

​The cup itself is a thing of beauty. Byzantine pattern of gold, black, and white. It bears the first letter of your name, a personalizing touch. Doesn’t it feel so good to be recognized by your own cup? Little things can add an almost imperceptible dash of comfort. A cup, a kitten, a scarf, a window.

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If I were a star, I’d shine on you. I’d come down to your window while you slept and sing myself into your dreams. Wherever you walked in the land of dreaming, I would hold your hand and walk with you. If it were a dark dream, I would light our way. If it were a bright dream, you would be drunk on my glimmering.

​While I am a mortal, lying frail in my sick bed, I can’t hug you or hold your hand. All that I have at my disposal are words. I’ll shower you with linguistic sparks of affection. I’ll speak to you of starlight, of that which burns brightest and hottest. If I were to use those three little words, they would be far too small.

​If I were a star, I’d light the waking world for you. I’d warm the earth so that flowers would bloom bright and delicate at your feet and trees would grow tall, making sweet the air you breathe. In this way, I would be transmuted into air, into spirit, into a life-giving breath. Still, I would remain a star. You inspire such vitality, luminosity, and generosity that I long to radiate it back to you.

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The world came alive with sunshine and bird song. Warmth emanated from the windows, slight but perceptible. Yesterday, there was frost. Today, I could be tricked into thinking that it is spring. Tricked by the light and avian music. Deceived by the blueness of the sky. Bamboozeled by the green clovers.

As long as I keep my sweater on, it is a harmless con. A little midwinter fantasy of the season to come, a charming mirage that can surprise and delight. As long as I keep my hat and slippers on. Ensure that the heater continues to run. Have another cup of hot tea. Remain reasonable, rooted in reality.

The sun could beckon to my shoulders so that I throw on a sundress. Jubilant piping from these sirenbirds could lure me outside. Verdant weeds could disarm me, luring me to linger despite the chill. Shivering, I might drown in blue sky. Resolve is called for, a reckoning with the facts over flights of fancy, a hard look at a thermometer.

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A picture of two apples on a limb taken on a mountain top in Virginia. It is blush red, verdant green, and bright blue. A shock. A startling reminder that it was not always cold gray mist pouring through the trees and over the rooftops. It was not always cold marble floors and dark days indoors. It was not always California.

​

There was a morning in Virginia not long ago that I wandered along a row of apple trees, away from the ruin of an abandoned house, towards a steep ridge. The crowd was in the opposite direction. I walked towards vining flowers, butterflies, and a line of tall trees ascending the ridge. As I strolled, I discovered a treasure, a gift from the orchard. An apple had fallen from one branch only to be caught, impaled upon the bony finger of a lower limb. It was held aloft to me by a hospitable tree.

​

Carefully, I removed it and took one juicy bite. It was sweeter than any apple I have ever tasted, on the verge of fermentation, and wildly delicious. After savoring the bite, I gingerly, gratefully, replaced the apple upon the bony finger that had offered it. Then I walked far and away up the steep ridge to see everything grow small, distant, and bluish green below me. Around me, a skirt of mountains and trees that rolled forever on.

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It is a beautiful morning of white sunshine, bird song, and sky washed white, gray, and palest blue. I consider it a nondescript sky until I try, and then I see that it is a study in these faded colors, smeared seamlessly together, gently illuminated. Crows are clicking and cawing. Little songbirds whistle sweetly. The oak is naked, but beside her, another tree sports golden leaves layered over drab green. They fairly glow against the sky.

​The concrete is still wet, saturated by last night’s rain, yesterday’s rain, all of the rain that has ever fallen forever, but is now gone. The berry bramble has put on some white blossoms. A rose is sporting a few tiny hot pink blooms. Woodchips swollen with moisture contribute to a delicious “garden after the rain” aroma. Green, woody, wet, these words come close but misdirect. The actual vigor and purity of the scent is inimitable. No art can approach it.

A Japanese black pine captivates my attention. I never noticed this tree before. Now it is the one I adore, peeking over the fence at me, and now, I at it. My neighbor grows bonsai. This one must have been set free long ago. Now it is great, though still petite, studded with juicy green needles that make me wish that I were a bird gripping one of its elegant limbs.

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Lost in winter, I behold the white sky. An alabaster sun shines through a thick blanket of chalky clouds. Partial silhouettes of trees jut out of mist; a top here, one half of a redwood there, limb of an oak. A diminutive Japanese maple leaf hangs suspended in a spiderweb, nestled in a corner of fencing. Tiny arachnid Christmas star.

​Later, the clouds disperse, revealing the blue sky. Bright sun pours in through the windows. I turn off the heater, open the sliding glass door, and let in the fresh air. Splashes of crimson around dusk, then, after nightfall, rain falls hard. I can’t believe my ears. A roar of rain.

​After dinner, phone calls, and gifts exchanged, we assemble a paper garland of stars. The backs of the stars are painted gold. The fronts are multicolored, and we string them on purple ribbon, staying up too late, eating too many crackers and chocolates. At bedtime, I am clear on the month and day, but the year is slippery. It’s alright. I’m lost in winter.

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