It Could Be Worse
Snowed-in and sick, but it could be worse.
We got Nora Jones on the stereo, dry wood for the stove, and a pot full of hot miso soup.
We got tissues and cough drops, a down comforter spread. We got PBS and a library movie to watch.
Our neighbor plows the driveway for the third time this winter. We thank him with venison burger.
We got merino wool long johns and fur lined moccasins. We got back rubs and hot baths to soak in.
The bird bath angel in the yard is decked in a full length gown of snow and the wrought iron lawn chairs are up to their seats with it.
I'm waiting by the window for the pileated woodpecker to return, so I can crank a window open and snap a zoomed in photo.
Snowed-in and sick, but it could be worse. So far we haven't lost power.
Note: Should I call baby Bryce to shovel our cars out? HERE he is shoveling out his own.
Red maple leaves fell from envelopes this autumn, all the way from 
Birdsong heralds spring. Summer means a sundress, bare feet, and isn't complete until we've eaten a few fat slices of blueberry pie. For me, fall begins with a more subtle sign: the quality of light changes. The lowering sun casts a marigold glow. It spills Van Gogh gold onto the fields and forests. With warmth that is penetrating but not burning, a simmering summer is reduced down to fall. 
I learn best through self-reflection and meaningful dialogue, an exchange of authentic living language spoken without agendas. I value independent thinking and resist formula and dogma. 
What lies beneath is eighteen years of junk collected in the cellar, piled on the pool table we bought to keep teenaged boys home a little longer, crammed into cement block corners, strewn on dusty shelves. We didn’t even need the three new tarps to order the disorder, as described on Oprah by her un-clutter guru: one for throw-aways, one for give-aways, and one for stuff to sell. With a little Virgo nature and a pick-up truck, we’ve set our intention and made a good start at reclaiming what used to be a cozy spot to sit by the woodstove but over time has deteriorated into what I call “bad feng shui.” A moldy dark cluttered foundation. A place to avoid and to blame our bad moods on. 
The first taste of blueberries picked from the garden, the first splashed dunk in the Country Club pool. Meals on the porch. Everyday an outside tea party attended in sundress style. The lawn chairs are moved from the open sun, tucked under pine trees in the shade. The dog looks forlorn, overdressed in fur. Industrious carpenter ants with appetites for our log home, leave telltale piles of wood dust around. Flip flops flap and butterflies flit. I slow down and listen to the symphony of wild. Every buzz, chirp, tweet, and drone tells me what I want to hear, that summer is in full swing. 
Is it in the screech the baby phoebes make when their mother brings food to their nest on the porch rafter?
Loud gusts of wind on the Blue Ridge Parkway sound like breakers on the shore. They make blades of grass quiver and hikers hold on to their hats. Spread out on a picnic blanket with my head propped on my bent arm, I watch a hawk surf the cloudless blue sky while my friend eats his bologna sandwich. He sits in a beach chair, passing me a plastic bag and then a napkin so they won’t blow away. 
If someone like me with a logical and skeptical mind can believe in the afterlife, there might be something to it. As a child in Catechism Class – where I was forced to memorize and recite a litany of 
At some point in your life one of your kids or someone else might say, "You're no fun anymore." You might feel obligated to try and be more fun or you might begin to ponder how your idea of what fun is has changed. 
Mud on potatoes dries to dirt in the sun, spilling from a bucket like a cornucopia overflowed. In the garden, a few tomatoes struggle to turn red but only make it to bright orange – the same color as the potted mums on the porch table, a $3 grocery store purchase for October’s yearly anniversary. 
No one comes. No one calls. The constant motion of September wind sounds like ocean surf. It flattens the tops of trees like women’s hair blown back from driving in a car with the top down. It pushes the clouds across the sky. They rush like a river intent on downstream. The sun blinks as they pass like a light bulb switching on and off, threatening darkness. Notebook pages flutter up at the corners. Poplar, oak, and fir swish like skirts, making me think of fabric: taffeta, crepe, and silk. With one gust, wind chimes fly into a panic, complaining about the end of summer, I suppose. 
It involved sun and birdsong, lilacs and a single purple iris. Joe was gone before I woke up, to a meditation retreat in town. When I saw the card and presents he left for me on the table, I thought, ‘I just might like presents wrapped more than I like them open.’ The mystery and shining possibility were qualities I wanted to savor, just like the quiet of the morning. After Mother’s Day, followed by first 
The porch vacation season began on March 1st and involved the sound of construction from our neighbor’s yard; the beeping signal of heavy machinery backing up and fooling me into thinking I had clothes in the washer ready for hanging; our tail wagging dog, anxious to be petted; and the book “A New Earth.”
On the same day I received three Christmas cards in the mail, I also sat in a lounge chair on my porch, sunbathing with barely a stitch on. The feeling was spring but the sun hung too low. The sound of my neighbor’s lawnmower had been replaced with the sound of a distant chainsaw. Last week we were bringing in firewood with gloves on and keeping the stove going day and night. Today it was chickadees happily eating sunflower seeds, Joe doing martial arts in the yard, and confused oak buds green and plump looking ready to pop. Lunch and laptops were spread out on the picnic table. A walk to the mailbox turned into a hike, bringing us to the creek where our dog Jazzy likes to drink and where the boys used to play. In a morning out of time, in between worlds or seasons, I peered down into the creek water as if it was an oracle and said to Joe, “Wait. Don’t move.” 
With a blanket spread out on May’s green grass, my 
The weekend porch vacation was moved to the yard. It involved sunbathing and flowers and bees buzzing on the bright heads of dandelions. There was the scent of wild onions in the air. A woodpecker tapped, a phoebe protected her nest, and two yellow finches politely waited for their turn at the birdfeeder. A green and white striped umbrella was used to keep those who attended from burning. Someone was wearing something pink. Someone else dozed off. To be continued ...
The menu consisted of basmati rice, steamed greens, and venison sautéed with onions. The conversation mostly revolved around garden plans. “We’ll have to risk being woken up by Jasmine’s barking,” Joe was saying, “because she needs to stay outside and chase away the deer that have been coming around.” An image of a family of deer devouring our garden popped into my mind as he spoke. 
Sunday’s extended porch vacation included two meals, a break for raking leaves and clipping rose bushes, some reading and paperwork to catch up on, a flood of sun, a red-breasted woodpecker at the bird feeder, and some lively conversation. 
The wind is like a bold sprawling signature signing its name across the cloudless sky. It rustles and scatters the curled-up brown oak leaves in my yard and makes the chimes on my porch loudly sing. There’s an engine running in my neighbor’s garage, making me the feel restless, as though I should be in my kitchen cleaning. Every now and then a bird chirps loudly, complaining about the empty feeders, I suppose. Our dog Jasmine is stretched out next to me, lazily sunning herself. She, afraid of gunshot and thunder, is oblivious to the wind whipping past our cozy porch scene, even as the sound of its unleashed force causes me to shrink. 
The February Porch Vacation is cancelled until further notice or until we can reschedule it to a warmer climate. 
The bird feeder Joe got for Christmas is three times the size of our old one. We like to feed our bird neighborhood of mostly chickadees and sparrows in the winter when the frozen ground makes it hard for them to forage. But this year we haven’t had a hard frost yet. It’s warm enough to wear T-shirts on the porch. We shift in our chairs to follow the sun that shines brightly and then hides behind clouds. 
A good book. A lounge chair. The sun makes freckles on my bared skin. A single fat fly buzzes by like a fighter pilot that doesn’t know the war is over. This one doesn’t know it isn’t summer. A clumsy yellow hornet goes down, crashes into my arm. I flick it off while sipping every color of the rainbow reflected off my cobalt blue mug. 
Teacups and pens … are the clutter of quiet … in the green café … of my own yard …