Winter Sowing

Winter sowing is a fun and easy way to scratch that gardening itch during the coldest of seasons while giving your garden its best possible future. It’s a win-win endeavor for everyone involved, so why not give it a go? It’s not too late to start!

Here’s how:

Gather a bunch of empty one-gallon water jugs and drill 4-5 drainage holes in the bottom of each one.

Next, use a pair of kitchen shears or a box cutter to cut around the jug, starting and ending at the base of the jug handle. Leave about one inch uncut so that the jug hinges open at that spot.

After cutting around the jug, fill the bottom with potting soil and sow your seeds there, following the directions on the seed packet. With a Sharpie marker, label a plant stick with the seed type and push that in the soil as well. If you don’t have ready-made labeling sticks, popsicle sticks will work just fine.

Sprinkle the seeds with a bit of water and then seal up the circumference of jug with duct tape, leaving the cap of the jug off. Use your Sharpie to label the outside of the jug with the seed type again. I also like to put the plant height and sun preference here, too. This helps me to figure out where to put the seedlings when they are ready for planting in the ground.

Find an out-of-the-way place outside to put your little terrariums, and let Mother Nature do the rest. Just set it and forget it! By providing this protective shelter for your seedlings, you are giving these little guys the best chance for a good start and a strong growing season.

At this point you can start thinking about where these sprigs will go once they are ready to plant. You can easily prepare a few new garden beds for them during this interim period, and all you need to do so is a cardboard box!

First, think about where you want a new garden bed to be. Once you know where you want to start a new bed, lay pieces of cardboard (old flattened boxes) on the ground covering that area. Layers of newspaper will work as well, if cardboard is not accessible.

Next, lay unopened bags of topsoil on top of the cardboard to hold the cardboard (or newspaper) in place. This will prevent anything from growing in the covered area, and the topsoil will also provide extra soil for your new bed when you are ready to plant. Leave the area covered like this for weeks or months until you are ready to plant your seedlings.

When your sprouts are ready to plant, open the bags of topsoil in the new area, and dump the topsoil directly onto the cardboard underneath, and plant your seedlings there. The remaining cardboard on the ground will help to keep other formerly established plants from growing, giving your babies added time to get rooted without competition. You can add compost to the topsoil mix for an extra vitamin boost at this time if you have it available.

Now that you have a good idea about how to plant, where to plant, and how this whole process works, feel free to check on your seed jugs as the growing season approaches. You can always sprinkle them with a bit of water if they look dry as the weather warms. When the time is right, you will begin to notice the seedlings starting to sprout in their protective vessels. So exciting! When the plants are a few inches high and your beds are ready, open up your self-made terrariums, take out your seedlings all in one piece, and set them in the ground in the area that you have prepared for them. You can also gently break the growing clumps apart to spread and thin them out if that suits your needs better.

Think about cultivating native pollinator plants to give the flora and fauna in your area the best chance for a sustainable and productive life while helping our planet as well.

Happy gardening!

Don’t Breathe the WIFI!

My husband had the the barest inkling of a cold the day we had a tech guy come to the house to do an upgrade of our cyber system. Included in the job was a WIFI boost, and suddenly Steve’s cold is much worse. It’s as if it came out of nowhere.

I think he breathed in too much WIFI.

My youngest sister always says, “I don’t know what WIFI is, or where to get it, but I do know that it’s good to have a lot of it.” I tend to agree with her. I don’t know what WIFI is, but apparently we have alot of it now. In fact, when I got home from school that day, my husband told me that our rooms were now literally filled with WIFI. It was positively everywhere.

I suppose by the time I arrived on the scene, the WIFI had already sufficiently mixed in with the regular air molecules, but since he was home during the initial BOOST, I think that my husband accidently breathed in pure WIFI before it had properly dissipated, and God only know what that can do.

I kinda think he’s lucky he got away with just a nasty cold.

Don’t you?

Circles of Life

There is a pose in yoga called padahastasana where the yogi bends low in a forward fold and tucks the palm of each hand under the sole of the corresponding foot, creating a ring of energy with the body. Breathing and resting in this position is remarkable as you form a singular orb with your body and limbs, basking in your own vitality.

It is literally a circle of life.

Such a simple thing, but quite profound.

Recently, padahastasana offered a nudge to think about other infinite loops that hold meaning worth minding.

They bubble up – some of great substance, some incidental, some large, some tiny, but all orbit a measure of joy with their roundness.

The tiny entrance to the bird house where the wrens take residence every spring

our dog Ollie’s collar, clicked closed, holding promise of exploration and adventure

a Poor Man’s Raisin bundt cake made and devoured every Christmas, honoring our mom and grandma

the crusty knot in the maple tree that canopies the house from summer heat

the smooth rim of a coffee mug that warms the hands while offering morning sustenance

a worn wedding band encircling the finger for nearly thirty-one years

the faded rug in the classroom corner that softens the floor for bodies that share their lives at morning meetings

the pebbled sidewalk that wraps around the neighborhood for one third of a mile, offering an easy walking path

a potter’s wheel

this morning’s full moon and

the seeded center of a sunflower growing in the garden

the waxy cradle around a flickering candle flame

the tiny rainbow beads thrown from a prism hanging in a south-facing window

hot onion rings at the local pub

a warm oatmeal raisin cookie, and of course

the summer sun.

I wonder –

what are your circles of life?

Puttering

I think puttering is grossly underrated.

Puttering is

relaxing,

productive,

engaging,

mind-freeing.

Children spends years puttering. Exploring, tinkering, experimenting, finding out what works, what fits and what doesn’t, engrossed with no result in mind until the next thing comes along to tug their curiosity elsewhere, just bumping along through life…

Adults don’t seem to approach things that way. They usually have a goal in mind. They don’t putter much, but I think that perhaps they should putter more.

Puttering involves no commitment, just a smigen of interest. You can hover on the fringes and shuffle around out there for awhile before sidling into something with nothing but vagaries, foggy notions, and seeing where it leads you. And because you expect practically nothing, the results are rarely displeasing.

I think that there’s a quite a bit of puttering involved in teaching. You start with a little of this, a dose of that, a portion of this, and then see what sticks. It’s never exact and it’s never the same. In fact, I’d be hard pressed to come up with an iron-clad recipe for success. Certainly, intuition is a huge part of it; it’s not good to be strictly by the book when dealing with actual human beings, especially small ones. Somehow it seems to come out just right every time.

In retrospect, I think our whole house was decorated by puttering. There never was a goal, or vision. A thrift shop chair, and estate sale rug, an antique vase, a big mirror from a brownstone sale in the city. Just a little of this and a little of that thrown together over time.

It’s been that way with our garden, too. It started with a small parcel of grass and a donation of remnant bluestone from my sister’s place, and it just evolved from there, through the years. A rock wall over there, a trellis here, some hammock swings and few fruit trees to add something nice and attract more critters.

Puttering is deceiving in the most agreeable way possible. If there is something enormous to be done, puttering is the easiest way to think about it – if you want to think about it at all. There are those who don’t want to think about things of this magnitude, and that’s when this notion of easy proximity is perfect. It comes in handy because it is so non-threatening; it lets you come in sideways through the back door instead of head on.

When you putter, you just dabble on the fringes – that’s all. Just fish around and see what happens. Maybe you’ll start with one easy swipe, one stitch, one stroke, one shovelful, one bolt, one note, one push, and then suddenly there’s a chance and Whoosh! and –

to your great surprise – you may arrive at something that sounds like…

“Oh, my! I finished the room!”

“Holy Cow! I have a scarf!”

“Wow! I made a painting!”

“OMG. It’s a flower patch!”

“Well, whattaya know!? I got it started.”

“I played the whole song!”

“They passed!”

The next time you are daunted by a task – haunted by a task,

don’t don’t dive in head first,

and don’t think about what you wish to happen. Just loiter around the edges and poke one part, tinker one portion.

If the spirit moves, things might loosen and begin to flow and you might just slide your way through the whole darn thing despite you best efforts not to, and you will have done something really terrific.

But that was never the goal.

Nope,

it never was.

Puttering is its own reward.

Musicality

Listening to music while driving is one of my favorite things to do. I’m a regular accompanist for Adele, Frank Sinatra, Pure Prairie League, Norah Jones, Journey, Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin, Marshall Tucker, Dylan LaBlanc, Neil Young, and The Indigo Girls. To me we sound pretty good together, but what do I know?

During one of these mobile mini-concerts, I realized that the songs on my playlist were time – travel conduits, instantly zooming me back to great memories of moments in time. Conjuring up a connection to a person, group of people, or peak experience turns a mundane errand like running to the grocery store – into time well spent.

Music does all that. It never fails to lift me up.

Here are some personally notable melodies, in loose chronological order:

You Are My Sunshine, Bicycle Built for Two, Sparrow in the Treetop, Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Erie Canal, and more…(My parents) – random and countless long car rides in the station wagon

Best of My Love (The Eagles) – silk-screening in junior high print shop

China Grove (The Doobie Brothers) – marching onto the field with the twirling squad for my first home football game

California Girls and Don’t Worry, Baby (The Beach Boys) – hometown summer carnivals

How Deep is Your Love? (The BeeGees) – making deliveries on my brothers’ paper route with my sister

Baker Street (Gerry Rafferty) – zipping down the parkway to the Jersey shore with high school girlfriends

Rosalita (Springsteen) – dancing on a rooftop in Morgantown, WV

Into the Night (Benny Mardones) – late night walks home from Sunnyside

Brown-eyed Girl (Van Morrison) – singing with friends in the back of a pick-up truck on a dirt road in rural Abaco, Bahamas

Already Gone (The Eagles) – Kawagama Lake camping trip with with friends, northern Ontario

You’re Just to Good to Be True (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons) – dancing with my husband on our wedding day

Here Comes the Sun (George Harrison) – winter solstice celebrations with neighbors

Just One Look (Linda Ronstadt) – kitchen clean-up dance at Lake Placid with lifetime friends.

And the following songs remind me especially of my kids:

I Am Light (India Arie) – for my daughter, Joy

Bennie and the Jets (Elton John) – for my son, Ben

Fly Me to the Moon (Frank Sinatra) – for my son, Luke

There is so much more music both before and after these snapshot memories because to me, the music never ends.

I wonder –

what are the songs you live by?

Maybe Find Comfort in This

I think that comfort has very little to do with what one might think.

It doesn’t need softness,

or a big space,

or quiet.

Sometimes it goes hand in hand with familiarity, but

that is not always necessarily so.

Even if it’s a first –

you can find comfort there, if it’s the right thing.

Oh sure, it may be about repetition, but not always.

A smell, a sound, a rhythm, a task.

Pulling a paddle through water,

the zip of your sleeping bag in a tiny tent,

the click of needles coaxing yarn,

the stretch of your calves in downward dog,

the strike of your stride hitting the path,

the flick of the wrist as you peel potatoes –

there is comfort there.

The carve of the skis,

the push of the pedals,

the turn of the key,

the strum of the chord,

the roar of the surf –

it is there, too.

The arc of the seven-iron,

the ache in garden knees,

the creak of the stairs,

the cradle of your hands around a mug…

Extravagance is not there,

nor is opulence.

Comfort is merely an exhale

of the essence of you.

It is

healing.

It is

who you are –

confirmed.

Beaming

Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun

And I say it’s all right.

Thank you, George Harrison, but in all humility I’d like to modify the last line of your refrain:

And I say – WOOHOOHOO! I wasn’t sure that we’d be coming around again.

It’s more than alright – it’s fantastic!

Let’s call it what it is, folks – it is the best regularly scheduled day of the year.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I joyfully acclaim the start of Daylight Savings Time, which begins 2:00 a.m. Sunday, March 14. In other words – tonight.

Tonight.

On this eve we put the clocks ahead one hour, pushing daylight sixty minutes into the darkness.

What could be better, I ask you?

Sure, sure, I know. some will lament the loss of an hour of sleep tonight. To those folks I give a resounding, “Pish!” Which basically means, are you kidding me?

Are you honestly – for even one minute – thinking that losing an hour of sleep for one measely night is not worth a whole summer of lingering twilight barbeques, long after dinner walks in the gloaming, and days filled with sunshine that give you that really good kind of tired because you’ve been out in it all day and there’s still more of it leftover feeling? More of it left over to finish it all off with a lavender, pinky orangey sunset sky at 8:30 p.m.?

No? Still not worth it?

Well, don’t even talk to me, then! We’re not even on the same planet.

To sit in the summer sun is to be a sponge soaking up water. That is honestly how it feels to me – like I can’t get enough of it. Sure, I sit under a UV floor lamp in the dark months to bridge the gap, and that helps, but it’s not the same. It’s not like sitting on the front steps with evening light still falling on you, warming you while you have those last few sips of coffee (or maybe a glass of wine), blissfully assimilating radiant solar power into your being.

I know that not everyone feels this way about the sun. My husband revels in cloudy days and cool weather. He seeks the understories of trees, large overhangs, and wide-brimmed Tilley hats – going out of his way to reside in shadowy fringes to AVOID the sun at all cost (he is Canadian, so that helps to explain some of his idiosyncrasies). From our polar extremes on this issue we somehow meet in the middle and strike a balance that works. Our perrenial summer challenge is to find a spot on the patio where he can be in the shade and I can be in the sun while still sitting together. No kidding.

Yes, I am well aware that these contrary people exist, but I do not understand them, and today I am not even thinking about you-who-are-in-this-group-of-shade-mongers because today is OUR day. To those who are with me on this, to those of you who turn your face to that golden orb in a sea of blue and mark this as the best day, I revel with you.

We’ve come around again, and

I’m beaming.

Go Mute Yourself

Mute yourself!

Unmute yourself!

Click out and

Click back in!

Pull your mask up!

Please sanitize.

I need your link.

Do you have my link?

Attach the link.

Just click the link

and sanitize!

Are we synchronous?

Asynchronous.

What’s the difference?

Just sanitize.

Is this my class?

Where’s my class?

Am I in the right class?

I’ve lost my class.

But did you sanitize?

Does this sound familiar to you? A year ago we did not use this language. A year we did not have this language. A year ago seems oh-so-far away. A year ago we could not have dreamed up this reality. To say that this year is unique is probably a gross understatement. Friday will mark the one year anniversary of our altered reality at school. As a result, this banter has become our ongoing, well-worn vernacular. These exchanges are repeated so often – and we know them so well – we probably mumble them in our sleep. They do make sense in context, but out of context – and sometimes even in the moment – they are really quite hilarious.

So, while we’re still in the fray – a little self-deprecating humor never hurts. Just listen…

I can’t hear you.

Can you hear me now?

I can hear you.

Am I frozen?

You’re frozen.

Am I frozen now?

You’re still frozen.

Always sanitize.

Am I virtual or in person?

Is this A or B?

I can’t see you.

Can you see me now?

Please turn your camera on.

TURN YOUR CAMERA OFF!

Click the link!

That’s the wrong link.

THAT LINK! CLICK IT!

Why not sanitize?

And while we’re at it, do you have your:

doc cam

head phones

ear buds

wipes

divider

face shield

six-foot distancing radar

gator

and mask?

Wonderful!

Thank you for remembering,

One last thing,

Don’t forget to san-

OH, GO MUTE YOURSELF!

Adoration

It is cold and dark but still I step out of the car, drawing my coat tighter around me while crossing the mostly empty parking lot. Ascending three stairs and pulling open the heavy door, I slip inside.

An hour a week, set apart.

Monday nights, although it could be any day or any night – any time at all, really.

Whatever works.

Once inside, a hush envelopes as I exhale into silence. Dimness casts geometry shadows on domino pews edging the aisle to the altar, bathed in light. I pad noiselessly past the other people who stopped here, too.

Maybe for life, for light, for silence, for answers, to speak, to listen.

Who knows why?

There are as many reasons as people.

I slide into a worn pew, soft chanting from somewhere wafts around me and I settle onto the kneeler. Before me is the monstrance – haloed in light and just

perfectly still, perfectly quiet, perfectly there

for you who might step into that space and wrap its essence around you like a comfortable cloak, and think about what you may.

Dynamic Duos

under over weaving

inhale exhale breathing

ticking tocking gears

assuming, assuaging fears

ebbing flowing tides

pro and con – two sides

to and fro-ing trees

stillness? maybe breeze

count and counter points

bending – straightening joints

sinking low : rising soar

getting some, giving more

awake or deep asleep

too shallow or too deep

bit quiet or smidge noise

ache sorrows, holy joys

frenetic time or rest

horrible or best

Piece of cake or challenging,

these the changes life will bring.

darken lighten

soothing frighten

black then white

sure or might

high – low

come. go.

What?

You say it isn’t true?

Hey, look –

perhaps the change is you.