And so I did. The sharp strike of a match brought forth the burst of flame that licked hungrily at the wood. There was no second match. The fire grew and its warmth radiated to our skin as we stood around it, admiring its beauty. Denali turned off the lamps, and the apple-shaped window of mica glowed red in the darkness.

There is no small significance to this fire. So many people have stood around me and supported my creative life. Carl Davidt made this stove for me, so inexpensively as to be considered a gift. He is a metal sculptor who has been a good friend for many years, and I can feel the love that went into this stove. Emily, Andy, and neighbor L, have put in many hours helping out around Berrytown. But my husband’s support has been unwavering and his encouragement consistent. Watching that apple glow, feeling the warmth from the fire, my own creative fire was rekindled. So many times assorted frustrations have given me an excuse to back away from my creative life. Now, with all the support and love warming up my studio, I don’t think I can do that anymore. The space swirled with possibilities and mingled with the smoke that had escaped from the door of the stove. I breathed it all in.

Yesterday I picked peaches.   I missed a bunch, now rotting on the earth, making for some really happy ants, and thought of James and his giant peach.  I realized I shouldn’t really feel guilty about the lost peaches–I couldn’t get to them for several days before hand.  Then I reached into the branches and picked until my bucket was full.  I knew it was the day to can some peaches.  I ended up making peach preserves, keeping the skins on, which made the preserves a rosy golden color.  Very pretty.

We opened a pint jar this morning and spread it over pancakes.  I used yogurt instead of milk in the pancake mix, which makes for a nice tangy pancake, and the peach preserves complimented them perfectly.

Later in the afternoon I went to the garden with my box of seeds.  The clouds were clotting, the breeze brushing tangles out of the air.  Far off to the north I heard thunder like the drum of the storm, pounding the air over and over.   Sky preparations were underway.

I cleared out a small space–half of a vegetable bed–and spread a mesclun seed mix over the soil, then sprinkled more soil over that.  Then I cleared out two rows in the bed below that for beets, pushing the straw mulch up against the calendula plants that have sprawled out from the center of the bed, thrusting my hands deep into the soil, breaking it up, my hands appreciating its rich texture of life.

I gathered what I had weeded and walked over to the chicken coop to give it to the chickens.  The rain began to fall, a steady, easy rain, the edge of a storm, patches of blue still in the sky.  I stood under the big poplar in my bare feet thinking, “somewhere there’s a rainbow” but I didn’t bother to look.  The rain was falling on my seeds, and falling on my arms, on my earth-covered hands, and on the clover at my feet, on the peaches weighing down their branches, and on the blue roof of my home.

There is something perfect about this very imperfect life, there is something  about the rain, falling perfectly upon my skin, and upon the land that I love; there is something that opens up the sky and lets beauty fall where it will, which is everywhere, if you are paying attention.

“What are you talking about?”  he spurts.  “We’ve got plenty of time to get everything done!”  He is near-preacher-like in his tone of confidence.

“You used to complain that you never got to lay in your hammock and do nothing. ‘I just want to do nothing’ you would say, over and over,  ‘And I never get to do nothing‘…but look at what you do!  Arghh!  We’ve got the cob oven, the cement floor, and the wall replacement–and all need to be finished yesterday because of your birthday party! It makes me crazy!”

“I know, I know!”  his voice rising with energy.  “I want to get to the point where I can just lay in the hammock—but I’ve just got too much to do!  I have to run around with my hair on fire!  It’s just the way I am!”

My husband is bald.

In eleven days, the esteemed Smoky Joe, handyman extraordinaire, will lumber up our driveway in his big two-tone truck.  He will smoke a cigarette he rolled from Bugler tobacco, drink a stout cup of coffee, then begin tearing down the western wall of our house.  There will be a huge mess in the house and yard.

In fifteen days, we will be throwing his fortieth birthday party.  And before that, we need to finish the cob oven so that we can cook the pizzas for his party.  Oh, and remember that whole demolition, tear-down, chaos everywhere, trash in the yard, wide open spaces in the wall part?  Yeah, so that’s all supposed to be done (and cleaned up?) before the party.

And never mind the whole cement floor thing. That’s at a pausing point, as we can stain and seal it after all this other rigmarole, but there’s still a layer of cement dust on everything and also on the nothing in between everything. I’ve cleaned up most of it at least once, but you have to clean it twice, maybe three times.

And apparently the date for the demolition could have been scheduled a bit differently.  Apparently when Smokey Joe’s right-hand, left-hand woman called to set the date, maybe we could have NOT picked the 23rd, but say, rather, the 30th.

Then he says to me,”All you need you to do is pick out the f*cking windows and the color of the floor.  That’s all I need you to do!  It’s not so tough!”  He says this, not crudely, but joyfully, a ringing happiness as he realizes that this is all I need to do.

They say that the things you love about your partner are later the things that make you crazy.  What they don’t say is that the love and the crazy go together.  It’s not a linear thing.  The longer you are with someone you love, the crazier you get, and the more in love.  Yes, I want to strangle my husband.  But, damn, I love him!  I love the fact that he’s got so much that he wants to accomplish.  I love that he always has a new idea.  I love that he knows how to solve a thousand problems, with ease, that would take me forever to figure out.  I love that he brings me coffee, in bed, every morning.  (Please note that I did not say that he never complains about it.  But really, it’s very rare.)  I love that he is dedicated to changing things up, making things better, people freer, his home happier.

I love that he’s bald.

Happy Birthday, my wonderful husband.  I love you!

Trout Lily Brings Spring
5 x 7″
pastel on board

Now if you don’t know trout lilies, let me introduce them to you.  They are tiny little things, and they bloom very early—one of the earliest blooms I find down by the South Toe River.  There I find hoards of their tiny slips of leaves, mottled and coated with a fine reflective sheen, but very few flowers.  I’m not sure if these colonies of leaves sans flowers are just too young, or maybe they don’t get enough light to bloom, but I know there are other places where I can find the yellow flowers, their petals peeled back in exuberance.  I’m still hoping that one Spring I’ll walk down and find those patches of dappled leaves hosting crowns of blooms.

I’m pleased with this painting, and wish I could capture the magic of pastels for you to see, for the original has far  more luster than what you see here.   Pastels are so divine, and I am really enjoying working with them on Ampersand’s Pastelbord.  This week I am doubling up–I have a commission I am starting on, and I also will be painting the lovely bellwort.  Now there’s a fine lady of a flower!

And how will I do this, and harvest potatoes, squash, can peaches and beans, and visit with my mother and sister, and go to a birthday party, and plant turnips and beets?  Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I have been utilizing Google Calendar to keep track of all the assorted tasks and deadlines that I have, in the studio, the home, and the garden.  It has really helped manage my time better.  And this morning Jason and I had a great planning session, delegating tasks to our energetic intern and reluctant kids.  Let’s hope we can keep it up and make time management a joyful morning practice!  Along with coffee, of course.

July is a strange month. The heat rises quickly. Long, bright days filled with the whir of bugs bend time. The garden calls in the lush heat, and I answer, covered in soil and sweat in a matter of minutes. The laundry hung to dry gets washed again in a sudden rain. By late afternoon I am usually spent, and it is time for a swim. We walk across the road or ride down to the rope hole and fall into the dancing water. Its wild cool invigorates our bodies.

I have a litany of chores singing in my head:  pick beans, weed, freeze beans, weed, plant the Fall Garden, harvest the bee balm flowers, the hyssop, the mint.  I have plans for the land:  more blueberries, more raspberries, a greenhouse, rabbits for meat.  In the tangle of beans and heat and weeds it is pretty easy to lose sight of why I am doing this.  It is easy to forget the joy of it all.  But the River always reminds me.  Unfailingly she wraps me in her liquid embrace and I am brought back to myself.  Deep is the water, deep is my joy.