Today I was driven by the creepy overcast sky and unusually warm air to abandon my groceries in the car, and take a walk by the water. A creek runs behind my house, the kind of water that's too small for a boat but too big for a simple footbridge. It's the main reason we moved here from ten minutes away. Sophia's swing set is by the water, a placement decision that most parents would think better of, but not us. Today I swung facing the water, and eyed the dark woods not far to my right.Calling it "woods" is a big stretch. It's really just a bit of wild at the edge of our property line maybe 100 feet deep. You could never have a Blair Witch situation in there. Sandwiched between our road and the creek that intersects it, you won't go far before you meet a natural or unnatural barrier. Even though we've lived here a few years, I never go there, and have never until today picked my way along the banks of the water.
In the height of summer, there are good reasons not go to in there. A wall of poison ivy, my nemesis, greets me at the tree line. Even when brave enough to get past it, the thorny brambles and the tangled wild vines are enough to stop me in my tracks. Don't even mention the ground that gives too much as you walk, layered with years of decomposed trees and leaves. What am I stepping on? Am I about to fall into a hole and break my ankle? Holy crap, why is the poison ivy vine FURRY???
In the brittle brown of winter, though, everything's a little clearer. I pick my way along an implied path and discover other sad sights on the way. Rusty pipes and rebar jutting out of abandoned chunks of concrete. Plastic tubs, broken glass. Tires. Who would do this and why? I can't imagine even touching this stuff, much less having the strength to lift it. It's a mess and probably not worth dealing with.
I keep crunching around anyway, finding funny things here and there. An old bird's nest built with feathers and sticks with a nice plastic bag foundation. An argument between two different surveyor's opinions - ribbons of hot pink vs. safety orange. But I kept finding myself veering toward the water until I ran into the fisherman's spot.
The fisherman can be seen from my house most seasons, casually traipsing through the backyard or picking along slowly through the water. But usually I see them in the same spot far from the house in this patch of woods. If I squint, I can make them out through the trees as shadowy camouflaged figures in their superhero-like rubber waders (read: tights). I stand in their footsteps, and I see why they come here.
A few sections by the water are weed and leaf free because of the natural rise of the stream during a storm. The sediment left behind makes sandy and flat areas, like mini private beaches. A large chuck of moss covered shale, the perfect natural bench, sits in the middle. Trees stretch over the stream and stand tip-toe on their gnarled medusa roots. In front the water is a quiet pool, a little bit of deep stillness that the fish like. For a second, the passing cars fade, and I am aware that I just exhaled in a way that my shoulders thanked me. In the next second I knew that, although I look at the water every day from the big bay windows in my comfortable dining room, I never see it. That makes me just the same as the dude who dumped the tire. How can I respect and appreciate something if most days I don't even notice it exists?
There's still the rusted pipes and broken glass, but the structure is here. This place has good bones and my mind starts to whirr. A meditation garden is what I need. Nothing fancy.
The cleared path to the spot is the easy first step. Then junk removal, and then a fight with the poison ivy and picker bushes as soon as they start to rear up, even though I hate those more than I hate being stabbed by rusty metal. And then when the trees leaf out and I can see how the sun hits, some Japanese ferns and variegated hostas will brighten up the spot and shadow out the invasive wild carrot and garlic mustard. The mossy rock stays, perfect just as it is.
Last fall I was sure I would be blogging in the spring about seed shopping, making up potting mix, and showing off my elaborate homemade grow light system. Normally in mid-March my basement system would be well under way with staggered plantings of tomatoes and peppers, lots of different lettuces and greens and then my chosen experimental exotic weirdo vegetables of the year (leeks and artichokes for 2009). But now I think I'm going to rely on Cierich's garden center for heirloom tomato and pepper stock, and Agway for the herbs. Instead of scattering myself doing a hundred small projects at once, and badly, I will do three simple things.
I will face my fears of the unknown. I will repair what is broken and neglected. I will see the water every day.
I will make it right.
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