the longest day

With the joyous light that sustains us and burns us out in time, I've been outside every chance I get, with the camera and the occasional companion on sundry small adventuring. I'm not entering the Downtown Cleveland Alliance photo contest unless I send in something absurd. Glamourous and boosterific is not my strong suit, hence my self-definition as Peonage.





Supersonic Weeds of Sweetness.

And it's beautiful this time of year, I'm in love with chlorophyll and the translucent green of leaves filtering the close star's light, the shade of trees hanging over sidewalks, humid nights infused with the scent of honeysuckle, moonflower, and climbing roses that grow over every chain link fence in the almost-hood, where freakishly perfect suburban-style lawns are refreshingly rare.



Even the sterility of UnhappyHipsters-esque architecture is enlivened by the carpet of wildflowers juxtaposed against the blue lake and the towers of downtown.





It feels too hot to cook, so I drink lemonade and sit beneath the ceiling fan, needing time to be introverted before resurfacing into the outside world. It's the longest day of the year, but the time in which it falls seems incredibly brief.

growing

Thanks to bottled water and sunscreen, the game was fun, overgrown field and blistering heat notwithstanding, and those vestiges of non-competitive athletic competence showed themselves in the form of four singles, after which I ate citrus for dinner and bought still more plants for the front yard, walking the dog in the cool of the day, amused by the freedom rocker with the red bandanna drinking beer and listening to Foreigner on the front porch with the volume turned up so high that instead of basslines one only hears a blown subwoofer.

But the yard looks lovely, with the watercolor painting look of the coleus and purple and silver-green spiderworts, succulents like tiny outer space creatures, everything spilling out of pots by the doors and on the side of the house, a little bit of jungle in the rust belt. When the clematis, zinnia, poppies, and nasturtiums bloom (one can only hope), and the morning glories scale the fence, it will be hard for me to stay inside.

sprang

I was too unmotivated to sit in class, so some kind of slacking seems to be in order, as the third cup of coffee is the charm and I'm finally feeling awake. Too awake to zone out on the last day of class, a class where I already have an "A" and it's not for credit as it is. The rain has replaced the sun that shone all morning, but I think about how it will nourish the soil and seeds in a way that I could not myself.

I spent the morning yesterday after realizing I'd showed up for work as if I was first-shifting rather than second, planting seeds and pulling weeds, trying to turn the dusty back yard full of dead vines and renegade spearmint into something purty, dropping California poppy seeds in between cracks in rock and brick, zinnias and wildflowers on the side and in the back, using the cement blocks between the yard and the fence as de facto planters.

On the other side, I'm doing vegetables again, so I can cook Mediterranean style all summer, living on tabbouleh and pesto, and there's still room that I haven't used yet. Having space is still strange to me after using a 6'X 3' strip last year, and I have lots of unfilled terra cotta pots and planters left behind by the downstairs neighbors meaning that I could do even more than I've done right now.

Being a constant cynic who assumes the worst and impatient on top of that, I never believe that any of this stuff will grow, even though it did last year. It's not unlike my spiritual journey which is fraught with doubt and questioning and expecting the worst even though there's the best to hope for. I know that with sun and water and that strange miracle of nature, that these tiny seeds contain the means to make plants that will flower and fruit and multiply themselves.