Tag Archives: Summer

Weather Report

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Close-up of white woman smiling into camera, with blue sun hat, sun glasses, and backdrop of ocean beach, with small figure looking out to sea.
Crescent Beach, Myke, with Margy in background.

A week ago we finally made it to the beach. We’ve had so many rainy days this summer, alternating with a few very hot muggy days. That day was hot and muggy, but less so at Crescent Beach, so we got ourselves over there. The water was totally full of seaweed, and somehow that dampened my enthusiasm for swimming, but the wading was lovely, and lying on a blanket in the sand. I’m smiling in the selfie, but this post is more about the challenges of this summer.

It feels like a summer in which it is very hard to love the earth, or to feel loved by the earth. It is hard to even go outside! According to the weather report for Maine, June had only 7 days without rain. And July the rainy patterns have continued. But what makes it worse is that the days without rain have gone to the opposite extreme of muggy and hot. I don’t think we’ve had even one dry, sunny, moderately warm day. The other challenge has been air quality–many days of smoke particles making their way from Canada–not to an extreme, but enough to bump the meter from “good” to “moderate”.

And I have to acknowledge that we’ve been lucky here. No flash flooding of town centers, like in Vermont this week. No over-100-degree heat for days on end like in Arizona. No forest fires on our doorstep. But still…

I’ve been feeling like a failure in my deep intention to build relationship with the earth. It’s not that the garden is doing so badly (except for maybe the cherry tree). It is just that I feel unable to tend to it, unable to even sit outside and appreciate it. (The cherry tree needs some attention because of, perhaps, black cherry aphids and sooty mold.) If I manage to do one small garden thing in a day, I count that as gain. For example, the other day, I put some tulle netting over the ripening blueberry plants.

Tulle fabric spread over blueberry bush, with raindrops, berries starting to ripen.

I do try to walk around for ten minutes in the morning if I can. But none of it feels like the nurture that the garden had been for me during the last several years. Instead I feel a vague sense of overwhelm, I feel uncomfortable in my body, I feel grief and deep weariness.

And the truth is, because of climate change, because of the destructiveness of our larger society, we are all facing unimaginable loss, we are all facing a time of unknowable earth transformation that may lead to our doom. With this looming around us, no wonder these small weather challenges feel so overwhelming.

So today I am making space for that overwhelm, for grief, for rest. But even in the midst of those feelings, there are parts of the garden that still seemed determined to bring beauty to my eyes. I look out the front window, and the roadside garden is now awash in yellow heliopsis flowers and day lilies. They brighten even a gray day.

Yellow heliopsis flowers all over the roadside garden.

Still COVIDing

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Screened in pop-tent situated near trees and grassy yard.
Our new screened in pop-up tent is set up, ready for summer visits.

There is a phrase I’ve seen online that applies to Margy and I–we are “still COVIDing.” It means that we know the COVID virus is still circulating, still dangerous especially to elders and those with other health issues, and we are still taking all precautions. This despite the end of the declared public emergency and the end of mask mandates. So we always wear N95 masks if we have to go inside stores or offices, we don’t eat inside restaurants, and we don’t go inside where crowds are gathered. We try to keep a six foot distance even outside.

Sadly, we feel more isolated now that so many people have chosen to live with or ignore any risk. (It felt so different to be in it all together, even alone in our homes.) I am sure that many people are very carefully weighing the risks and benefits to make their choices, but I am guessing that many others are just following along with the culture’s decision that the emergency is over. We are often the only people masked in a store or even a doctor’s office.

I read an excellent article in The Conversation.com which explores how ageism plays a role in this issue.

“COVID is not over, but we are acting like it is. Many COVID research programs are winding down. Can you imagine winding down research into any other condition on the top five mortality list? The reason for not doing more to prevent COVID-19 appears to be ageism, plain and simple. There is no logical explanation for accepting an unnatural degree of hospitalization and premature deaths in elders except that we value the lives of younger people more.”

https://theconversation.com/ageism-and-the-pandemic-how-canada-continues-to-let-older-adults-suffer-and-die-from-covid-19-201630

It is baffling to me, even with this analysis. Because even programs for elders are dropping precautions. I try to understand why people make the choices they make, but it also fills me with sadness. It seems there is a great divide between us.

In the midst of all this, we decided to treat ourselves to a screen tent, a pop-up gazebo. (I have had screen tents before, but they had all worn out a while ago.) We have been looking forward to the possibility of more visits with friends during the summer, when we can sit outside in our yard. But the weather has been so rainy all of June, and the forecast predicts more of the same. With this gazebo, we can visit during more kinds of weather, and still be safe together. It is an investment in our happiness. How are you keeping safe and happy during these hard times?

Quietude

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Evergreen Pond Dead Tree

Yesterday I finally walked to the ponds at Evergreen Cemetery, after not being there for over a year. It is a longer walk for me—half an hour there and half an hour back. But I never come right back. I go to the place where the dead tree fell into the water, becoming the center of pond life for the critters there.

So I sat at the base of the log, and I found myself growing quiet. Just paying attention to the life around me. I saw a brown frog in the water close by, and later, a green and yellow bigger one off to my right. A small turtle was sunning on the log. Once, the green and yellow frog slowly moved forward about a foot and then stopped again, eyes and mouth above the water. The turtle slipped into the water. A mother duck with two youngsters swam past, and then circled around and climbed up onto the log where she and her babies attended to their feathers.

Last week was encumbered with many projects, and lists of more projects. Ever since I cleaned out my office, I’ve been trying to catch up on household maintenance and fixing things. The biggest project that I actually accomplished was fixing the ice dispenser on our refrigerator. This involved two phone calls, moving ten boxes and a table to reach the freezer in the basement and turn it on; hauling food downstairs, two coolers, defrosting and cleaning the whole fridge, and starting it up again.  Three days. But it worked.

Anyway, once I sat next to the pond, the burden of unfinished projects just disappeared.  Not the projects of course, but the burden.  My soul got quiet and peaceful.  Another turtle climbed onto the log.  I saw another brown frog.  I saw a winged insect struggling on the surface of the water, until a dark turtle-shaped shadow swam near and suddenly the insect disappeared. On my walk home, the quietude stayed with me.

This has been a year of a lot of work in our yard, creating a garden of fruit trees and perennials and bushes. Working with growing things is one way to learn to connect to the earth. But being silent next to a pond brings a deeper sense of unity.  I am grateful.