Chopping hollyhock skeletons in the wind guarantees a shower of fertilize seeds scattering every which way. Far too many will attempt to germinate no matter where they’ve landed.
Hollyhocks are cross-breeders. Mutators. They mix it up. It’s impossible to predict which colors they’ll sport if they successfully root and grow. Lavender, salmon, yellow, white, pink, red, and magenta. In moderation, they are spectacular, but like the unwanted and displaced everywhere, their attempts to flourish indiscriminately must be attenuated. This, I do not enjoy.
There is weariness in managing opportunists, weeds, and predators, in seeking balance against exuberant or shameful excess. There is tedium in finding words, choosing words, creating words. Like hollyhock seeds, there are too many fertile words jostling for position in our limited thoughts. Especially in the fall, when everything is browning and dropping and preparing for winter as if another spring is guaranteed. As if lying is acceptable.
“Preheat the oven,” my Coauthor says. “We need to hurry.” I glance at the clock and shake my head. “Too late. We’ll have to go without the bread.”
Disappointed and crabby, my Coauthor helps load the car. We put the sweet batter in the fridge for later baking and our resentments on hold for later resolution. Not every day can roll out smoothly. The smell of cinnamon cannot infuse every moment. No one lives forever.
That doesn’t stop us from blaming each other.
“God,” I say sternly. “You could’ve heated up the oven on your own.”
God glares out the window. We drive the muddy roads a little too fast, but we make it in time to be of help.
There is weariness in brushing the remaining strands of hair, in mumbling hollow phrases of comfort. There is tedium in searching for ways to say I love you, fare thee well, and goodbye. The first skiff of snow on the mountains is the last gasp of the summer that promised never to end. As the light wanes, the transformation of pleasant evenings into the inevitable pitch-black night is softened by a moon that is no longer out of reach.
Between the rush of recognition and the gush of tears was the log-in process so I lost the first holy crow, but holy crow, Rita. You got it and set it down. With a clank. Phew.
Exactly this moment, this day, last night…snow on the mountains, vacancies where the tomatoes produced their lucious fruit, a cat seeking warmth more frequently, the ditch empty, but gold in the mountains, just now.
Not every day can roll out smoothly. The smell of cinnamon cannot infuse every moment. No one lives forever.
you know, even here in the southern hemisphere where it’s moving into summer, the days refuse to roll out smoothly…everything is unraveling and coming together at the same time, and whatever that smell is, grief and longing and sometimes hope, is what’s infusing the air no matter which window I open. sending you so much love…xox
It is good that we have fantasies of smoothness and perfection–even though we know in our hearts that such moments are rare. Or perhaps, they don’t even exist. But even as I type that, I realize I don’t believe it. Smoothness DOES happen. Cinnamon does waft by. Love you so much too. Keep sniffing. AND writing :).
Short visits with an honest God 
Between the rush of recognition and the gush of tears was the log-in process so I lost the first holy crow, but holy crow, Rita. You got it and set it down. With a clank. Phew.
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Exactly this moment, this day, last night…snow on the mountains, vacancies where the tomatoes produced their lucious fruit, a cat seeking warmth more frequently, the ditch empty, but gold in the mountains, just now.
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Beautiful :)….
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I loved this…we complain about change, and then we love the seasons when the changes come. 🤷
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Excellent observation! Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds :).
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Not every day can roll out smoothly. The smell of cinnamon cannot infuse every moment. No one lives forever.
you know, even here in the southern hemisphere where it’s moving into summer, the days refuse to roll out smoothly…everything is unraveling and coming together at the same time, and whatever that smell is, grief and longing and sometimes hope, is what’s infusing the air no matter which window I open. sending you so much love…xox
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It is good that we have fantasies of smoothness and perfection–even though we know in our hearts that such moments are rare. Or perhaps, they don’t even exist. But even as I type that, I realize I don’t believe it. Smoothness DOES happen. Cinnamon does waft by. Love you so much too. Keep sniffing. AND writing :).
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