Soon it will be warmer, and the mist will return. And it has me thinking about the people that
drift in and out of your life. They are
mist souls, and what do they teach us?
Some are good, many are flawed, but all are alive and moving about. I suppose it’s a Celtic thing to think in
these terms, for mist has always held a certain reverence with my kind...
Eileen was a creative soul that I met quite by chance years
ago. My very good friend Cheryl is a
creative floral designer. Her work
astounds me, especially her arrangements that center on the sea. Cheryl has worked everywhere with her talent and
ended up doing freelance one summer for a woman 3 towns over named Eileen. I had just started working at the hospital
which consisted of one 12 hour day a week in an effort to obtain medical
benefits. The rest of the time I worked
for a temp agency in various places. I
was between work gigs and Cheryl asked me if I would be interested in cash
(yes) a laid back work environment (yes) mostly outside (um yes).
So I traveled a road past an old abandoned looking airstrip,
complete with swamp grass poking through the runway. They flew out small planes
that looked as though they were made for a grade school history project out of
painted red and blue tin cans with bicycle like bases. They looked so fake; I actually pulled over to
get a better view. Then right over my
car a tin can beauty with a lawn mower sounding engine whizzed by. I didn’t know it at the time but the area I
found myself in held one of the highest concentration of retired airline &
jet pilots – they are a salty crew if you come across them – and they are
quintessentially free by their own right.
I eased back on the road with a personal promise to return
one day with a bagged lunch and just watch.
I still haven’t done that but spring is on the way. I continued on a winding road that seemed
haphazard with small but stately homes tucked away. These were the stick built homes from about a
generation ago that required a plan and a skilled craftsman to build. The owners were people that understood the
value of a buck saved and currently smile at the idiocy of the uninspired Mc-mansion. To my left was a small home with an open
garage that had been turned into a floral studio, this was Eileen’s haunt.
There were 4 women around a makeshift HUGE center island,
stripping leaves off stems and creating the most beautiful arrangements. The master of ceremonies was Eileen, a tiny
attractive Italian looking woman with boundless energy. I’m always astounded by the energy of the
creative. It’s love and art and hope all
in one. They somehow understand the
beauty and direction of the human soul is their divine responsibility. Introductions were made during this estrogen
festival and I was given my orders, somewhat breathlessly, by Eileen for the
day.
“The truck will be here soon with the order, open the boxes,
slice the stems and put them immediately into those 5 gallon buckets with
water. Fill them up now so they are
ready there is a hose around the side of the house and put the filled ones in
the shade.” Easy. I went around the side
of the house to find the hose. I was
happy with exiting from the group because, although Cheryl was there, I was in
fact the newcomer.
As I rounded the corner there was a roughly staked 3 foot
fence made from sticks and chicken wire that extended from the house about 10
feet. Picture yourself with both arms
trying to hug hundreds of stems that you have just picked and that was this
garden. Broccoli lazily ripened , a
million tomatoes of various sorts hung like ornaments on green so dark you’d
think it had been painted. There were
lettuces, cabbages, the frondy delicate clues of carrots swaying, and peppers
dewy and fleshy – I touched them and they were cool in the shade of the early
part of the day. And the smell of moist soil
ready to receive and extravagantly give…In that moment I fell in love with Eileen.
I had a strange moment as I was filling the buckets. A centered moment for sure. I will try as best I can to describe it to
you…
I held a green garden hose in my hand and began pouring the
water into the buckets. They needed to
be halfway filled and there were many.
The sun had shifted and it was getting warmer. I looked down at myself. I had gotten in pretty good shape from not
working constantly yet (the workaholic mania was still a couple of years
away) I had been hiking and doing yoga
and passively lifting weights.
I wore a black tee shirt that hugged me and left my arms
bare. My arms looked strong in the sun,
freckled but soaking up that eternal life giving light. I had a faded pair of Gap jeans on…boot
cut. I don’t even know if they sell
these anymore. And my brown-well
worn-soft as hell cowboy boots. My hair
was long and tendrilly-curly and has always been that coppery red. I had a clip holding part of it up, but
tendrils escaped and I blew them back. Eileen’s dog Calhoun watched me from the
shade. He was a Burmese mountain dog and
a mountain of an animal, yet he was as sweet as a newborn puppy. I think he knew where I was at.
I watched the water
run from the hose. It was well water,
cold, from deep in the ground. The sun
came through the hazy high tree leaves and fell in dappled patterns all over
me. The sun kissed the well water and it
sparkled; two forces required for our existence meeting right in front of me. I
remember exhaling, slowly and just being so in that moment…just watching that
ground water splintering in the sun…being comfortable in my body…being
strong. There haven’t been many times in
my life that I felt beautiful – I was taught not to. But that day, that moment, I was, and there
wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I was. It
was just a moment…but it has never left me.
It remained private until now.
A beat up truck from the city showed up and unloaded boxes
and boxes and boxes, then zoomed away in a cloud of toxic exhaust. I had been given a knife to cut the plastic
ties and as I did the boxes exhaled and expanded somewhat.
I was to cut the ties, leave the boxes closed, then open them one by one
chop the stems and plunge them into the buckets under the tree. It took a few hours.
When I finished, I stood under the tree in a
makeshift bucketed garden with the most gorgeous flowers you have ever
seen. I could’ve cried at the beauty (I
think I did a little bit). There was one small white flower that grew in
bunches – I think they called it ‘stock’?
It was the most deliciously fragrant thing I have ever smelled. I felt like an Earthy Queen in a Monarchy of
dirt and life that had sweated for this moment of grace, this moment of
beauty. I picked up the hose and took a
long drink of well water.
Some days will never leave you, and you will never leave
some days.
Namaste
