The Mint Patch Monologue

Tag: writing

  • Some order to Feeling

    This month has asked so much from us. My peach tree in full bloom one day and the very next, branches weighed down under heavy snow. Will the buds survive? It’s too soon to tell. The daffodils were laid to rest like patients, the roads froze and cracked, exposing hazards. A warm breeze on an 80 degree day carried in a snowstorm the next, a Trojan horse was welcomed and we bought it. This is the weather doing its own “trying” because this is what change really looks like. Like the buzzing around of confused carpenter bees, like tall virgin grass under ice, our atmosphere is forging in a new direction, and it’s been messy. Next comes the traditional practice of complaining about the weather, a requirement it seems, of being human. But your whining is justified, trust me! Too much of our personality is derived from what’s going on outdoors. Am I a free spirited explorer today? Or a medieval hobbit? Have I proclaimed loyalty to my shorts and sandals again or must I cheat on them in boots. Don’t look, Birkenstocks, I do love you, and …. I thought I was ready but I’m not. Please wait for me. I always loved you over the boots. I am plagued with guilt over teasing the charcoal grill that it may cook for me once again, only to leave it in the cold, uncovered. I owe the house a sincere apology for having the heat and the air conditioner on in the same day. Be easy on me, hvac, I didn’t ask for this! As the wind blew the ornamental pear petals around they mixed with snowflakes and two unlikely sides met each other. Oh the lessons in March of surrender.

    On a Sunday
    Still, on a Sunday, we got a little sun burn and both panted to go inside

    MONDAY, and it didn’t stop snowing until 6 hours past this photo.

    March proves to us there is no order, at times only chaos. In life too, we can be slightly prepared to feel, but never enough prepared. Sit in the sun when you can, play in the snow too. Raise your arms in surrender and worry less. Accepting things out of order is the only way sometimes.

    Some order to feeling

    As much as you can see

    In black and white

    And know

    A door will slam, unexpected

    And rearrange the order

    An out of order 

    Misplaced rage appears 

    fear of loud noises. 

    Some days i am a net

    Parked in a breeze 

    Where birds of sorrow fly low 

    And get caught 

    Too many at a time or none at all

    Unorderly fashioned 

    We can’t instruct the birds or keep them

    In a row

    The feelings come 

    They stay and they go 

    Their feathers break our hearts 

    Before we are ready 

    The chaos of oranges 

    Tumbling onto the floor 

    Only because one is removed 

    Wipes out an arrangement 

    And leaves a mess 

    The sting on an ocean day 

    Comes at a rotten time 

    Who is in charge 

    And shouldn’t we have some order 

    Thank you for reading and as always reach out to me because I DO love to chat!

    readnwrite11@gmail.com

  • A Meeting Place for the Sun

    It is one mile from my front porch steps to the giant oak tree, just past the cemetery gate. It’s a good walk for talking, for watching out for bumps in the sidewalk, and for noticing details. Chris and I choose things we like; hanging ferns, stained glass around door frames, etched windows, red geraniums. We look for painted shutters, unique mailboxes, bird feeders that fend off squirrels, squirrel feeders. The day after Halloween we found the sidewalks littered with candy that never made it into pillow cases. We count how many cats we pass and politely explain to the ones that want to follow us that we are not taking any new pets at the moment, and encourage them to go on home. Most walks we take together are after dinner, and since we turned our clocks back an hour, we have to eat pretty early to catch the sunset at the cemetery. Chris’s watch alerts us that we’ve gone a mile, and just as we meet the base of the tallest oak, we get a moment with the sun. This ephemeral echo reminds us the feeling of happiness, which is a fleeting feeling we must acknowledge. Moments that bring us contentment are mysterious, it’s hard to pin down those times when we are really smiling. They can’t always be called upon, planned, or choreographed into the day, they just appear, and we must recognize when the universe drops a rose at our feet. Roses last a short while, their petals let go and shrivel. Even the glow of lightning bugs can’t be contained in jelly jars forever. Sometimes reaching just pushes something further away; all you can do is pay attention, and accept that every once in a while, pleasure flutters by.

     “The serene philosophy of the pink rose is steadying. Its fragrant, delicate petals open fully and are ready to fall, without regret or disillusion, after only a day in the sun.-Rachel Peden

     If we get to the cemetery late, we get out our cameras and try to capture as best we can our experience. It’s too bad our minds don’t work as well as our eyes, if only we could retrieve mental images with such detail and luster; a camera can give eternity to a moment. We try different angles, turn around, and see the setting hues change in an instant. On this particular night, you could have stood still and watched the world turn. I am in awe of the mighty fireball in the sky, the one that sustains our lives at a perfect distance, which happens to be 93 million miles. Its light finds us in our beds early, it peeks into our homes and gives the furry friends a square on the floor to bask in.

    Of course we walk with care as we weave our way towards the oldest part of the cemetery, graves there date all the way back to the 1840s. It is humbling to notice how short lives were before modern medicine and scientific knowledge. However, I do believe people before us had more resilience, or what is called “grit.” We chase over the Moores, the Smiths, the Kincaids, and the Pritchards to get the best views, we can see the water tower from the edge of the hillside. As we walk the mile back home at dusk we are silent, no need to disrupt what our senses are savoring.

     On adventurous mornings, I crawl out from beneath warm quilts to greet the sun in the same place we parted in the evenings. One mile to the base of the tallest oak, and well, hello sunshine. As the sun lifts heavy fog, it gives the dead place life. Headstones seem joyful to be warmed after a cold night, and the long shadows are whimsical.  I must offer a nod of respect to those deceased; their memorials individually are mournful, but the collection of them all against rolling hills gives us beauty after death. If one day my own headstone sits still against the sun as it rises or sets, I sure hope someone walking by remembers me. There is no more peaceful a place to greet the sun by morning or to tuck it in at night than in the presence of resting souls and white tailed deer.

    On the hardest days we have, it’s comforting to know the sun will eventually bring with it better days. If we remember to trust in its ancient wisdom, we can be reminded that a bright day can come up short for those that have not endured the dark ones. Remember the light that is waiting for you at the end of your dark tunnel, and cherish your days best you can before you take your final rest  by the oak in the stillness.

    As always, dear reader, thank you for reading and please, drop me a line because I DO love to chat!

    Find me on instagram @mintpatchmonologue

    readnwrite11@gmail.com