Sitting with the Haze
A personal reflection on observing what’s true while tending the space to grow.
[inspired by my journal entry of 07.14.26]
Waking early to the incessant sound of the old box fan, not able to hear the birds who are my usual morning mates singing in the new day.
Sitting to write, I had to turn the fan off for the sake of the robin singing out in the thick smoke, sloughed from wildfires nearby. Too near by.
The robin senses this morning is different. She must have difficulty or at least discomfort in breathing, as she tries to sip in the bits of air she needs to sing out with clear notes. The notes that offer a deep-down solid clarity in my soul that all is well with the world, even when I’m not sure it is.
Just a few blocks away, the lights in the church bell tower on the hill are barely visible.
The sun is undoubtedly rising, but there’s no sign of the familiar buttery liquid-yellow and orange glow on the horizon. No sign of the thin pale blue that usually accompanies the sun’s daily debut.
The fires are close but winds have been in our favor. We’re not on the “Ready. Set. Go!” alert, yet.
I sit at the edge, observing and waiting under a cloak of eerie gray-yellow smokey haze, leftover from last night’s scorching burn. Falling white ash covers every surface.
The wind has stopped, thank gawd. The morning is still and thick with no movement.
The robin has stopped singing, maybe her throat hurts, too.
Or she’s found a wet spot in my garden left from yesterday’s gallons of water strategically directed at the base of one tomato plant, then the next and the next - ending with a steady splash on the raspberries. This, all in an attempt to give the barely ripening nubs of fruit a boost of juice that would make them desired candidates for a sweet summer pie. That’s my hope.
The summer has been dry, bone dry, as they say.
Ms. Robin loves my garden. Lately I notice she doesn’t fly away when I’m tinkering with the hose or pulling weeds. She hops close and puts up with me. She favors the cool wet earth and the possibility of plucking a fat grub or worm. The worm, apparently willing to risk its life by rising too close to the soil’s surface.
She stuffs her mouth, grubby body parts hang out of her beak in a most unladylike fashion.
She’s boldly unembarrassed at her untidy appearance. Ms. Robin isn’t encumbered by Emily Post’s tome on Etiquette, or any other human-made rules of behavior.
Her belly is satisfied. Or maybe she’s feeding hungry babies in a nearby nest.
When I turn to walk away, I catch a side glance of her scurrying into the fine mist from my hose. To cool down I suppose, or perhaps to freshen up before the next course in an endless meal. She spends all day, morning to night, poking and pulling bits of nourishment from Mama Earth, the provider.
She’s not unlike me, as I notice a few fat radishes that are red and ready to be pulled. Or the snap peas hanging adorned with angel-like feathers, dried leftovers from spring’s nascent blossoms. They invite me, almost daring me to pluck their pods for today’s salad.
Then there are the beet greens!
Contrary to what the Extension Service cautions about the random germination pattern of beets – apparently every one of the hundreds of seeds I tucked into the cold spring soil sprouted.
Now the beet bed is a thick mess of greens, struggling to grow. Their intention was to become luscious, round purple-red beets. That’s still my intention.
I could just pull the spindly tendrils out, call them weeds, and toss the unwanteds on the compost pile.
No! That’s unthinkable, a travesty! Something I can’t bring myself to do in this lifetime.
The days have been over 100F. One day, in the slightly cooler 5:00 AM morning light, I was found bent over at way more than 90 degrees, butt to the smokey sky. I carefully tugged tiny beet plants, leaving the strongest ones to grow just four inches apart. My fist was full with tender red and green leaves, as I snipped off the root hairs. Baby beets the size of a pea are left intact.
It’s a labor of love as they say. Or perhaps a labor of greed for my love of steamed beet greens.
This delight is not on the menu at even the best-of-the-best 5-star restaurants. I’m convinced the chefs could never match my fresh-from-the-garden greens. Not even in their wildest dreams.
Somewhere tucked away in my soul is ancient knowledge that tells me Ms. Robin enjoys her grubs as much as I savor my greens. That thought makes me happy.
Simply. Delightfully. Happy.
Space to grow is a non-negotiable item for me. Gardening offers me space to grow food, nourish my soul, and find hope.
The wildfires leave their legacy of cleared space for new growth — space for the Phoenix to rise from the ashes, again.
Take a moment –
What gives you space to grow? Not necessarily to grow a garden, but to grow you.
Do you have what you need to support your growth?
If so, what’s next?
If not, what’s next?
Until we meetup next time - keep tending your space,
XO Thea
I have been thinking of you in this time of fires and heat. Sigh.
I share with you the way gardens are places we tend to the land and our souls. Your relationship with your land, the robin, the beet greens is filled with love. I would love to see your garden, and taste those beet greens. More photos, please.
The challenge of living within a wildfire haze - from breathing to the visual of haze covering the sky- is that it feels oppressive, depressing, and scary. And there you are...knowing there is rebirth: "The wildfires leave their legacy of cleared space for new growth — space for the Phoenix to rise from the ashes, again."
Thea, you hold a vision of what is possible even in the wildfire haze and smoke.
XOX
Judith