Like Something In July

We went to the pool today, which is a thing we do every July, but not quite the way it is this summer.

First, we had to make an online reservation, for according to the square footage of the pool and deck, only 15 people are allowed at a time to ensure the proper distancing. Then, we had to bring our own chairs, which wasn't a problem, especially since I got the throwback, made-in-the USA webbed lawn chair for my birthday, which weighs in at under 5 pounds. Still, it was one more thing to carry.

When we arrived, the lifeguard asked for proof of our reservation, something I wasn't prepared for. Fortunately, I had the confirmation email on my phone, and waving it his way proved to be enough. There were only six people there, but the way they were spaced out and the fact that 2 were kids made it impossible to ask to remove the divider so that we could swim laps. So we swam the short way in the deep end, until someone wanted to go off the diving board. Then we just treaded water until the whistle for the safety break tweeted, another new phenomena at our little pool.

Even so, sitting in our chairs waterside in the shade with a nice little breeze drying us off felt almost like a regular summer day. Almost.

Distance Explaining

A friend and colleague texted with a question about our choices for returning to school in the fall and their consequences as related to family leave.

You can request distance teaching for any reason, I answered, but if they deny you and you can't return to school because of child care, then you would have to take leave. But in that case, you wouldn't be doing any teaching, you'd just be on leave. If you think distance teaching would work best for you, then you should request it, and then have a plan B.

Thanks, he texted back. I forgot how good you are at explaining things LOL

Thank you, I replied, but remember, explaining *is* my job.

Now and When

The farmers market was not where I left it.

I had decided around 10:30 this morning to lay my recent, negative, open air shopping experiences aside and check out the larger, more established produce market a couple of miles from my home. The hope was that a combination of time into the growing season, more vendors, organization, and people on vacation would make the trip both more profitable and less unpleasant, but the green space where I have shopped for years was empty. Fortunately, as I drove around, I spotted the canopies and tents of the market just across the pike, so I parked, put on my mask, and walked over.

And it was better organized and more bountiful. I waited on colorful dots painted at six foot intervals, first to enter and then to shop. Everything I wanted was available, along with one thing I hadn't planned on. "What are those pink beans back there in the crate?" I asked the young woman who was bagging my heirloom tomatoes.

"October Beans," she told me, "they're kind of like pinto beans,” she explained.

“So they’re shell beans?” I clarified with a note of excitement in my voice, for in the last few years I have come to prize the fresh version of those beans we usually get canned or dried. The sweeter flavor and creamier texture of them is so much more satisfying than their preserved versions, which is really not that surprising. I guess I just never considered them to be real vegetables. My bad, fresh beans! Please accept my apologies.

So I bought a pound of the October Beans, and I left the market with a spring in my step. Crossing back over the space where the farmers usually set up their stalls, I imagined the scene a year from now, when things would be more as they have been in the past: shoppers strolling through and handling the wares they wanted, musicians playing, memories of face masks and painted dots fading into the background.

Back in the present, I shelled those beans the minute I got home. They were gorgeous inside and out, pink and cream swirling on pod and bean alike; their beauty made my heart sing. This is real, I thought as I worked, and I knew it was true.

Meditation Station

One advantage to spending so much time at home is that we reorganized our upstairs deck. No exaggeration: I've spent more time out here in the last two months than I have in the last 21 years. It catches the sunrise, it's shady in the afternoon, and it's almost always breezy up here in the trees.

I can read, write, listen to music, or watch the clouds float by, Spending a little time out here can be very centering, and these times call for some serious centering.

Namaste.

How I Spent My Quarantine

A social media group I belong to asked members to post an image that was emblematic of the time they have spent sheltering at home during this COVID-19 crisis. The photos and memes were entertaining: time with family, sweatpants, Netflix, home gyms, yoga, foster dogs, gardens, knitting, and wine seemed to be the predominate choices.

As for me? I didn't participate, because I just couldn't condense the experience, even in fun, yet. (There's that growth mindset!) Plus, who knows? I could start knitting or foster a dog any day, once my sourdough is baked and my painted rocks are scattered, that is.

The Maine Idea

It wasn't on my radar screen. A friend invited me up to her place in Maine, but although I politely thanked her, I never really intended to go. Until... I spent the better part of the summer teaching summer school and shoveling plaster and lathe into a wheelbarrow, pushing it up to an open window on a makeshift ramp, and shoving it into a dumpster below with a rake. After five weeks of that? A 14 hour road trip seemed like a great idea.

That was 25 years ago, and it was true love from the beginning. A simple search of "Maine" on this blog will turn up many love letters to the mountains, ocean, granite, and spruce of the northeastern most state in the union. Since then, I have made the pilgrimage every year (or two, in dire times) for a week or two of cool breezes, smooth rocks, hiking, and lobster. Once? I even went in January, and I spent both my 40th and 50th birthdays there.

So it seems damn near impossible when I check my calendar that it has been four full years since last I set foot in Vactionland. And yet, there you have it. Fingers crossed, I'll be back there next summer, and until then I'll keep making those lobster rolls, pausing at any stand of balsam or pine along the local trails, breathing deeply at any hint of cool breeze, and collecting those smooth rocks.

I miss you, Maine!

Looking Up

We set off on another urban hike today with the intention to explore a little neighborhood not too far from our home, but one we had never been to. And it was kind of an adventure; we saw two things that are very rare in our county: a condemned house and, a few blocks away, a vacant lot, all of this within sight of the gates to the country club.

And what about that private property? Maps say that pedestrians may travel the access road through, but the signs on the brick pillars bracketing the entry way explicitly state otherwise. In the end, we turned around and headed home by another route, one that included another rare sighting.

There, above the classic summer cumulus clouds, was a wispy cirrus cloud with a rainbow at its center. It turned out to be a circumhoriztional arc, also known as a fire cloud or a rainbow cloud.

As we walked home the cloud drifted and changed shape, but the rainbow stayed. 

Rachel Carson wrote in Silent Spring that, "Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts."

I'd like to think she's right; I have a feeling we may need to tap those reserves in the coming days.