Three Days, part 1

On Saturday, July 30, I went out onto the land, feeling, after two months here, that I do not yet have my feet underneath me. That is to say, I don't yet feel a connection with the land of Germany, don't yet have a relationship within the ecology that is this bio-region. Mostly, I walk around hungry for connection and longing for my own land, the sheep and goats, and gardens I hope to have one day. Walking on the concrete path along the Main river, or seeing the day dawn rainy, again, or astounded by the amount of green plants here, i have a growing sense of the wateriness of this land- the power of the Main flowing fast and fierce, rain pouring down and literally turning into plants- but this does not help with the feeling of being displaced or uprooted. It does, however, comfort me within the awareness that everything is groundless, it is only now in apparent crisis that I am actually seeing what is in fact always true. A good practice reminder, when I can see it in context, although exactly what I am practicing is a total mystery. Having lived and practiced in a Zen center for almost 8 years, and being deeply inculcated and inducted into said culture, I know that I am not practicing Zen right now. Which is a relief. One of my dearest friends has been reading Hildegard von Bingen, the 12 century mystic whose home abbey is not too far from where I now live, and told me about her theological concept of Viriditas, which is Latin for greenness. This seems to be about as close to a definition of what I may or may not be practicing at the moment. When I am having a meltdown of existential proportions because of my recent move, I often find solace lying on my back looking up at the leaves of a tree, watching the play of colors, shadows, and sunlight, with the blue sky beyond. Gazing at the particular color of sunlight through green leaves or wind blowing through grass are two of my favorite mind stopping activities.

Having had such a week, fraught with existential crises, I found myself pulled out the door and into the forest, finally, for the first time in two months, alone out on the land. I walked first to the Main river and was greeted by two swans, energetically preening and cleaning themselves. They would lay their necks out along their bodies to clean their tails and then jump up vertically in the water, pumping their black legs and flapping their huge wings with their beaks pointed straight up into the sky. After which, they would fluff and shake their entire bodies, head to rump, and then resume their floating toilette.  One of the swans left a feather from her heart (I am assuming the swan to be the female of the pair as she was smaller), which she left on the rock in between the two of us. I tucked it into the pages of the book I am reading for the third time, Gardening at the Dragon's Gate; At work in the Wild and Cultivated World by Wendy Johnson and made my way to the garden.

I am growing a secret garden. Unfortunately, I did not find a key hidden amongst the ivy which opened the door to a walled garden, a la Frances Hodgson Burnett, however it is secret nonetheless. Self secret, that is, for it is visibly in the middle of three different neighbors' lawns. It is the garden of my sweetheart, Nic's, late aunt who died almost 7 weeks ago, and for which we promised to care. Her dying was not in the plans when we were speaking with her about planting and cultivating said garden, however, it seems the appropriate thing to do to continue. And I am absolutely dying to get my hands into the earth. The reason it is secret is that Nic's parents feel the need to either worry over or control most things having to do with, um, life, and I would really like not to have to consult or ask permission or reassure, etc. So, I am just going ahead and gardening. At some point they will see what I am doing as they go over there quite a bit, but hopefully by then it will be too late. For now, I am content to weed, make wild nettle and yarrow tea for the soil, and try to locate manure and cardboard and so forth for sheet mulching (more on that when I do it). Incidentally, I want to go to the dairy farmer around the corner for manure and Nic thinks that he will look at us funny. I remember when we went to ask him for milk- remember he is a dairy and meat cow farmer- he looked at us as if we had a hold of the wrong end of the stick and said he hadn't any to sell to us. Am I the only one that finds that strange?

After going to the garden to clean up some weeds I had drying on the lawn, I made my way to the forest, red riding hood fashion, whereupon I gathered stinging nettles (for tea for myself, to make fiber with, and to make tea for the garden), Cattail reeds (for attempting basket weaving), and yarrow (also for the garden tea). Also, quite accidentally, I found my "spot" the place where I can sit and look into the middle distance and see various shades of green around me and above me and in the far distance I can even see the hills of the Spessart. I watched thistle down blow in the wind, catching sunlight with its iridescence. I watched the wind move through the meadow grasses and cattails and heard the birch leaves rustle and tremble above me. I watched the clouds move across the blue sky above. And I heard ravens calling, bike's wheels whizzing, people talking, and my own breath moving with the wind. Finally, I arrived in one place on this continent, sitting on the ground, green gazing. Unfortunately, I met no wolves that day, but I did rediscover my own wildness.

Coming home again, I crossed the threshold from wilderness to civilization, which is always the terrain of the trickster, cayumare, who lives at the threshold to snatch the secret documents away from us, leaving us empty handed and bereft, with no proof of our soul's visits with the holy. In my arms I carried nettles, cattails, yarrow, thistle down, and in my heart, greenness, all of which survived the threshold crossing. Papa, who is of the "prune it back and tie it up" tribe of gardeners, had been pruning  the grape leaves that morning and upon hearing this, I of the "hand made life tribe" dove into the compost pile to retrieve 50 leaves so I could make Lebanese stuffed grape leaves on Monday (pictures and instructions to follow in part 3). I am most happy when I am with the green things of this earth, and finally I came home to myself through their verdant embrace.  It was a good day, Saturday, the last day of July.