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a bit of blue and green

It was so warm today as I walked about it almost felt like autumn. But I know there’s plenty of winter remaining!

9 years ago …

Hard to believe it was nine years ago that Mr. Langosy allowed me to share the story of his art. What a remarkable man and such a pleasure to have known him and his family. Donald Langosy passed away this week and what a legacy he leaves behind. An active artist until the end, his last exhibit, The Journey of Eduardo Gunkla, is currently on display at the Multicultural Arts Center in Cambridge, MA, until January 9th. A virtual gallery is also accessible online. https://multiculturalartscenter.org/eduardo-gunkla/

small things

I love when the sunlight falls upon the leaves of this cyclamen. It makes me pause in my day and it is important sometimes to simply pause.

hard at work

I purchased not a ton, but a lot, of greenery. One bundle was composed of six branches. I collected six pinecones and gave the mass to Steve along with a birch branch, inviting him to create an indoor decoration. If there’s one thing, in many different ways, Steve teaches me, it is patience … and that sometimes less is more. He sorted through everything and selected just three branches with the same type of needles and just one pinecone. “For the center,” he said.

I think it turned out well. 🙂

still hanging on

I think I bought the bouquet of strawflowers maybe 2 or even 3 summers ago in the Copley Square Farmers Market. So darned expensive but the vendor knew he’d caught me. I wish I had the patience to grow them myself. Maybe one day … 🙂

just words

A new restaurant has opened not far from where I work. I paused in my journey this morning to peer at the menu from afar. Words rang out. “Hey, Nigger. This is where people walk.” Startled I turned toward the voice to see a young white man striding past. Now I’d seen him earlier in the morning. He was clearly strung out on something so there was no need to say anything in return. But as I returned to work I was startled that the words of a junkie, someone clearly in need of some help of some sort, could touch me so. Probably doesn’t help that I am currently immersed in historical research about the profiling and imprisonment of free Black seaman in the antebellum south.

Nor does it help that as Steve and I continue to make our way in this world that people continually, immediately, assume that I am either the paid home health aid or the overnight caregiver. And so then the onus is on me to calmly explain that I am his wife. The onus. I know of a lovely older Black woman in an interracial relationship and she shared that in the retirement community where they reside she always carries her resident card to prove she belongs there and is not “just” a visiting care giver.

We live in a time of unprecedented whitewashing where people in power are trying to normalize outright racism and bigotry and even more so foment deep and abiding ignorance about this nation’s past let alone its present. People are not questioning their assumptions. Race does matter regardless of what a super rich and powerful white minority are trying to assert.

Just some Sunday musings … best get back to my research so that that forgotten story can be shared soon.

Here’s a challenge. In this age of quick reads, read this whole poem, Let America Be America Again, by Langston Hughes. Indeed try reading passages out loud. Written about 90 years ago, it could have been written today. And therein lies the sadness and yet the hope. Read on …

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147907/let-america-be-america-again

feels like feathers

Just as we were entering what I like to call “the woodwright shop,” the room where we sat up a mini-woodworking area so Steve can do small projects upstairs instead of in the basement, I noticed the fall of sunlight across the room. “Wow, look at the ferns!” I kind of thought I was talking to myself but to my surprise Steve started rolling that way. I didn’t expect him to reach for the sunlit fern fronds with his left hand but he did. When I asked him what they felt like, he said, “Feels like feathers.”

They are Rabbit’s Foot Ferns. And somehow I’ve amassed a tiny collection. I think it happened during the pandemic when I just wanted some inexpensive greenery in the house to clean the air, add some humidity, etc. And they sure are forgiving when I forget to water. Their furry rhizomes spill out over the pots and from them new leaves emerge.

There’s some serious repotting that needs to be done as soon as I find the right planters. Hmmm. Perhaps I’ve identified Steve’s next small works woodworking project, some nice wooden planters. We’ll see. 🙂

garden therapy

There is a blue jay that likes to sit upon the porch and pound peanuts into any bare earth it can find in one of my pots, most often the pot of marigolds. A dove will occasionally land and then fly away, a fleeting guest, not like the mating pair that tried to nest on the porch during the pandemic. Now that I’ve added some pots of long willowy grass, lemongrass and zebra, sparrows will do a curiosity flyby but have not yet landed that I’ve seen.

I’m tempted to put out a water feature but that might attract more than birds. I am quite pleased with the porch this year. It was garden therapy i thought for Steve but it has surely been for me as well. I tell people I think I have reached capacity in terms of adding more containers but even as I look out the door now I can imagine one or two more containers just ‘cause. It is primarily a culinary space with many pots of basil, mint, lavender, thyme, rosemary and oregano. I added the lemongrass for height and texture though I know it is used in cooking as well.

I keep telling Steve the violas are edible but that’s a lost argument. Most attractive to me at the moment is the lavender. I’m sure for Steve it is the basil which he just pinched yesterday and we made a small batch of pesto for dinner.

I think of it as a mini-healing garden. I learned of the concept on my journey with Steve these past few years, sitting with him or by myself, in the rooftop gardens of different hospitals. Due to recent mobility challenges Steve had not been able to sit out there though he helped plant many of the containers. I call those Saturday mornings at the kitchen table surrounded by dirt our indoor gardening time. He pots the plants and I position them on the porch. He could only look out but of late we’ve learned of these things called suitcase ramps and voila he is able to sit in our little garden.

He doesn’t crave it the way that I do. We’ve discussed the fact that, in Virginia, I grew up in a porch culture and he most certainly did not. When he does sit out there I hope there is some benefit to mind and body. It is mid-July and the violas are fading. New opportunities await for filling some containers.