Solstice

Monday evening, Dec. 20: I wanted to let this night come in silence, no radio, no lamps, only sparks in the woodstove and time to think. I heaped coals, set kindling and logs, and sat where I could see Venus, west by southwest, above the oaks.

Last night was the full moon. Tomorrow, the solstice. Between them, this pause, a day that felt warmer than it really was, no wind, steady sun. Pearl likes to go out after the frost has burned off and the day is on, 9 or so. I leave the door cracked, and she comes upstairs now and then to see if I am still at my desk and will come out. She is long past the recklessness of kittenhood and prefers an escort beyond the front yard.

At midday I led her to the rows of celosia and ageratum and worked the netting free from the dead stalks—spilling hundreds of dollars of seed I could have saved—then laid the netting flat on the ground and wound it around a wide piece of cardboard to store for winter.

*

This year, the taking down of these rows is probably final, at least for my flower-growing vocation. I am a gardener, not an entrepreneur. A daydreamer but not a hermit. The farm out here is too much for me.

For years I have tried to convince myself to keep it because it is a lovely spot, a fine house, good soil. It’s not that far from town. Native forest here, with oak, hickory and buckeye. Prairie coming back in thick in the meadows. But this year I let myself finally let the farm go in my mind and am preparing to let it truly go. There are just two of us here; it might be different for a family. I miss having near neighbors, the sound of children playing, my old place near the big cutting garden I continue to keep in North Lawrence, near the trail where I run most mornings. I am used to getting places in three minutes, not 15 or 20. When I go into North Lawrence, I want to stay there. I am sorry it has turned out this way. What have I gained? Knowing, I suppose. Clarity.

I began to allow myself to turn this year at the summer solstice. To quell any doubt, this year brought late snow to the peonies in April, then a month of rain in May, which delayed planting and rotted all the dahlias in the clay soil. Fifty lavender plants arrived, and I learned that I could act in haste and weariness at once, giving most of the plants away before a planned to visit my aunt, my father’s sister, in St. Louis.

We had a window of time, a few weeks when it seemed the pandemic was subsiding. I sat at my aunt’s kitchen table that Sunday when solstice and my uncle’s birthday and their anniversary all fell together. I apologized for breaking in on all this.

“We’ve been married 61 years,” she said. “Who cares?”

We ate lasagne, and she fielded calls from my cousins. “Kitsy’s still not feeling settled after losing her dad,” she said into her iPhone. “We went to the botanical garden and the butterfly house. We’re just talking and looking at the old black photo album, and she went over to Alton this afternoon and drove by the old house.”

Early Monday morning I lay in my cousin’s childhood bedroom and realized that my joints were beginning to ache less. And that it had been seven years since I visited. Driving back from St. Louis, I determined to take steps to: 1) not to be lonely the rest of this year, and 2) turn toward a more suitable situation even though it would be hard work.

*

Tuesday morning, Dec. 21: Solstice. The bird feeders hang still outside the study window. Erin texts at 5:47 a.m.: “This year winter feels like a protective blanket.” I sat on the floor of the upstairs bedroom and watched the sun rise in the southeast. The grass on the meadow is lighting up, the field north of the woods still frost-covered. Pearl scans the meadow from one window, monitors the feeders from another. Last evening, I had a talk about flowers with someone getting married in October. Do I want to help?

When I feel daunted by the task before me—as I do when words I write feel ordinary, dull—I turn back to William Stafford’s words: “Lower your standards and keep going.” Continue in action. If I can do something each day, like take up the netting, I can continue turning.

*

My plans: There is the discussion with the bank, and there is the bookkeeping and gathering of records, always. A group of compassionate realtors, all women, know the whole story, the emotional part, all of it. I want to prepare, not panic. It will be a wait for a place that seems right. Here, we took on too much, too fast, built a beautiful place too big for just us. To some degree, Dad influenced the project. Neither Bob nor I belong in a house so large.

And I am a gardener, not an entrepreneur. I have been a gardener all my life, more than five decades. The North Lawrence garden is not a farm, but it’s the largest garden I’ve ever had, about 5,000 square feet now. I want to put my flower-growing energy there, keep it beautiful, productive, healthy. And neat. There are people who want local flowers, for ordinary times and for sacred times. I never meant to make floral design my focus, but it keeps following me, wanting to be done.

I want space for writing, for walking. I don’t want flowers to be a struggle. It’s possible there would be a smaller farm, a place where Bob has a big shop and a little cottage, where I would keep my perennials. We’ll see.

Behind all this, there is a full-time job, connected with ecology, that involves writing and photography and websites. I am used to this security, this steadiness, the flexibility it gives me. It could be that without it I would become untethered from the earth.

I have just wanted to explain. I wanted you to know.

*
Wednesday morning, Dec. 22: Autumn held strong all day yesterday. I took the laptop to the front porch after I put away the netting, and Pearl stayed close after that. About 4:15 a little breeze came, and Pearl settled on the folded rag rugs on a wooden crate by the door. Pretty soon she took herself in and went right upstairs to settle on the couch in my study. I followed, started the fire and turned toward winter.