lions and peonies

In the No play The Stone Bridge (Shakkyo), a Japanese Buddhist priest travels to a sacred mountain in China, where he sees magical lions playing among the peonies. The lions are said to teach their cubs to be brave by throwing them over a precipice and forcing them to climb back up. The motif of lions and peonies appears often in tattoos, textile designs, and other Japanese art forms because the theme suggests courage as well as wealth and good luck.

(from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts description of Mother and Cub)

I wandered over to the museum today, making my way through new arriving students who seemed to be going off for dinner and goodbyes to their families. It was after five o’clock; the “moving parking only” signs had just ended. I slid my car into the parking place, slipped out of the car and down the sidewalk.

Not a crowded day at the MFA–hurricane, vacation, students–speculated the docent. But the Japanese woodblock prints were still there, and I stood there contemplating them for a long time, wondering at the color, the fine lines, the detailed tattoos, and so many intricately covered with lions and peonies.

If there is anything I know well, it is peonies. They cover the screen in my bedroom, and I dream about them more than must be quite healthy. Not sure why–they simply charm me with their abundant fragrance and informal elegance. But if they also signify wealth and good luck, I am happy to have them near me..

But what of the lions? The courageous lions?

I think a lot about courage at times, wonder what it really is. Does it really matter? Sometimes it seems there should be some reward in an act that is deemed courageous, but at other times, I think the name of courage comes in doing what we think is right, no matter the outcome. Fight fight, keep on keep on… it sometimes feels this way, dialing those numbers, waiting politely and calling again. And again. Is it courageous to be a pain in the ass? Is it courageous to be the one who shines the light, shouts, makes someone squirm, makes someone angry? Is it courageous to keep doing this day after day?

Sure, sure it is, and plenty of people do it, struggle to do it, and still end up with a smile. Like the No play from the print (and the print is viewable here, cubs go tumbling down the cliff and climb back up again. Courage.. “Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker”…

These lions and peonies go hand in hand, then. We do get back up, dust ourselves off, and still play at this, still grateful for life, still grateful for the beauty and pleasures we find within it.

So, this lovely evening, as I walked out onto the steps of the MFA, I considered this, looking at the dove grey sky tinged with pink, the symmetrical fountains and baby heads placed out on the lawn, the falling day, the barometric anticipation, the green way. It is a summer evening, still summer, a long day spent pushing and talking, it seems, and now all is quiet.

The giant oaks will lose even more of their acorns tomorrow when the hurricane winds come through, but now a drum beats, welcoming students to the Museum School, and I walk down the path, the lamps, the joggers and the bicycles. I walk, find my car and head onto Storrow, passing the traffic of Cambridge and heading–I drive fast, know where I am going–by the Charles faster faster, toward Fresh Pond with nary a stop… It is like a grand prix, and I look in the rear-view window at the light on the buildings, my bike in the back of the car, and I think how lucky I really am, all these days. A ten dollar bill in my purse, a warm evening, driving toward my girls, and yes… we did get somewhere today.

It is a good day, a day when all things start as September starts, as school starts, as we find the courage we need to face the days, and the luck we have to enjoy them.

new thoughts on peonies

I have written ad nauseum about peonies–so much so that I myself am beginning to tire of the subject. Yes, they do remain my favorite flowers, but… so what? You see, I have come to the conclusion in the past year that… well… Oprah was right.

For anyone who has not read every word I ever wrote, I remarked on the eve of 2008 that Oprah had a little blurb in her magazine about taking care of your own needs, buying your own flowers. I mocked this idea, resolving that I would not give up on the idea of someone who would care for me. How wrong I was.

Now, I was never quite so helpless as to think I could not dream my own dreams; I just wanted to be pampered, quite notably, by someone else. There is a poem or quote about the whole notion of growing our own flowers. I cannot quite remember it off the top of my head, and I am too lazy just now to Google. The idea is that we women–I say women, though it really could be any of us out here–tend to wait around for whatever is tossed at us in life, pawing at whatever happiness gets thrown our way, when we really could take a little more responsibility in the outcome: how much much more fulfilling it might all be if we only speak up. Or if we plant our own gardens.

I was late and lazy this fall, so I did not set out peonies in my yard, but there may be hope for the spring. Yes, this is a new year on its way, and I resolve to cease this hoping and hinting for the heartfelt gift of cut flowers that I forever (sniff) wished that some wonderful someone would ever have the heart to give to me. All those wishes have seemed a recipe for disappointment, or worse: martyrdom.

Now, those of you who did read that peony piece for 2007′s December 31 will undoubtedly note that flowers were never really my main concern. Better than I could express, Kathleen Edwards sings, in “Asking For Flowers” the thought that I have considered in past years: “Asking for flowers/is like asking you to be nice.” Thoughtfulness is a gift we cannot ask for. We are never asking for niceness or flowers, not really; we are asking, in fact, for nothing material at all. We are not asking, we are wishing for someone who loves, respects and cherishes us as we all deserve… indeed, it may be worth wishing for.

In the past year, though, I have wondered how far we get in wishing for anything. A wish may plant a goal in our head, but wishes left in dreams accomplish little, I am sure. And goals themselves can even be a bit too specific, striving to have a certain job, or to win the affections of an certain person. I don’t imagine it does any more good in the long run to “wear your hair just for him” than it does to spend time “wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’.” Remember Vertigo? A lot of good a hairstyle did that time. But I digress.

In the end, all the trite advice about finding our own happiness seems to make sense to me now, not such a lonely resignation, after all. I wonder at the trials of the last year, what changed that made me reconsider my long-held conviction in refusing to “give up” my wishes for true love. It was not disappointment, quite; more, it has been the realization that finding a life that fits me is no match for making a life for myself.

Searching for happiness is a strange pursuit. Instead, I make this resolution for the year: I will slow down this year, and just stop sometimes. I will find whatever bliss comes along the way, collect it and care for it. I will live on, despite the sorrows that wash up, let them wash back out.. even as tears transform the appearance of what I thought I knew so well. I will write the words, the gifts, and create beyond my present dreams. And maybe, just maybe, this creation will prove itself to be the deepest sort of love I could honor.

P.S. In this last note for the year, I send my best wishes and farewells to friends who have moved on in their lives. To everyone, I wish you peace in 2009.

hnt, the floral edition

The peonies (the self-bought version, alas) were full, round buds when I went to bed last night. They smelled good, but you never know how supermarket flowers are going to fare. The birthday bunch was none too satisfying, but I am never one to give up hope too easily. I stuck the buds in a vase and traipsed off to dreamland, exhausted at the prospect of the busy work day ahead.

This morning, lit by clear sunshine spilling through my dining room windows, the flowers were open: beautiful and naked.

And I caught them! Happy Thursday, everyone.

lawn mowers do not like legos

Mr. Bunny is going to be disappointed… or more likely, my kids are going to be sad not to see Mr. Bunny hopping around our backyard jungle. Why?

The jungle is gone. Anticipating today’s heat wave and the mosquitoes that normally come with it, I woke up early to pull the lawn mower out of the garage for the first time this year.

I realize it’s a little late, but if you saw my yard, you would understand how I have gotten away with not cutting the grass all spring. There is practically no grass. The yard itself is small, but not tiny, and it should have grass. Instead, it is a mixture of sand, rocks, mulched leaves, pine needles, and weeds. Oh…. and legos. Lately, though, the weeds have gotten a little high, providing nourishment for the rabbits, but a big, buggy mess for me. The time to cut had come.

Over the past several years, I have developed a thing for power tools. They come in handy for projects, and there is something almost cathartic about cutting things down, or blowing them away, making holes in them, sanding them smooth. I am a year older and wiser now, and I have started buying my own peonies again, and have more or less given up on the idea of finding true love. So, in the spirit of do-it-yourselfness, I find myself enjoying these little moments of accomplishment more than I resent them, much to the disbelief of my mom and brother. It is true that they were the ones watching This Old House while I headed out the door on whatever night that show was on, but I did absorb a few things. Or at least, I have Google.

I didn’t need Google or This Old House just to mow the lawn. For one thing, I never recall a discussion of lawn mowing, or the importance of removing legos from the yard before mowing. Amazing how big a bruise those little plastic bricks can make! I finished, and swept up (could not justify getting out the leaf blower). I scraped more paint off the front porch (which is almost ready for the new coat). A shovel (or the leaf blower) may have been a more appropriate tool than a broom in my daughters’ room. Nonetheless, the past-due book (Roald Dahl’s The Twits, if you are curious) has been recovered, and no one will be hiding in the school bathroom during library this week.

It is after 10:00 on a warm Saturday night, and I find myself self-sufficient, happy to have a fresh-cut yard, a few loads of laundry folded, a shoveled-out room, groceries in the kitchen. I am happy, but also a little… Well, words escape me. I love my house, love my kids, love life.

But really, is this all there is? I do cherish the bunnies that hop into my yard, the delicious feeling of heat that overwhelms me, makes me feel lazy, and then invigorated when the cool shower water hits my face. I love the haze after rain lets loose unexpectedly, and the evening that becomes balmy.

Yes, I do love all these things, but somehow today I find myself noticing the absence of a smile returned, or a gesture offered. I miss kisses, words, laughter. I miss breaths, heartbeats, steps. I miss things I have never had, and maybe I miss things that do not exist. In all the busy days that run together with no time left for anything at all outside of the bare necessities of life, I find it hard to stop—there is always more to do—and I wonder again, is this really all there is?

I love this life, this beautiful, imperfect life.. if only to know it, to wallow in it… but yes, I need more than power tools and a never-ending list of things to do. Passion, trust, fun… I want these things, too. I need them. And resignation never got me more than … resigned. Well, I am not quite ready to give in to cynicism.

Tomorrow is a new week.

tabula rasa

Against my own resolutions, I bought myself peonies. They are hot pink, and not yet open, full of the promises of the coming year.

It is a new year, a new number, full of the hope and empowerment that do-it-yourself projects like window repairs can bring. I see through a clear pane of glass now, a bit more protected, and no longer avoiding the jagged edges that I had simply covered with a board. I can see, and the window can be broken again without the helplessness I felt before. Repair is possible. Only… would I want to do that again?

At the end of 2007, I said I would not buy myself flowers. With a new sense of self-sufficiency, I wonder if I should amend my previous thoughts. Peonies are in bloom now, as they always are right about now, and I need them. I need the beauty, and I want the things I wanted when I wanted flowers to be given to me. Only… those things are not in my control. It would be much nicer not to want. Or would it?

It has been a year of heartbreak and hereafters. Perhaps I have worn my heart on my sleeve too much, allowing myself to be an open target for criticism or misuse. I have indeed been criticized, but praised sometimes, too. As for the misuse… well, that was a bit harder to bear.

Still, I have met special people in the past year, and learned many things about myself, about the world. There are still so many wonderful souls wandering, and a world still left to find. Love remains, in children, but also in hopes. And perhaps once, there will be some safe place, visible in the distance, so I can take my sails down, coast in, throw an anchor. It is no island I seek, but a protected harbor on the edge of life, a warm harbor full of lights and sounds and spices and splendor. A good place.

But for now, I’ll enjoy my peonies, and the new summer sun. I will navigate through the waves and wind, and also through still waters, quiet moments left just to watch the stars.

a colony of crows, a murder of ants… no, wait!

Right now I am standing in my kitchen, watching as thousands of tiny black ants swarm into the crowded coliseum, here to fête the latest craze that has hit the ant kingdom. It’s not Antmania! it’s not Beatlemania! it’s Terro!

Well, it’s not exactly a coliseum: it’s my kitchen, specifically, one corner of it. And as for the ant fever… the ants think the stuff is great right now, and judging from the numbers, they cannot get enough of it. But they are about to get a big surprise when they stagger back home, drunk on that sweet, sweet nectar. They imbibe, run through it, and carry some to their little ant colony on their little ant feet.

Then, they will die, poisoning the friends and family back home right along with them.

In my experience, Terro is a product that delivers the promised results—and has the skull and crossbones on the box to prove it. The kiddos are gone for a few days, and we no longer have cats. As long as I stay away from that tiny corner of the kitchen, I should avoid poisoning myself, and my ant problem will be a memory by the time I get home from my walk.

That’s a little wishful thinking, to be fair, but tomorrow would do.

“She’s so cruel,” you say, thinking of those poor ants clutching their little ant necks as they choke, collapsing at last, only to mutter their last words, in ant-speak, “Why?”

I am cruel; it is true. I am engineering the destruction of thousands of insects as I write, and I am just a wee bit gleeful about the whole affair. There is something of the “them” versus “us” in this enterprise, and I am not at all sure it is healthy in the least. It is certainly not healthy for the ants.

Some bugs seem to live beyond my capacity for this sort of killing, based on some (mis?)conception of value. Spiders are spared, mostly. Bees only die as a last resort, and I cannot even remember the last time. I don’t like to kill any bugs outside, either. It just doesn’t seem right. Well, except mosquitoes. Oh, and I’d never kill a ladybug, or a cricket. Too superstitious.

But there are bugs that put up a bigger fight, bring their entire families, invade: earwigs, roaches! (oh my), FLEAS (even worse), and yes, ants. Burglars. How dare they go after that cracker I dropped on the floor? They point out my housecleaning deficiencies. And this, I believe, is why they are here now.

A week ago, a friend called, and in the midst of our conversation, I heard screaming. It was an insect-related problem, and the insect in question was none other than an ant. Or—many ants. I said to myself, “Hmmm. So early, too,” because I had not seen any here, and knew that it would have to be July if I did. “Hmmm. Such a shame,” my thoughts continued, and as my friend went on, talking half to me and half to a distressed teenager about how the ants would not have come if the food had not been left out, I found myself tsk-tsking the entire situation, so glad that it was at their house, and not ours.

And now, just look at me. I am here poisoning ants. This is where that sort of thinking gets you. I should have known: no one ever accused me or any of my children of being too neat. That is all I can say on the matter at this point.

You may ask me if I feel the least bit guilty for this formicide.

The truth is, I do, or I probably would not be here writing this little piece, trying to make the whole thing seem slightly amusing. I really do not like hurting things, even if they are ants covering my countertops in astonishing proportions. Ants do have a useful purpose—for heaven sakes: they make peonies open! Probably a few other things, too. I somehow feel I’m upsetting the universe.

I suppose to the ants I am incomprehensible to them, this destruction to their colony a tragic moment on some level I have no way of understanding, either. But really, the ants should have known something bad would happen for their greed. It kind of makes me wonder.