the day begins here…
before i’d even tumbled out of the bedsheets, i felt the low-down wobbles. happens sometimes. even on a morning when birds are in the boughs just beyond the window panes. it’s almost as if the sediment of whatever shattered in the day before is settling down, after a short night’s slumber, into the pits of your veins and your belly — and your knees, always the knees on a wobbly morning.
it’s almost as if, before your braincells awake, your body cells remember. they know there’s unsettling. they know the darkness rolled in before the day was done. needn’t be big things. sometimes the things that wake you up wobbling are simply a potage of rumbles and worries, spiced with bits of unwanted news.
once i’d splashed the cold water on my bed-wrinkled face, once i’d slipped into the shirt with the least number of holes in the elbows, i turned to tramp down the stairs.
there in the kitchen, the morning’s light awaited. the garden nodded, all dappled with dew drops.
i made a mistake in checking my phone: there lurked one of those emails you don’t want to find before the first gulp of coffee. but there it was, so i read it. and then, i glanced at the dining room table, all strewn with hundreds of pages and a fat red pen. i’ve a day of page proofing ahead of me. the last go-around with these pages that have seeped deep into my soul. these pages on which i whisper a prayer every time i begin again, start at the top, read through to the bottom, on alert, high alert, for typos and runaway commas.
i was now in high wobble.
so i did what any wobbly girl with sharp garden clippers would do: i walked straight out of the house where the wobbles had gathered, and i started to snip — the garden, that is. a long neck of yarrow here, black-eyed susans there. snip, snip, snip. next thing i knew i was clutching a fistful of august delight. and the wobbles weren’t so wobbly anymore. or at least for the moment, i’d buried my nose in the ticklish bouquet, and i wasn’t paying the wobbles much mind.
that’s what a holy morning can do for you. that’s the magic of ringing your old tired house with billows of bloom. folks driving by might think you grow bundles of things for the color, or the je ne sais quoi. ah, but you know. you know the secret: you are growing your very own apothecary out there. it’s all healing balm, and wobbly cures. it’s buoyant and tender, all at once.
it’s the deepest blessing of this holy earth: the power to heal what ails us, whatever it is.
all you need do to prompt it along is tuck a few roots deep in the dirt. then add sprinkles of rain. a few prayers and crossed fingers certainly help. never hurt. oh, and then you muster up patience. you wait. and you wait. and the globe spins around, and next thing you know it’s august, the launch of black-eyed susan season. the glorious crescendo of the midsummer garden. all the growing things — the yarrow, the hydrangea, the susans — they’re all rubbing shoulders, shoving and pushing to steal your attention. all they want is to stick out their necks, to bloom, to soak up some sunshine.
and what they give in return is pure bliss. gentle bliss. quiet bliss. a bliss that promises to bathe you in all that you’ll need to weather the day.
here’s the gardener’s pose of acceptance, accepting the gift of the garden: bend at the waist, stick your nose in the powdery parts where the yellow rubs off, now take a deep whiff, and reach for your clippers.
so it went this once-wobbly morning, when i marched out the door and into the billows, armed with my felco no. 2 clippers. i clipped and i snipped, and next thing i knew i was ready to face this fine day, not quite so wobbly this time.
what’s your garden doing to fortify you this fine day? and if not your garden, what’s your secret potion for facing a wobbly day?
a bit of the backstory here is that i’m plowing my way through final page proofs, as that ol’ book, Slowing Time, has locked in its reservation with the printing presses, and is due to roll by the end of the month. that means every wiggle and blip on the page is demanding attention, lest it roll off the press, blips and bloops intact.
Praying you comfort for all those weights causing the wobblies. Have never heard a more perfect description for that feeling in the morning after, when what seemed like a bad dream shows itself as true. You pegged it. Glad the garden helped. Lots of love, dear bam, with xoxo.
big un-wobbly squeeze back, my beautiful friend. i always know there will be someone who understands, even when i write of my wobbliest moments…..
and i sometimes tell myself that the dramas that present themselves in the everyday will some day filter into some narrative somewhere, and add a bit of spice to the telling….xoxox
“August delight.” Yes, August bouquets are the best–a subtle past, present and future of the summer bundled together in that fistful of flowers. Thank you for the image and the inspiration to find support for the wobbles within those slender stems. (That and a hefty dose of tomatoes.)
ah, yes, tomatoes! now, there is yet another dose of fortitude. xoxo
Ah yes, those wobbles hit even on a summer Friday morning when all is beautiful. I read your missive then, instead of going out to water the garden, took clippers in hand and cut a bouquet for myself also. Presto! Thanks for the idea and sharing those feelings that many of us have. Oh, that 9′ rudbeckia looks MUCH better cut into vase length!
wish i was there to stick my nose in your vase. xoxo
I couldn’t agree more! A late summer garden’s abundant blossoms are a sure fire cure for those low down wobbles. Love your “gardener’s pose of acceptance” — simply delightful!
Cannot even wait for your book to be published! So exciting! I already know I’m going to adore it!
All best wishes as you do your page proofing. xoxo
thank you, beautiful amy. up early because i heard the pages calling to me all the way upstairs to where i tossed and turned on my pillow….
we are going to point out illinois cars toward each other, and meet in the middle one of these holy days…..right? please.
Right! Perhaps sometime this fall we can put our heads together and plan a rendezvous. I’d love that! xoxo
Wobbles upon wobbles is not the easiest way to start the day. I am thinking your celtic blood was telling you it was Lughnasadh or Lammas today. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lammas
You did exactly the right thing by gathering up what you have tended so tenderly. It also seems to fit that you are at your final weeding of your lovely book. Bake up those blueberries and some bread…the wheel turns as of today. I am quietly waiting for that soft dry sound the leaves begin to whisper in the next couple of weeks. Along with the subtle change in evening light, the trees tell us that a knew cycle is beginning. Time for blessings to spite the wobbles!
love lammas day. “loaf mass…” oh the celtic wonders. and you, soulmate, celtic-spirit soulmate…..”soft dry sound the leaves begin to whisper….”
yes, the light shifted ever so molasses-ly this week. i saw it as the black-eyed Susans began to unfurl their lashes……
back to page-proofing…..i’m up to autumn in my whirl through five seasons…..
august – dry and windy… winter dirt and weeds…the ritual of weeding, raking, and sweeping tries its best to teach me that showing up for the mundane brings rhythm to the wobbles of an ordinary day…;-)
dear sonskyn, i love this. and i THINK you write from opposite season. if i’m correct, you write from south africa, and your august is our…….february, right?
but here’s the wisdom you remind the table: “the mundane brings rhythm to the wobbles of an ordinary day.”
let us know if in fact you write from where it’s winter nodding toward spring…
and blessings, wherever you are….
barbara, south africa is my homeland…and yes, my augusty month is your february…sonskyn – the name i use(d) for commenting means ‘sunshine’ 😉
that is SO beautiful. thank you for gracing us with your sonskyn. and thank you for teaching us a new word.