There are several cucumbers that will need to be picked next week. The blueberries are just turning blue. The tomatoes are still green with just a shade of crimson. The carrots are coming along, but not quite. There will be peaches on the tree this year, and plums.
Our bee hives are brimming with bees, and the honey will need to be harvested in a little more than a month. The irises have come and gone, but not the gladiolas or the sunflowers that ring the garden–they are just budding.
What tastes better than the promise of a cucumber that isn’t quite ready to be harvested, or the new potatoes left undug? Nothing, I think.
Yesterday, as I drove Oakley home from his job as a junior counselor at Broad Turn Farm Camp, I found myself distracted. My head was full of lists and longings, and I was feeling homesick even though we have not gone anywhere yet. Maybe if I leaned on Oakley a little, he would lean back and it would make us both stronger.
“Oaks, I am really nervous about this trip. Are you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, shifting in his seat.
“Which part?” I asked
“The whole thing.”
“Oaks, I am too. I am going to miss Papa and Raven and Jonah and Finn and Cricket.”
“What about Scuppers?” (our cat)
“Him too. I am also going to miss my friends.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I am going to need you, you know. It’ll be just the two of us out there.”
Oakley looked out the window, and I thought that my words had fallen on deaf ears. After a long pause he sighed.
“We will be okay.”
It was the first time he has tried to reassure me about this hare-brained idea of biking across America, and I felt my anxiety decrease by just a fraction.
“You think?”
“Yeah, we will just get homesick sometimes.”
The air in the car felt topsy-turvy with anxiety, excitement, and a new feeling of camaraderie, and I was reminded again of all the reasons why we are going.
There has been a poem bashing it’s way through my life since I was a teenager that says it far better than I ever could.
“A Summer Day”
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean the one who has flung itself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and throughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it that you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
-Mary Oliver
I have purposely built a complicated life that is bursting with fullness. Stepping away from it is startling. I hate missing. I have never looked at a baby cucumber with more longing. I have never stared into my dog’s eyes with such adoration. I have never craved being surrounded by friends and family more. It is in the leaving that I am reminded of its worth.
While I am gone, I have a favor to ask of everyone. Please eat the cucumbers and the blueberries. Don’t let them rot.
Another beautifully written and expressed story. And sweet moments of connection and honesty between the two of you. Also loved the poem – who is the poet?
Mary Oliver
I am so envious of both your writing talent (“Those damn Day cousins got ALL the artistic talent in the family”), and your courage/boldness/confidence/foolishness in taking on your upcoming adventure.
I have a lump in my throat. I will miss you!
My dear friend, Barbara, texted me this morning that she gave you our ice cream $$ this morning on the ferry to Portland and she got a sweet hug from Oakley. I am astounded by your courage but totally understand the need to do this trip as it has been building for a long time. Perhaps like making the top of the bucket list was for me to publish a book stayed at the top until I finally self published my book this year! And you will do your trip this year! I want to read every word you write as you pedal into this amazing bonding adventure. Please enjoy a lot of ice cream and we will eat the blueberries.
I have been following your blog and love when I get the email notification of a new post. (I’m also in a mutual bicycle touring group on FB)
This one has really caught me. The anxiety, the anticipation, the connection with your son. How bold and courageous you both are!
You’ve done it again, Leah! My eyes are full; goosebumps cover my flesh; every heart chamber is filled to bursting. Your loving, sensitive, remarkable heart gifts us with your writing. And to share the touching connection with your son! Thank you! Go in peace; “follow your bliss.”
“It is in the leaving that I am reminded of its worth.” ❤️
You will love every minute, hate some, and then look back and love those, too. This will be by far one of the best experiences of your lives. Treat this as a journey, not a destination, and make sure to stop and smell some roses along the way. As we said on the AT, look for the trail magic. Those unexpected moments represent the divine, and teach us to pray prayers of thanks. You may miss the bounty of your garden here, but every cucumber, every tomato, every morsel will taste sweeter out there.
I love reading all about your feelings. Although I don’t see you so often knowing that I can’t see you for 3 months makes me sad but I’m so excited for you both! You are changing your lives forever!
This was a very moving post. Thank you!
The first part seemed like a to-do reminder list for Twain and family.
It’ll all be good…great infact!
This was such a sweet post – I love the dialogue between you and Oakley. Thank you for the reminder of the delicious Mary O poem, too. I will think of your family and garden just through snake alley from me…and you and your son, of course! Best wishes as you leave the known for the unknown!