Ghost Flowers

It is a wonderful and wild November day here, the wind shrieking through the trees, vapor softening the view to Black Dinah,  the rock outcropping that looms just to the East of the house.  I've been working from the unbridged island- recouping from that first fall musical directing a horde of kids, and from the strains of the holiday in a not yet very well mixed family.  Dave's been off in New Hampshire, and I have vegetated in the house going back and forth between work for my job and all-engrossing wall covering research- paint is so modern and easy... but wallpaper is so expressive.  And hilarious. 

This morning I woke, made coffee and went up to the office to thumb through what back issues I have of MS Living, in search of this one article about this one garden that I know I saw... somewhere.  Despite my liberal use of the snooze button, it was still full dark when I got out of bed.  The outside world consisted only of wind.  The sky has since lightened (I have not yet spent enough time looking at paint palettes to be able to tell you the precise shade of violet grey now in existence with an appropriate Benjamin Moore product number and name) and I can watch the trees limbering up.

Pun intended.

I haven't found that article.  Just the bottom of my second cup of coffee, and a sore spot in my soul.  When we first moved in, rental be damned, I went to the Home Despot and selected paint chips to my heart's content.  Then reality sank in: divorce + poorly paid swordfishing + messily broken arm + my goody-two shoes service career = hand to mouth living.  We never have painted.  We have gained ground economically, and then gained ground literally- we invested in fencing, soil, and plants.  Finally, this fall I completely rearranged the house to the point that it is comfortable, functional, and increasingly charming.  The house, after all, was more or less the only feasible option for us to stay on this island, if we could buy it.  And yes, I have reams of graph paper dedicated to the renovation of the house.  I am a builder's daughter, and let's face it- this house was built for $40,000 to be a rudimentary starter rental.  If you are a lover and dreamer by nature, you will love what is at hand, and strive to bring out the best in it, even if that means a little replumbing and a few bumpouts.

So I have spent two years loving and dreaming about this house.  Of looking at the loveliest bits.  The wind through the tangle of spruce, the play of light on Black Dinah, that one particularly sculptural pine that reads like a Joshua tree from afar.  The larch, boulders, and blueberries in the back yard.  And I have softened the clumsy septic site in the back yard that never did get topsoil above the sand.  We created the garden off to the side, where the old septic was.  Our compost pile has in fact- turned to compost.  This year, flush with a real job and Dave's return to lobstering, I splurged and bought spring bulbs.

When I was young I could never quite understand how a person could have the foresight or patience to plant flowers for the spring the previous fall.  It's crazy.  There is a whole very looooooooong winter before you are going to get anything for your efforts.  Planting is a springtime thing.  Period.  Like in kindergarten when you plant beans and radishes to see something germinate.  Immediately.  With bulbs it is ridiculous.  You put them in the dark ground, and then there's nothing to see.  For months. 

Now that I am at the age my mother was when she was planting those spring bulbs, I do get it.  Time goes a lot faster now.  By fall I need the assurance that something lovely will await me in the spring.  From the time I plant the bulbs to the time the snow starts to recede, I will hold a picture of potential in my mind- of daffodils, hyacinths, and lily of the valley skirting the house.  And it is also a gamble.  Will they get enough sun?  Will they actually survive the deer?

So why the sore soul?

(and here's an odd lashing of rain on the window, as if on cue)

We are moving.

The reality of our lives moves one way, and this beautiful, infuriating island moves another.  I have spent the last few months splitting my time between islands.  In the last three weeks of rehearsal for the show I spent about one day a week on this island, which I consider home.  And we pay rent on both islands.  At the end of the day I actually do want to see my husband, my cats, my house, my garden.  I prefer to greet them here, at the foot of Black Dinah.  It's true.  I love this island, its moods and geography.

But I never see it anymore, except fleetingly.  In passing.  And this is a beauty that you should live with fully, because if you don't the rewards will not outweight the costs.  (For the tangent this spawned, see "Exit Interview.")

So we will move on.  And there will be pleasures and irritations in the next phase of our life.  And I am going to miss this house and I will carry with me a picture of the potential life here held, because I could see ways in which life was finally getting better.