springtime with beryl

and all is groovy

Spring

Spring with Beryl

Spring with Beryl who comes when she’s called (all three times we’ve tried this).

Springtime with Beryl and meadows and comics and strong decaf coffee.

Spring evenings with Beryl and gardens and canyons and comics and walks (both on and off leash).

Spring dawns with Beryl and canyons with cow paths and grey Cormo singles and a dog who still comes when she’s called.

Spring breakfast with Beryl and comics and walks and chain plying¹ singles and white apple blossoms that land on your head and your lap.

Spring days with Beryl and yarn to be plied and a piece of old pine that's worn with its work yet still is the tool you'd not be without while morning time drops all its petals on me² and the skunk minds ki's business far away from the dogs.

Spring days with Beryl and gardens and hillsides and comics and walks and plying and blossoms and hot cups of tea and friends at your side who you love very much though Simon and Garfunkel songs from the sixties are not what they think of in Idaho canyons when we should eat lunch.

Spring days with Beryl and a grey three ply skein for some future project and a long long drive home with a very good dog to your wee funky house where the long list of deeds and promises waiting is kind of a lot.

Spring evenings with Beryl and forests of yarrow and hands full of fiber you have to put down because laundry needs hanging and lists need attending yet you forget what you’re doing when cool evening light sets your weaving aglow and you pour a small whisky (which also looks magic in the last slanting sun)—then pick up some indigo yarn.

Springtime with Beryl and garden and meadows and comics and walks and a lap full of blossoms and freshly dry laundry and life with a spindle in a funky old house with beautiful light that has needs you don’t know of and yet is your home where basil is waiting and so are the collards though the beds are unweeded (because this hurts your hands and yet needs to be done), and then you remember you promised your thumbs that this year you wouldn’t —but still you go out there to turn the deep compost because under the eggshells is very nice soil your wee plants will love.

Spring days with Beryl and garden and comics and walks to get groceries and blossoms galore that drift on the breeze and life with a spindle and single-leaf lettuce you’ll eventually eat (if you remember to water) and will taste exquisite in big bowls of salad with parsley and sage and rosemary too, and thyme (it’s your favorite), those wondrous herbs that thrive on neglect and make everything tasty even if you don’t grow it and remind you again that choices exist and your friends are great farmers devoted to veggies and given a choice as your body grows older perhaps you’ll consider…and then you’re diverted by the scent of the lilac that wafts through the windows and ten photos later it seems you’ve forgotten to worry for now.

Spring nights with Beryl and garden and neighbors and comics and tunes and a poured concrete house with single pane windows where your poor crooked hands have done as they pleased for over three decades and washed lots of laundry and spun endless wool (and dyed it with plants gone feral with time), and plucked yummy herbs and told stories with yarn and with tapestries too and dug in the loam and chopped wood to burn and knit sweaters to wear for your wondrous son and crossed things off lists—which all makes you wonder what choices you have about time and production except you can’t make them when lilac-filled light shines in through the windows you might someday wash and casts lacy shadows on your dead husband’s table he bought in New York eating really great bagels when he was a post-doc and you didn’t know him (cuz you were just twelve), but everyone else (including your mother) had heads full of music that he couldn’t stand and you hope he’s okay, wherever he is, if you hum some yourself because just right this second despite the unknowns— groovy is good.

Spring days with Beryl and blossoms and yarn and nothing else matters, at least not right now.

1. Plying on the fly: chain your singles onto a stick (spindle propped on your shoes, between your toes or whatever). Add twist when you ply back onto the spindle. The two step process is worth the effort..

2. The 59th Street Bridge Song —Simon and Garfunkel