Urban landscape

Urban landscape

 Small wonders 

I know they are moving; I am the one mowing the lawn and over the years I developed a mental map of each rock’s location. Two of them on the front lawn, one is half way to the street and one hiding in the middle of the flower garden. There is one under the Weeping Willow that I planted four years ago, three small ones barely seen in the tall grass next to the trailer in the back yard and a big flat one, protrudes right across from my bedroom window and the stubs of grass around his head have a reddish tint like a golden crown.

The one in the midst of the flower bed is the one I noticed first. Three years ago in an effort to add some color I cleared the ground around it and planted a pink cone-flower. The cone-flower being a perennial die back in the autumn and is unnoticed during the winter months but as spring begins its green leaves pop out of the moist earth, and I realize that the gap between the flower and the rock grew. This is my absolute proof that just likes the continents, and the oceans the rocks in my yard move. 

***

You! or should I call you white gray speckled granite, and in short, Granite? You appear so set in your spot as if you were always there and always will be. Half buried in the moist ground shaded by a variety of flowers, life is good. No one (including me) disturbs your tranquil existence.  The truth is that we are carefully walking around you thinking that you are asleep.

But you are not aren’t you? When no one is watching you open your eyes and camouflaged by the stems of the lupines, and the tall red Peonies you inch a little to the right, or maybe the left, or just backward towards the road. My dear Granite, are you trying to run away? Are you lonely and want to join other rocks and together bond and return to your prehistoric roots under the thick layer of ground.

***

I am what they call a salt and pepper granite rock. My appearance is not very distinguished, gray dotted with white. No one will cast a second look my way. From my place in the front yard, half sunken into the ground the tall stems of the flowers next to me shading me, I long for the sun and the company of other rocks that look like me.

Once we were together, a mass of hot lava flowing freely swallowing everything on our way. But then the cold air made us shiver and solidify. We became brittle and broke into many smaller pieces.

Later the wind and the rain scraped me and smoothed my face. It made me look round and soft on the outside, almost friendly.

But at night when everyone around me is asleep I can feel the ground under me moves. With smooth rhythmic wave-like movements it carries me ever so slowly towards my aspired goal. It moves like the ancient ocean that gave me birth and like an ocean, the waves will carry me back home.

Passive resistance triumphs

When I see their yellow heads popping all over the yard, I know that winter finally loosened its grip and spring is around the corner. I also know that it is time to mow the lawn and begin my endless power struggle with these small, seemingly fragile flowers the dandelions.

Dandelions are not the enemy; I am rather fond of them. Their shiny yellow heads light up the yard that for months was devoid of any color. I enjoy seeing them turn into round spheres of white feathery bulbs and have fond childhood memories of blowing on them, causing the white, seeds carrying parachutes to fly in the air and tell me if my secret love will be receptive.

I am well aware of their many exemplary medicinal qualities, an endless list of ailments they are credited with the ability to cure; the health benefits of dandelions include relief from liver disorders, diabetes, urinary disorders, acne, jaundice, cancer, and anemia. They also help in maintaining bone health, skin care and are a benefit to weight loss programs.  So these modest looking plants are almost too good to be true.

But when spring bursts in my lawn with it the yellow invasion I know I need to act fast.

I pull out my John Deer lawn mower and start the tedious task of mowing our motel’s 5 acres grassy lawn. Back and forth I ride for hours, and while quietly apologizing in my heart, I mow over the carpets of dandelions. I feel sorry having to cut them, but true to the meaning of their original French name - Dent de Lion – Teeth of the Lion, they fight right back.

They are using the well-known tactic of passive resistance which means that as I approach a cluster of flowers with my ominous mower they bend their heads in resignations and I credit myself with a quick win. But this lasts for a very short time, a minute later when I look back; here they are standing erect moving slightly in the breeze smiling at me with their shiny yellow smile.

I turn and go over them again; now I am mad and full of boiling energy; I am going to get these small sneering conceited flowers once and for all. This time around they continue to bend low to the ground, and off I go feeling less than victorious, somehow I know this is not the end.

The next morning when I look outside the lawn is white, and for a second I wonder if the winter returned overnight but a close look reveals hundreds of whiteheads on slender stems swaying in the fresh morning breath, and I know I lost, it is too late. 

Mowing over them will cause them to spread the seeds all over my lawn and start a new generation of smiling innocent looking dandelions. Ignoring them will make my yard look like a neglected field. No win here.

Some days I wonder if it will be smarter to leave them be, let them grow and multiply without disturbance. After all, what is so wrong with a green lawn dotted with yellow flowers? I will tell my guests that this is our new approach to landscaping and offer them to pick some of the Dandelions and take home with them as a remedy for all future aches.

Golden Moments

It is only for a moment that the sun catches the trees in the forest just right, and they turn into gold. Gold tree trunks as far as the eye can see, covered with gold leaves, all the way from the ground up, and then the moment is gone, and it is just an ordinary forest with the rising sun hitting it, like it does every morning. 

It is only for a moment, a fleeting moment, that the same sun that rises above the Edom mountain range on the Jordanian border facing the dining room windows in my house on the edge of the desert, blush the otherwise bare landscape with blazing shades of red, as if caught on fire, and then it is back to the dull browns. 

Above the jagged mountains that pierce the sapphire sky, and down into the azure warm water of the Red sea, licking the shore, the rising sun lights up a kaleidoscope of fish and corals, in the unending depth.

I can envision the sun lighting the craggy valley beneath my bedroom window, in our apartment building in Jerusalem. The valley of the ghosts (Emek Refaim), that for as long as I can remember hosted the train going into the city, the same valley that once divided my town, with an unseen, yet impassable border. 

And the kettle shrieks and the water bubbles and my white cat strings a cord of silk around my feet, and I land. 

It is only my kitchen, facing a line of trees in the back yard, bounded by a tall stack of wood waiting for winter, next to the stone wall. 

And I smile to myself, what a magical journey.

Weeds are flowers too,

Weeds are flowers too once you get to know them. A. A. Milne

“And in the evening, everywhere

  Along the roadside, up and down,

I see the golden torches flare

  Like lighted street-lamps in the town.”

        Frank Demster Sherman—Golden-Rod.

When it shows up, one day by midsummer, amidst my flowers, everyone around me nods their head and urges me to uproot it before it takes over the entire garden. Names like, invasive all-encompassing, allergenic, and many more are being thrown in the air. But I who have a warm spot in my heart for flowers and plants, that come uninvited and transplant themselves into my garden, smile at it feeling that I was chosen. 

My Goldenrod (Solidago Canadensis), lodges itself in the center of the front garden, between the Daylilies and the Peonies and within days it is towering over them, sending green branches crowned with yellow burnished flowers.

I know from reading that it is unfairly blamed for causing hay fever. I also know that it is the Ragweed ((Ambrosia sp), that needs to be blamed. It is blooming at the same time, and its pollen spread by the wind is the cause of many allergy problems.

The Goldenrod, on the other hand, has many positive qualities and a documented history to prove them. Here are just a few;

Goldenrods are attractive sources of nectar for bees; the honey produced is dark and strong.

 Goldenrods are held in some places as a sign of good luck and fortune, and while considered weeds in North America they are used as garden plants in Europe.

Inventor Thomas Edison experimented with goldenrods to produce rubber; he created a fertilization and cultivation process to maximize the rubber content in each plant. In fact the tires on the Model T given to him by his friend Henry Ford were made from Goldenrod; an extensive process was conducted during World War II to commercialize goldenrod as a source of rubber.

Goldenrod is used traditionally to counter kidney inflammation caused by bacterial infections or kidney stones. Native Americas chewed the leaves to relieve sore throats and on the roots to relieve toothaches.

Knowing all the fine attributes of this plant, I feel that this newcomer deserves the spot it chose to occupy, and no bad words will convince me to rip it out and bring the risk of bad luck on my head. And so we reach an agreement; I will protect his right to grow in peace every summer in this chosen spot in the garden, and he in return will respect the space of the other plants in the garden.

 No more than few days into our gentlemanly agreement I can spot young shoots growing all over the garden, and recognize that this was a one-sided agreement. No one in his right mind will talk to a plant. Still I am not troubled, with persistence, I am sure we will be able to maintain  harmonious relationship that I look forward to,  and I will be rewarded every summer with the golden heads of flowers sprinkled all over my garden.

*Information and plants name from Wikipedia.

My Back Yard

Unused laundry lines, open grass, wood pile and an old stone fence and beyond that the tree line; this is what I see from my kitchen window. I stand there every morning, with the first cup of coffee of the day in my hand, watching the familiar scenery. For a split second, I think of other back yards I watched in the early morning hours and while sipping my coffee my mind is drifting aimlessly.  

It’s quiet, and everything out there seems completely motionless yet there is a feeling of anticipation or maybe it is just me waiting for something to move and shatter the idle scene. I am so utterly engrossed I forget everything behind me; the boiling water and the coffee waiting to be made for breakfast. 

And then a movement, I catch it in the corner of my eye, and it awakens me, I am on the alert. My eyes are scanning the scenery, nothing. The white snow looks uninterrupted and deserted as before. I remember reading somewhere that to 'really' see you need to let your eyes wonder and not focus on any specific point. Often the best place to hide is in plain sight, and the eye movement without directly focusing will do the trick. I discovered this brainy bead in a science fiction book. It is a great tool to locate aliens but who knows it might work in my back yard too. So I try this technique and move my eyes ever so slowly from side to side. It’s a good practice I notice. I pinpoint details I never noticed before. The huge branches of the old pine tree in the back are sagging, almost touching the ground; they will have to be trimmed.  The red roof over the small shade looks broken in some spots and will have to be fixed in the spring. The wood pile is dwindling, and the winter is still long.

A movement again, it is so fast I don’t really see it is just an impression of motion in the quiet morning air. I feel a bud of stubbornness growing inside me, I sense there is something there, and I want to see it. I turn back pretending I don’t care but throw quick glances over my shoulder. I realize as I am doing it that this elaborate psychological approach is geared mostly towards me. Its’ based on another outside wisdom I acquired somewhere. It stated that as the pendulum move if you push too hard you lose the needed equilibrium. If, on the other hand, you stop pushing the other side will be forced to make a move. 

A movement behind the wood pile, I freeze with the coffee pitcher in my hand. Without moving my body, I turn my head slowly and immediately stop breathing. There is big buck standing there looking straight at me. Even though I am more than hundred feet away, and inside the kitchen the feeling that he can see me is overwhelming.  And then the animal does what I least expect, almost as if finishing a thorough assessment and finding me harmless it shrugs its shoulders and step into the open. 

I can’t believe it; this huge animal who managed to blend so well with the snow and the trees chooses to reveal itself. I walk slowly towards the window afraid it will evaporate into the air like a mirage that no, it’s as real as the snow and the trees and the wood pile. This beautiful animal is just standing there and completely unfazed by me, behind the window; he chews on some yellow blades of last year’s grass. 

Every once in awhile for no apparent reason his skin ripples and his ears perk up and turn as if to hear far away sounds. It picks his head and scans the forest behind him and then obviously satisfied with the results turns back to chewing. 

I watch him for awhile and then unwillingly return to my morning chores. When I look back few minutes later I catch its back walking into the forest slowly and unhurried. Two seconds later as if he was merging into the trees, he is gone.