A couple of weeks ago I shared another walking stick photograph on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter with this accompanying haiku.
A walking stick and
miniature companion
gossip in the shade.
My walking stick haiku makes more sense if you actually look closely at the photograph.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CDogBYJpIs8/
Can you discern the walking stick’s miniature companion? Is it a spider. Definitely not a yellow garden spider, but I’m not certain if it’s another arachnid or another spidery insect.
The walking sticks were photographed while perching on lawn furniture and a fence posts. Different but not distant locations. There’s another notable difference. Or two. Can you spot it/them?
Walking Stick Trivia
Today’s snapshot (the one at the top of this post) appears to be the same variety of walking stick (maybe even the very same bug), but s/he appears to have lost a rear leg. And a green arm or half of a pair of Pinocchio proboscises?
Unfortunate. Losing limbs unlikely offers a survival advantage. And yet this walking stick remains agile despite the impairment.
I realize I’ve never shared a “Friend or Foe” post about walking sticks, so I’m adding it to the already endless punch list of future posts. It’ll be the perfect excuse to learn a little more about this bizarrely beautiful bug.
Phasmids, Phasmatodea, Phasmatoptera…
It turns our that walking sticks (aka “ghost insects”?!?!) are somewhat phantasmagorical, er, rather Phasmatodea. You with me?
The Phasmatodea (also known as Phasmida, Phasmatoptera or Spectra) are an order of insects whose members are variously known as stick insects, stick-bugs, walking sticks, or bug sticks. They are generally referred to as phasmatodeans, phasmids, or ghost insects. (Source: Wikipedia)
Walking sticks perplexing and intriguing. And, in a slightly bamboo way, they are beautiful. Well, at least the ones I’m sharing in this post. I admit that I know little about these quirky insects, so it’s a time to pursue curiosity down the proverbial rabbit hole (or bug hole?!?!) It’s time to learn more about the Phasmatodea…
You can file this next tidbit in your quirky-to-the-point-of-being-cool folder. (You have one of those, right? Right!) If you think that walking sticks — as well as other “stick and leaf insects” in the phasmid species such as Chitoniscus sarrameaensis — are worth more than just a fleeting glance, I suggest you check out Phasmatodea.com.
The world’s leading website about phasmids. (Source: Phasmatodea.com)
Phasmatodea.com… started as a project funded by the phasmid experts, Oskar Conle and Frank Hennemann, with the clear aim to provide an extensive source of information, photos and possibility for the identification of species of this fascinating insect order, not only for scientists but also for breeders and anyone interested in these insects. Now we’re the world’s leading website about phasmids, having the largest photographic gallery and the most comprehensive content about this insect order. (Source: www.phasmatodea.com)
Welcome to the wacky, wonder-filled world of walking sticks. Off to learn more, maybe even enough to some day share a a “Friend or Foe: Walking Sticks” post. Stay tuned. Or, better yet, teach me what I need to know before I get gobbled up by a walking bamboo stick. Thanks.
I’d planned on getting the drone up in the air for some aerial photography of the waterfront and deck areas (where we’re planning some maintenance projects). As luck would have it the morning was misty. No, more like pea soup. So I waited. And waited. It burned off a little, but finally I realized it wasn’t going to clear up. I decided to find out what I could photograph despite the less-than-optimal conditions.
The results were not as useful as I’d hoped, but also considerably more interesting than anticipated. More dreamy and evocative. More dramatic. More romantic. In short, a win!
Sometimes it’s just a matter or pivoting priorities, right?
At moments like this that I surrender to poetics. To place. To the poetics of place.
Sometimes poetry and artful images speak more clearly, even more truthfully, than all the analytic blather we’re want to rely upon. Sometimes it’s worth stepping aside and allowing the simplest of ideas and images to tell the story.
Here’s one of the photographs that speaks volumes to me. Hope it says a little something to you as well!
https://www.instagram.com/p/CSWsTAdrIuU/
I find that aerial photography (and drone imaging in general) often deliver surprising results. The perspective is often surprising. As is the beauty. The almost tannic inkyness of the foreground waters (where Rosslyn’s boathouse extends east into Blood’s Bay). The shoreline connection to Lake Champlain‘s Adirondack Coast is as compelling as the relationship to the Adirondack Mountains (and Boquet Mountain in particular) is this hazy midsummer “eye in the sky” snapshot.
Today’s a day for peach haikus. With blustery storm incoming, our team concerned about balancing inclement weather reports with an ambitious 4-day scope of work, and the sort of bone-deep chill that shivers the bones and shakes the confidence, I propose that we take a micro-vacation. How’s that? Let’s flip the calendar back to sunny August when Rosslyn’s peach trees offered up sun warmed fruit bursting with nectar. A pair of summer-soaked watercolors and a pair of poems just might take the edge off and remind us that similar joys lay ahead. I hope that you enjoy these peach haikus.
Peach Haikus
As I’ve mentioned previously, recent years have drawn me toward the humility and mystery of haiku. Through brevity and minimalism blossoms a microscopic world. An invitation to disconnect from the hurly-burly for a while in order to immerse ourselves in a moment, a fragment. And often that miniature moment actually contains something immense, universal. A bit like gazing into a small drop of water that appears to amplify the world around it like a gnome-scale snow globe. Minus the snow. We’re trying to conjure summer vibes after all.
Summer’s first peaches,
sunshine soaked and siren sweet,
seduce all senses.
— Geo Davis
Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)
Peach Haikus in Mid-December
There’s something decadent about peaches in wintery months. Once upon a time it would have been an impossibility, of course, but in this brave new world it’s possible to purchase peaches year-round, harvested faraway in warmer climes. And yet, no matter how reputable the source, there’s simply no comparing a snow season peach to the fresh-off-the-tree variety we enjoy in mid to late summer. The colors are almost impossibly saturated, and the sweet treacle that drips from lips is an indulgence on par only with fantasies. Even the aroma of a sun soaked peach pulled from the branch is an extravagance. Store bought winter beaches often have no smell at all, or only the subtlest of ghost-smells, like a facsimile transmitted too many times, diluted with each new iteration.
And yet, perhaps, just maybe these images and these peach haikus will conjure for you a recollection so tantalizing that your optimism will rebound, incoming winter will settle into a less ominous perspective, and your enthusiasm for next summer’s fruit will revitalize your spirits. Hope so!
Hankering for a hammock huddle this morning, so I’ll I revisit the photograph I shared on June 6 depicting a herd of hammocks near the orchard. Yes, the color is a little over juiced. And the shadows are dark almost to the point of feeling ominous. Or cozy? But this moment beckons this morning given yesterday’s storm damage. (I’ve included another image below capturing just how close one of the fallen trees came to both the icehouse and the hammock huddle.
Hammock Huddle Haiku
Together apart,
plein air cocoons canopied
beneath maple trees.
— Geo Davis
Pandemic Precursor
While quarantining during the early months of the pandemic Susan and I spent time exploring and experimenting with aspects of our property that we’d never considered before. Or not recently, at least.
Sixteen years have lulled us into habits, ways of living and looking at Rosslyn that have possibly become more confining than we’d realized prior to weeks-on-end of quarantine.
We spent many afternoons and early evenings on the lawn of the abandoned clay tennis court (located west, northwest of the icehouse). It started because the early spring sunsets were best visible from here, but it continued because we discovered a fresh and inviting space and perspective that we’d previously overlooked. And this new vantage, this new ritual catalyzed a shift in our thinking. Wondering, really. We’d inadvertently stumbled upon a liminal space. And the longer we spent hammocking together near the glowing Solo stove fire pit gifted to us by our older nephew, bundling up as the evening grew chill, witnessing another pandemic sunset, the more our conversations and questions raced into exciting new places. Our wondering wandered further and further into liminality.
Transitions. Flux. Liminality. Interstices. Inflection. Evolving… We are awash in transitions! (Source: Transitions)
Three years later we’re navigating a tempest of transformation. But I’m tickling a tangent, so best to stick with our hammock huddle for now.
Ensemble Hammocking
Our earliest ensemble hammocking in this location, back in March or April 2020, was nestled up together in this wooden arc stand.
Pandemic Hammocking 2020 (Source: Geo Davis)
Needless to say, no side-by-side reveal since we were quarantined, and we weren’t super swift with selfies…
We’ve long loved hammocks, stringing them up throughout our property, so it occured to me that it would be fun to create a group of hammocks hanging together in the hopes that soon we’d be able to be joined by friends once again. Recumbent social distancing!
The hammock huddle shown at the top of this post was born. The same is shown here, minus the giant maple tree that used to tower nearby.
Hammock Huddle (Source: Geo Davis)
As it turns out, the hammock roundup has been a hit. For the third season in a row we’ve enjoyed group hammocking among the still adolescent stand of maple trees growing between the tennis court and the orchard.
Yesterday‘s storm damage was distributed throughout our property, and the immense maple that succumbed in the photo stood right next to the hammock huddle. Guided through the forceful blow by some benevolent force, the towering tree exploded onto the ground without damaging the hammocks, the maple trees in which they are suspended, or for that matter any of the adjoining trees save a few branches here and there. It’s remarkable really. Even the gate through which we drive the tractor was unscathed. And, as I pointed out yesterday, if the wind been blowing in the opposite direction, the maple would likely have destroyed the icehouse that we are just beginning to rehabilitate. Instead, we have a new aperture of visible sky this morning and a year’s worth of firewood.
There is much to admire in a mulberry tree. The handsome habit and height. The luxurious leaves. The shady canopy. The concentrated blackberry-esque burst of inky sweetness.
While you may have a fuzzy notion about mulberry wine, there’s a fairly good chance you haven’t actually spied — up close and personal — a mulberry tree or mulberries. So I find when I walk family and friends through Rosslyn’s orchard this time of year, stopping to point out the ripening fruit. If ripe enough to eat, and lately the mulberries have been perfect, almost everyone who tastes the fruit loves the taste. And yet these delicious tree-grown raspberry impersonators are unfamiliar. I wonder why…
I’d like to revisit this perplexing situation in in the future. But now a look at our three trees and a mindful mulberry meditation of sorts. First let’s stand a while beneath one of the mulberry trees, and lifting our gaze up into the shady foliage, our eyes will begin to spy the mulberries hanging like miniature clusters of grapes.
Although I shared this Instagram post yesterday, most of those photos actually date back a couple of weeks. Now the third and last of our mulberry trees is ripening. And it’s raining. So I harken back to sunnier days.
The first two Hardy Mulberry (Morus nigra) trees ripened roughly concurrently. Their fruit is slightly smaller than the Illinois Everbearing Mulberry (Morus rubra) which we (and the birds!) are harvesting now. Despite some potential color confusion with Morus nigra (aka black mulberry), Morus rubra (aka red mulberry), and Morus alba (aka white mulberry, common mulberry, or silkworm mulberry), both of our varieties are ripe when they appear shiny black. The juice within is actually somewhere between scarlet, violet, and midnight. Lips and fingers quickly stain dramatically and persistently, so don’t expect to sneak a snack without getting caught!
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Carley, our year-plus old Labrador retriever manages to stealthily Hoover fallen fruit from the grass, at once an efficient and stain free means of harvesting. I’ve yet to master this technique myself, so my fingertips often belie my gluttony for the rest of the day.
Mulberry Maturation
Our mulberry trees are about nine or ten years old at this point, and they’re growing tall enough to actually evoke treeness rather than nursery stock or dwarf stock. As the trees have aged they’ve set heavier and heavier crops of fruit each summer. Given the approximately 15-18′ height of all three trees, the birds are the primary beneficiaries. We harvest what we can reach and leave the rest to our avian neighbors.
When the fruit first emerge from the mulberry flowers, they are green and covered in small black “threads” left from the blooms. These fall off as the mulberries ripen first to white, then pink, then red, then purple, and finally a deep lavendar-black. At this point they are plump, glossy, and 100% ready to eat!
It’s time for my mulberry meditation, but first a gallery (in case the Instagram post isn’t working.)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation
At the outset I mentioned a mindful mulberry meditation, and I hinted at the vague familiarity that I and others might have with wine fermented from the juice of this beneficent tree. That time has come.
“I put everything I can into the mulberry of my mind and hope that it is going to ferment and make a decent wine. How that process happens, I’m sorry to tell you I can’t describe.”
John Hurt
“Huzzah!” I’m grateful indeed to Mr. Hurt for bundling up such creative cleverness. Both bacchanalian and theatrical, Dionysian and persistently mysterious… I’m struck by the many ways this metaphorical explanation approximates the whimsical adventure of redacting Rosslyn. I’ve turned often enough to my own compost and gardening metaphors to obliquely and insufficiently describe my own process. I’m essaying — albeit in unpredictable fits and starts — to distill our wonder-filled fifteen year affair with Rosslyn into the sort of package that might be handed on to others.
What in the world do I mean?
Good question. And if the answer were as good, as tidy and clear, I’d have wrapped up and ventured on to a new quest long ago. I haven’t. Not yet.
However I am feeling closer to clarity, closer to a tidy conclusion in recent years. Even recent months.
There’s much to unpack here (to borrow a euphemism from contemporary talking heads), and I’m doubling down on my resolve to package Rosslyn and pass her on. The property. The experience. The story.
It’s premature to say more now, but know that Susan and I have begun to wonder and daydream about a future in which Rosslyn has been fully fledged. It’s complicated. It’s bittersweet. And it’s still premature.
We’re not quite ready to say goodbye to her yet, far from it actually, so our leave-taking is not imminent. But it’s out there on the horizon, and together we’re brainstorming and beginning the process of letting go, of passing her on. Some day. Concurrently I’m revisiting the images and notes and sketches and letters and poems, allowing them to ferment and hopefully made a decent wine from a decade and a half of life and memories and artifacts.
Before my words wander too far afield, I will close this wayward reflection with my mulberry backstory.
A long, long time ago, at least four decades, maybe more, I first tasted mulberries at an auction. It was midsummer, just like now, and my family was attending an outdoor auction on an old farm that might or might not have been abandoned at the time. I don’t recall for certain, but I suspect the property had been vacant for a while.
I actually don’t remember much about the day except that I came across a grade school classmate who lived in the town nearby. She introduced me to mulberries.
A towering tree stood at the gabled end of an ancient barn, and the ground beneath was covered with fallen fruit. In short order we’d climbed up into the branches to feast on ripe mulberries. We spent the rest of the afternoon high in the mulberry tree savoring (to the point of achy stomachs) the jammy black mulberry deliciousness. With the auctioneer’s singsong soundtrack and enough mulberries to bloat our bellies and stain our clothes, the hours melted deliciously into the sort of nostalgic motherlode that still brings me contentment in midlife.
My decision to plant mulberry trees at Rosslyn half a lifetime later was rooted in that sweet syrupy memory.
When looking inside and searching within, wondering inward, wandering wayward, try to remember the power of pause. Dwell for a moment or maybe a day in the interval between familiar and mysterious, the interstices potently perfumed, possibilities pollinating, fierce fecundity flowering, fruiting.
— Geo Davis
The Power of Pause?
This small poem might not be complete. Close. But possibly still evolving. Likely.
Born of the lily macro, a habitual perspective for me. Intimacy. And unlikely angles. A fascination with the familiar unfamiliar. And the proximity between the known and the unknown. The exotic, unanticipated, irregular right in front of us. Even within us. The relationship between native and exotic. The gap. Distance. Time.
What if we more comfortably stalled in these interstices? If we opted to dawdle in the discomfort of risk, of uncertainty, of transition long enough to grow slightly more comfortable? And if investing ourselves in the pause, yielding trustingly, patiently, curiously might actually enrich us? Might fortify fruiting?
Seven Apples, an apple still life, August 10, 2022 (Source: Geo Davis)
Sometime seven apples, five ripe edibles and two depicted in watercolor, are perfection. Rosslyn’s curious combination of real fruit and facsimiles (the latter painted by a dear friend, Amy Guglielmo, nearly two decades ago) are subtly playful. A self reflective still life, if you will. A juxtaposition of food and art.
I’ll admit that a decent dose of sentimentality pulls me here. A delicate illustration conjured by a close companion of many years. And plump apples tempting. Granite agonized over, tiles attentively paired by my bride and me, installed by Elaine Miller in the August days of Rosslyn’s lengthy rehabilitation,…
But there’s another poignancy as well, and it’s rooted in the illustrative rendering, liquid pigments now dried onto, into paper. A photograph of a painting of apples. Next to real apples. A verisimilitude vignette. As I endeavor to untangle my Rosslyn narrative from our Rosslyn narrative; to distill my poems and stories and essays and homemade images from the property itself (and her many artifacts); indeed to separate myself, ourselves from the ecosystem that has been our home and our life for so long; there is something in this vignette that resonates deep within me despite the fact that I still can’t quite define it. Perhaps clarity will accrue in the coming months as I reexamine the memories and relics of our sixteen years at Rosslyn. Partly a poetics of place, perhaps. But what else? Why?
Sometimes — this time, for example — it’s worth relearning old lessons. Or reaffirming old lessons that are still relevant. And while a rotten tree trunk might, at first, seem an unlikely teacher, let’s postpone a moment our dismissal.
Hollow Tree Haiku
Attractive, healthy exteriors may belie spoiled interiors.
This past year or two has been an opportunity for much learning, and much relearning. Often enough I realize that lessons learned in one domain actually apply in another, often dissimilar, domain. A lesson learned while orcharding or vegetable gardening helps demystify a supply chain snafu. Or a carpentry workaround illuminates a contractor challenge.
And a tree trunk hollowed out by rot and opportunistic critters may offer not only a tidy haiku, but also an opportunity to reimagine form and function. Even beauty. What new destiny awaits this carcass of a tree?
[Sincere thanks to RP Murphy for documenting this handsome husk.]
We returned home from a heat-indexed 102° Essex Day for a languid lunch — quiche and garden-to-table Caprese salad (with aromatic purple basil) followed by watermelon — under the shady American Linden.
Lunch under the Linden (Source: Susan Bacot-Davis)
A subtle breeze freshened just enough to wick the perspiration from our necks, and for a moment, it was perfection. Sated. Shaded. Contemplating watersports…
Suddenly mobile phones interrupted the postprandial lethargy with rain warnings. On cue, the sky darkened. The scorching heat dipped a few degrees. We hastened to clear lunch, and just in time because now… It. Is. Pouring!
Essex Day deluge (Source: Geo Davis)
Retreating indoors to wait out the shower, my mind somersaults into Essex Days past, to the witty words of my late friend and longtime Crater Club summer resident, Jeff Moredock. Almost a decade prior he re-dubbed the longtime summer street festival from which we’ve just returned, “Excess Day”. And for me it will remain such forevermore.
Excess Day
Excess in the Village of Essex
On the eve of Excess Day Husbands and wives Can be heard Bickering back and forth Trying to determine whose excess Must leave the house
Husbands cling to old rods and reels Wives insist they need their curling irons Small children hide balls and dolls They haven’t played with in years Dogs hide their worn-out chew toys
But when dawn breaks on Excess Day The sidewalks are lined with the Detritus of daily life Fishing reels curling irons balls And dolls and much much more
The crowds sweep down the street In search of bargains treasures or Just something they don’t have And don’t need or so say Husbands to wives And wives to husbands
By mid-day prices begin to drop As the crowds begin to thin Books bird houses bar stools Pottery paintings and more Fly off the sidewalks and Before long the day is ended
One family’s excess is now another Family’s excess and sure to be seen Next year on the Other side of the street
Icehouse Haiku or Sketchy Brainstorm?!?! A once pondered (and discarded) concept for lifting the icehouse… (Source: Geo Davis)
Recent months have been busy with rebuilding and advancing plans for further rebuilding. Soon I’ll share an update on our summer 2022 deck rebuild, and I promise that it’ll be worth the wait. Until then, I’ll tease out another potential rebuild on the horizon. But first, by way of introduction, I offer you an icehouse haiku.
Icehouse Haiku
Once sanctuary
for winter ice in summer,
so insulated.
Sometimes a morsel is all we need. And for some of you this may be plenty. A glimpse into my recent ruminations on Rosslyn’s historic icehouse.
If a poem is way of repurposing an experience, a subject, an idea, then drifting into recent evolution of our icehouse vision via an icehouse haiku seems appropriate. We are, after all, returning to the many times delayed and postponed notion of completing the icehouse rehabilitation initiated back in 2006 and 2007. By the end of this week we may — fingers crossed — be able to offer an exciting update. For now a few brief sketches will suffice, minimalist asides underpinning the idea of repurposing this circa 1889 utility building in a way that is relevant and useful to us today.
Intrinsic to the Icehouse Haiku
Underlying the ultra compact words of the icehouse haiku above (and the composited photo and sketch above) are sixteen years of brainstorming and iterating (and repeatedly postponing) plans for rehabilitating the icehouse.
Rehabilitation fails with no sustainable plan for use. — Stef Noble (Source: Demolition Dedux)
Our earliest plans for revitalizing Rosslyn rested on this idea that use, usability, contemporary relevance is fundamental to successful historic rehabilitation. Sensitive, responsible, historically and architecturally accurate, yes. But most important, the building must have a functional reason to endure.
More on this anon, but for now a few glimpses backward in time…
My earliest inkling about icehouse-ness hearkens back about four and a half decades to Homeport, the Wadhams, New York property that my parents restored when I was young. Although already removed prior to my parents’ purchase of Homeport in the mid/late 1970s, I grew up aware that there had been an icehouse just beyond the “sunporch”, my parents’ summer bedroom. The idea fascinated me. A house full of ice. My youthful imagination conjured up all sorts of fanciful possibilities that history fated to exist in my imagination only.
Before tripping further down memory lane, let’s get onto an equal footing with respect to icehouses in general. What exactly were they?
An ice house, or icehouse, is a building used to store ice throughout the year, commonly used prior to the invention of the refrigerator…
During the winter, ice and snow would be cut from lakes or rivers, taken into the ice house, and packed with insulation (often straw or sawdust). It would remain frozen for many months, often until the following winter, and could be used as a source of ice during the summer months. The main application of the ice was the storage of foods, but it could also be used simply to cool drinks… (Source: Wikipedia)
Ingenious!
Ever since my Homeport days I’ve been intrigued by life in the era of icehouses. And so inheriting one when we purchased Rosslyn was a particular pleasure. All the more so when I came across Sally Lesh’s personal recollection of the icehouse at Rosslyn (aka Hyde Gate).
Directly across the road, ice was cut every winter from the frozen lake surface. All these years later, I can picture the huge square hole full of dark water where the big blocks of ice had been cut by men using long saws. Each block was then hauled out. I have no idea how the block of ice was carried up the steep rocky bank and across the road, up the sloping driveway past the house, past the big barn that houses the carriage and the car, and finally to the icehouse, where it was buried in sawdust. We had iceboxes then, no refrigerators. The ice was broken into square chunks that fit neatly into the tin-lined top compartment of the icebox. I do clearly recall picking tiny bits of sawdust out of my summertime lemonade throughout my childhood. — Sally Lesh, All My Houses: a Memoir (Source: Sally Lesh & the story of Hyde Gate | Rosslyn Redux)
Sawdust in lemonade seems a small price to pay for frosty beverages and safely preserved perishables long before refrigeration came to Essex. I imagine that somewhere, some day, I’ll come across some historic photographs documenting this very practice Lesh brings to life, but until then I’ll dwell in my imagination.
As a final sketch before wrapping up this icehouse haiku rumination, let’s revisit these words from an older post.
The inspector opined that the boathouse and icehouse were probably unrecoverable. Use them while we could or demolish and replace them. There were other eleventh hour surprises that jeopardized the sale too, but demolition as a recommendation was unnerving. Rosslyn’s boathouse was precisely what I’d fallen for. Tear it down? No chance. And the icehouse promised to be the perfect office/studio/playhouse. Think desk, easel, pool table, bar! (Source: Demolition: Rosslyn Dedux)
Okay, it’s long past the point that I should have abbreviated this runaway reflection. Go figure, I started with a microscopic poem, but then the words just came tumbling out. Sorry!
Recent nights are feeling more September than August, and even some of the days. Dry heat (trending cooler) during the daytime, and crisp-to-chilly at night. This bodes well for apples, pears, grapes,… And so my mind is in the orchard.
Orchard Harvests (Source: Geo Davis)
Holistic orcharding has forged a gradual, intimate familiarity with my trees and with their habits. Harvest time offers confirmation and encouragement, but also occasional frustration and puzzlement. A bountiful harvest. A meager harvest. Coloration. Flavor. Texture. Orcharding and gardening hone appreciation for seasonality, serving is delightful reminders to remain humble and grateful, but also to aspire and stretch and explore. I am struck by the fact that no to harvest are identical. We cannot map one growing season onto another without blurring the picture.
Orchard Harvests Haiku
Orcharding seasons overlaid year upon year, harvests offset, fugue. — Geo Davis
I occasionally question my choice of Redacting Rosslyn as the catchall category for the nearly decade-and-a-half process of documenting Rosslyn’s rehab ad infinitum or — more precisely — of telling the story (distilling the spirit from the collage of details, filtering out acerbic and delicate dregs, blending the best into a balanced and cohesive whole.) Aspiring toward a collection of converging vignettes, I nevertheless succumb to segues and siren songs, wondering and wandering wayward. Again. And again.
If only I could harness the haiku’s seductive simplicity…
Converging Vignettes Haiku
Looking through layers entangled textures, voices, converging vignettes. — Geo Davis
UnHaiku & Long-form
But wrangling a love affair with a home (and the layers of living that have accrued over sixteen years of Rosslyn homing) is less haiku than kaleidoscopic collage. Or mirage!
And while I often turn to haiku (or poetry in general) to capture what more prolix prose muddle or obscure, long-form is invariably useful to transform life into words. Fortunately it’s usually just a preliminary step, a zero draft or rough draft, that will condense and streamline through editing and revising. After all, sometimes unhaiku can amplify and dilate and reveal what a haiku can surreptitiously obscure. And long-form as a process can prime the proverbial pump, facilitate insights, expose patterns and possibilities that might have slipped past undiscerned in the lived moment.
Over the last few months that I’ve been re-immersing myself in years of Rosslyn ramblings, photographs, notes, and miscellaneous artifacts, converging vignettes have begun to reveal themselves. Are they mirages? Perhaps, but they’re familiar mirages rooted in memory. There’s a clarity to their contours. Perhaps the passage of time (and repetition of patterns) underpin discernment. I’m not sure. But I’m relieved and grateful that so far revisiting the past and overlaying the present is rendering… something. It’s premature to define it, label it, confine it, or restrict it. But there’s a profoundly exciting coalescence happening.
So where does this leave me/us?
Convergence
In an effort to continue catalyzing this convergence, I’m concurrently diving in and stepping back. Immersion and withdrawal. Total intimacy and distance. If convergence requires the merging of distinct entities and the progressive movement toward union, then I will commit to this process. I will deep dive into the tangled textures, the reverberating voices, the layers upon layers of life. But I will concurrently discipline myself to exercise some distance. Filtering and discarding. Disentangling and simplifying.
And I will revisit Ways of Seeing after many years in the hopes of better articulating what the heck I’m talking around!
