Beltane Waning Flower Moon
There is here the action: taking the hive tool and wrenching loose the propolis, moving the frame, all the while bees buzzing and whirring, digging into the soil, placing the leeks in a shallow trench, the sugar snap peas in their row, inoculant on top of them, around them. The plants move from pot to earth home, their one and true place where they will root, work their miracle with light and air. The dogs run, chase each other. Vega plops herself down in the water, curling herself inside it, displacing the water, getting wet.
There is, too, this other thing, the mating of person and place, the creation of memories, of food, of homes for insects and dogs and grandchildren, for our lives, we two, on this strange, this awesome, this grandeur, life. This happens, this connection, as a light breeze stirs a flower. It happens when a bee stings, or a dog jumps up or leans in, when Kate and I hug after a day of making room for more life here.
In a deep way it is unintended, that is, it happens not because it is willed, but because becoming native to a place is like falling in love, a surprise, a wonder, yet also a relationship that requires nurture, give and take. In a deep way, too, it is intended, that is, we want to grow vegetables, flowers, fruit, have room for our dogs and for our family, for our friends. The intention creates the space, the opening where the unintended occurs.
Sixteen years Kate and I have lived here. A long time for us. Now though, we belong here.