By the end of the Spring semester, I made a contract with myself. To write 12 lyrical creative nonfiction essays by July, of varying lengths and random topics. I’m up to seven (7), with two accepted for publication.
I feel like I’ve tapped the right vein. I’m enjoying the freedom to push a lyrical line to breaking point. No wonder Whitman favored this conversational line with its iambic pacing. It has its allure for both writer and reader. After all, it is my ambition to capture my reader’s attention, however briefly, but hopefully long enough to read my work to its end.
Then, life interrupted the rhythm that was setting up here. Our routine turned upside down. Peter landed in the hospital for 5 days with a skin infection that developed out of blue on his right leg. IV antibiotics, bag after bag, until his release. Now it’s a week past. We’ve lost count of days in the hospital, and coming home has been equally difficult because we’re slowly talking about the seriousness of it all. I confess I’m not prepared for such consequences, but they are always there, like gauzy shadows, trailing after us. If we were to consider consequences every day, I doubt we would get out of bed. I guess we really should celebrate our amazing bodies. How they muster courage to fight the unseen battle. We actually face death every day. I get that now. I'm grateful to have Peter back as his cynical self. Hence, I know he’s better.
When we came home, I wrote an essay called “Vigil” to purge the hospital from my thoughts, trying to make sense of all of it.
So since last Thursday, June 5th, I believe, we have been trying to fill in the gap, much like the wound that is healing on his leg. I have been attending his wound care. The surgeon gave me a thumb’s up for my care earlier this week. A relief to hear this approval.
Now that we’re on the mend, we’ve returned to the demands of the farm. Two days ago, I planted two rows of potatoes, and three rows of bean plants (Blue Lakes (green), brown and white(dry beans). The garlic rows look fantastic. I think it’s been 5years since we’ve had a crop like this. The weather has been so rough on our efforts.
Our tractors have been acting up, in all sorts of colicky ways. Tractors are worse than insolent children. You can’t bribe them at all. Peter sorted out their mysterious ails, much to his relief.
We now can cut the grass that has been growing, growing , growing.
Yesterday, we had several hard rainstorms rumble through, starting around 4:30 p.m. and coming on in surges every two hours. It was muggy yesterday. After the rain, the air lightened up as evening came on. The tree frogs were singing harmonies, call and response.
So here I am this morning, thinking about writing . . .