Dragonfly on the Clothesline

Part of my summer morning routine, along with watering the lawn and garden, is to hang out at least one load of laundry before I go to work.  I like to think I'm at least doing my part for the earth . . . or at least, that hanging out these loads somewhat offsets the other damages I do with my large family.  This morning, as I reach up to hang another pair of jeans,  a dragonfly lands on the line.  Events like this deserve mention:  we live far enough from the creek to not often see dragonflies, and it was still early morning, not yet the heat of the day.  Nonetheless, there it was . . making me smile and remember.

Years ago, when Maria was not yet one year old, I attended a writing retreat at the South Dakota ranch home of my friend and mentor, Linda.  While I was there, I stayed in a small, cheery room named the "Dragonfly."  Linda, ever passionate about the prairie surrounding her ranch/retreat, had named each room for a creature of the earth surrounding us.  As I left the retreat, changed in my view of myself and my writing in ways that live with me still, I decided that a dragonfly would become my personal totem.

The Native Americans who lived on this high prairie, both where Linda's retreat home lies, and where our ranch stands, would understand about totems.  A totem was, and is, a personal symbol of a higher life.  A young man with a bear totem would be reminded to be courageous and strong . . . both qualities a bear might represent.  A young woman with a lioness as totem would try to live her life with both the extreme tenderness and the protective ferocity of that animal.

My totem, however, doesn't work in the traditional way.  I don't know that dragonflies necessarily possess any qualities I want to emulate.  Instead, seeing a dragonfly reminds me not to let my dream of writing and publishing become buried under the daily-ness of life.   Seeing a dragonfly, for me, is the Universe's push to get back to the desk, to the computer, back to myself and my thoughts, and to spend time trying to capture them on the page. Seeing a dragonfly tells me that the woman who attended that writing retreat, who took time out of a busy life even back then to write and talk and read, still lives inside me.

This morning started off like any other Monday morning:  I was up and doing  before I was fully awake, trying to cram too many things into too few hours.  But summer only lasts a few short months, and dragonflies only happen to land on the clothesline on rare occasions.  The ideas in my head buzz in and out like an elusive insect, beautiful and sparkling, but gone in a breath's time.  I can only hope that they keep landing in my life.

Blooming

This morning I weeded the lily bed near the back door of my ranch house.  Somehow, the bluegrass, dandelions, and thistles that compete with the daylilies and irises in this bed hold on to the soil more tenaciously, gripping with long, tough roots that often end up breaking off instead of pulling out. This means I revisit this bed, and probably pull the same weeds, several times during the summer.  We dug this bed the first year we moved here, not having lived through a full cycle of seasons to observe the vegetation patterns.  Now we know that there are spots in this ranch yard, particularly near the house, where the amount of bentonite in the soil hardens the ground so much that roots are practically glued in.  Conversely, the compaction of the soil slows and limits the growth of any plant, weed or flower.

So, as I weed, I feel sorry for the lilies and irises there.  Despite being in this ground four years, the daylilies have yet to reach a mature size for their species.  The irises, transplanted from a deserted homestead on the north end of the ranch, have done better, but still have not spread and filled the bed as I'd hoped.  This isn't good ground for these plants; their natural affinities incline to more arable, rich soil.

As I weed, I notice my seven-year-old, Emily, has gone into the house and returned in jeans, with a crumpled up old cowboy hat on her head and stick horse between her legs.  With a whoop, she gallops around the old ranch house, circling her imaginary herd with joy.  Last week, she asked every day if she could ride Ginger, the Welsh-Quarter Horse pony that the kids share.  Every day, there was a reason why she couldn't:  I was at work, her dad was in the field, there was bad weather or older sisters' activities that kept the family too busy.  She hasn't asked today, and seems content with her pretend play.  My natural inclination is to continue to pull weeds, and keep on working on the laundry, yard work and housework that I had planned for my day off. 

I'm not a cowgirl; in many ways, life on this ranch challenges me the same way that clay soil challenges my plants.  Particularly in the summer, when the kids are home and the outside work begins, the multiple jobs that compete for my attention drain my energy, leaving me feeling like I, too, have yellow leaves from not enough nutrients.  I am not naturally talented with animals the way my husband and some of my children are; working in the barn, corral or pasture stretches my limits and forces me to grow in ground that is not my natural environment.  Working in a classroom, library, garden or kitchen comes more naturally and successfully to me. 

And yet, Emily hardly ever asks much of me.  More than many of my children, she is a natural helper, bending over now to pick up spilled clothespins as she and her horse circle by the clothesline.  So, I leave the lily bed three-quarters weeded, ask Carmen's help in catching and saddling Ginger, and spend the rest of my morning in the round pen.   Of course, I can't expect Cody and Katie to let Emily ride alone, so I have two ponies in the round pen, and three young children taking turns on them. 

As I watch, help and offer instructions, I surprise myself with what I know.  Cody struggles with the pony he is riding, and when Shawn comes in from the field and offers advice, I'm gratified to hear that his suggestions are the same as mine have been.  Katie needs to work on her balance on a horse, and I remember many of the exercises Shawn and I put our older daughters through when they were learning to ride.  And Emily, whose confidence has been shaky, rides Ginger at a trot around and around the pen, the same way I rode my pony, Misty, when I was her age, looking so pleased and proud of herself that I cannot possibly regret leaving my other work undone.  I'm not a cowgirl, and will never flourish as naturally on this ranch as another, different type of woman might; but, I've still grown here and our lifestyle enriches me in ways I could not have planned.

I return to the yard just before lunch, and gather up the jacket and water bottle I've left lying by the flower bed.  As I bend down, my eye catches a fat swelling at the base of one of the daylilies.  It's the beginning of a bloom, a first for this particular plant.  This isn't good soil for this flower, andyet, despite struggles for space, nutrition and water, it is blooming.  Sometimes, good just takes a while to grow.