What just has to go?

Today was a big day. And, an unexpected day.

I love to garden. I like the sensation of having my hands in the dirt. I enjoy pruning and replanting.  Today my "gardening" consisted of an unexpectedly satisfying task - sycamore leaf removal.

I live under a huge sycamore tree.  Thriving in the wilderness of Brandeis, this tree is formidable, despite the continual pruning we do and the occasional branch break due to high winds and rain.  It is  glorious and makes excellent shade come summer time, but it drops massive amounts of leaves. Huge leaves. Everywhere. All year long. The endless summer of southern California means endless leaf fall.   And, being the less-than-diligent yard worker that I am (I said I loved gardening, not that I did it often), these leaves get wind swept into every crevice and corner of the garden around my house. 

The leaves don't just sit on the ground, they manage to embed themselves in the other plants in such a way that you can only remove them by hand.

So, while having my morning cup of tea. I for some reason decided today was the day. I swigged the last of my tea and got to work.  Sweeping up leaves, pulling them out of the crevices, unloosing them from the grip of the jasmine vines.  Leaves leaves leaves.

And, what I noticed was that my garden is quite nice.  There are some sweet plants that are very charming, even a few volunteers that were blossoming in the spring weather.  I discovered that I had a nice garden all along, I just needed to unmask it.  The leaves were suffocating the beauty that always existed underneath. 

The metaphor slapped by in the face.  The idea that we have all that we need right here in front of us, and yet we can't always see it because it is being muddled up with the excess surrounding it.  I am in a place where I don't need to plant more, I need to care for what I have, nurture what is already growing and give it the time, attention and space it needs to blossom.  

As I raked the ground and pulled out the lodged leaves, I found beauty all around me. 

There was such satisfaction in this process that my one hour stint turned into three glorious hours of unveiling the potential around me.  And, with each sycamore leaf the reality of this process became more and more profound as a metaphor in all aspects of my life.

This was confirmed later in a discussion I was having with two students about their choreography.  I asked them what have you put in your piece that is diluting the power and beauty in your choreographic vision?  What movements are just sycamore leaves clogging up the garden and disrupting the beauty that is already there? 

I knew it before, but now I feel the gravity of this idea in my core. I now want to go back and ask the same question of each and every one of my previous dance pieces.  But, the most profound effect might be in my everyday life.

       How am I cluttering up my vision?
       What is diluting my essence?
       What is added on in such a way that it is covering up the beauty/core/root of what I want?
       How are things suffocating me and keeping me from being my clearest self?
       What just has to go?

Simple and clear.  Keeping what is vital and growing.  Discarding the excess, the weight of last season's commitments.  I am at a place right now where I am redefining what is enough and how I know I have enough/am enough.  In the case of my garden, I had life at my finger tips, but I just couldn't appreciate it with it being visually swallowed up by dry, dead leaves.  I am ready to take the time I need to give to the things that are already growing in my life. The things that are beautiful but can be easily forgotten when piled high with the excess surrounding me.

It may not be an easy process. It might be as tedious as picking the leaves up by hand. But, I can see now that this is the next step for me.  Clearing out.

Revealing lush beauty all around me.

Another Garden Poem. . .

First Garden

Visions of orange, red and purple roots
lying just under the surface
green sprigs jumps at my ankles as I walk
along the rows
and my feet sink into the soft soil
soft calluses swaddled with each step

Hot days leave my gardenia drooping
but my sunflowers keep smiling
afternoon sun no match for their joy of summer
drinking up every last sip of sunlight
before the fiery sphere slips behind the mountain
yellow petals nod in approval of the breeze

The pear trees are still young
no blossoms this year
perhaps next year will surprise us with soft white blossoms
the closest thing to snow as they fall lightly
on the southern California ground
for now, the green leaves themselves
are a blessing to be enjoyed
filled with promise for future harvests

The marigolds came free in the mail
one plant a lone survivor from the pack
vibrant yellow, orange balls like ornaments
small suns hanging on the leaves in cheerful celebration
grown from seed
predictable miracles proving the debate for both sides

The cucumbers were an unexpected success
a shaky start and a mid-season fallen tree branch
pruney, spikey, dark green
sweet white insides make for perfect sandwiches
add avocado, sprouts and nutty bread
I think there's still another on the vine
for tomorrow's eating
 to taste summer again in each bite

In Over My Head. Again.

I agree to things before I realize exactly what that means.  I throw caution to the wind an say yes regardless if I am either:

a) am capable
or
b) have the time

It is my modus operandi really.  It seems to be what makes me tick (and go crazy all at the same time).  So, while I am prepping for 3 presentations I will be giving at the next NDEO conference (National Dance Educators Organization), producing a dance concert, choreographing 3 pieces on my students, planning a special halloween tap dance performance for my Tap I class, and finishing a 52 minute dance piece for my company. . . .

(inhale)

I have also agreed to go on a poetry tour.

Let me remind you that I am not really a poet. Sure I call myself a poetess. But that is more of a dream identity that an actual one.  I write poetry because I know nothing about it, how to do it, history of it nor whether I am making a complete ass of myself. Basically, I do it because I can write really bad poems and have no real-life repercussions.  It is just fun.

Well. Until now.

Now, I am obligated.  I am actually going to have to write something that I will then memorize and perform in front of unsuspecting audiences in the Bay Area next May.  I hope they aren't paying. But I am getting ahead of myself.

What plague me currently is a project we poets are organizing to raise funds for the trip.  A Poet/Pinup Calendar.   Yes, you read right! We poets from the ages of roughly 20 to about 70 will be dressing up for your pleasure (and belly laughter) in a brand-spanking-new 2012 calendar.  Oh, yeah.

Alas, our theme is fantastic: S/heroes and Villians.

I have decided to be a Garden S/hero. Mostly because I like dressing in gingham and like getting dirty.  None of this troubles me. I can put on fake eyelashes and hold a bunch of carrots, no problem. The hitch comes in that I have to write a garden poem to go along with my Garden Hero character.  And, I have yet to even try. 

So, I hereby dedicate myself to writing at least one garden poem a day and posting it here for your reading pleasure (and daily laughter medicine -- because it may be funny or more likely so bad you will have to laugh out of pity).  I promise they will be terrible, perhaps ridiculous, funny if I'm lucky, irrational and only maybe good. Read because it will make you feel good about yourself and your own art. Let me be your sacrificial lamb to the creative gods. I don't mind, really.

The poem needs to be done by Halloween.  So, I had better get crackin'.

Garden Poem #1

Bugs
Again
They seem to be of a different variety
Not quite the usual white aphids or black beetles
Brown spiders of Black widows
I like the tarantulas I see every once in a while.
Crawling.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Creeping in
Nesting under leaves in invisible webs of confusion
The garden soil gives them all the nutrients they need
Fertile, dark, moist and healthy
They feed on whatever crosses their paths
But I never see them swallow
They grow and multiply whether I ignore them
or expose their bellies to the sun.
It doesn't make sense
Sensing time pass
They are blue
But blue sometimes feel closer to black
Patterns obscured by morning moods and recently upturned soil
Deep blue.
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
This bug,
Bugging me
On days
Making days I don't want
Days that make my Hydrangeas wilt and my zucchini leaves turn yellow
I take my spade and fight them off
Falling through the finger of my rake
Not to be captured
Not to be tamed
I feed my plants with extra Nitrogen
but even the lavender grows crisp and brittle from their bites
Blue bug
Deep blue and shiny
Hiding in shadows
Mocking me on my sunny sidewalk.
I throw down the shovel
I dedicate tomorrow to stamping you out.
But today
is blue.

(Didn't expect it to take that turn. Did I mention I just write poems without editing them? Well, I do. I just let them flow. So, this is what you got for now.  But. . . at least the poem is done for the day.)