continuing the tomato dreams

The dear little seeds of my tomatoes-to-be have all sprouted, and are enjoying the light of our dining room window.

And, just when I thought I was spending too much time dreaming of tomatoes, I ended up next to someone at a dinner party who graced me with inspiring tomato talk. After his home burned in the Cedar Fire, and his garden was destroyed, he spread some of the old garden soil on his new plot. Volunteer tomatoes sprouted, and have been growing for the past year-and-a-half. He'd just picked some of the fruits that day.

Which is making me both delight in the resilience of seeds, and wonder why I worry so much about taking care of these little seedlings.

In other delightful news, our irises are beginning to unfurl their purple splendor. A bit bold for Lent--but at least they're in liturgically correct colors.

savoring possibility

Today, I'm enjoying the particular dreams I've been harboring about my garden. Four of my six little recycled newspaper starting pots have sprouted, and I can almost taste the tomatoes.

Matt and I have been falling in love with recipes that can been almost entirely made of things that will (hopefully) grow in my garden this summer. I just have to wait...

I'm liking having plants into which I can channel hope and a bit of work. They make me rest on God's grace, 'cause I can't make tomatoes on my own.

sleeping, well...

i wish i could replicate Thursday's nights sleep
because last night,
under the same blankets,
in the same trailer on the same worksite,
with the same person i love,
under the same (slightly enlarged) moonlight,
the wind kept me in wake and worry,
as imagined all sorts of things being lifted and displaced.

everything is more easily borne on wind in my
(not quite) sleeping imagination.

sleeping well

I slept last night
under a pile of blankets:

A quilt of old t-shirt memories,
printed, stenciled, and drawn mementos
stretching back through my life,
stitched together with borders
of Grandma's old chenille
bedspreads, which were torn into pieces
of padding
when we packed her china
that cold Thanksgiving morning
after she died

The down comforter I sent to Iraq,
wrapped in its patchwork
which we trusted would enfold him
in the love of the whole family
(bearing Dad's trail map,
drawings of rebar for the house we've come up here to build,
and Grandpa's handprints)
We'd never gotten to share it before

And a plain green blanket I ended up with,
from who knows where.

When we'd arrived
we were startled to find a much larger
blanket of snow on so much of the ground,
which made us more grateful for our nighttime coverings.

How well we slept:
blanketed by nearly-full moonlight,
under covers of our lives,
up high in the mountains,
where we look forward
to memories to come
and countless full moons together
in this home that we're building.

i'd never make it as an ascetic

I have been hungry for the last 3 days. Not want-to-rip-someone's-head-off hungry, but could-eat-more hungry.

I blame it on this retreat I took: themed around "feasting during the fast," it directed my attention toward all the ways food embodies hospitality, and breaking break knits community together.

The retreat center food was fine--and delightful in that way that it's nice to have full plates of food that someone else cooked, but nothing special in the sense of culinary delight. Our retreat sessions, though, were full of little tastes of truly exquisite things: a variety of rich butters, vine-ripened tomatoes, good cheese, fresh bread. These things made it quite worth wanting to always eat a little bit more.

Matt says it's because we're vegetarians for Lent that we're always hungry.

Whatever the reason, I'm trying to like it: I'm always ready to break bread with anyone who might be willing, and always ready for another exquisite morsel of God's good (edible) creation.