verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Weight of a Stone

I walked along the trail today with Mercy.  The sky was sweet and pale, and hawks were overhead.  Cat tails were bent and broken, their bulky tails bloated and puffy, finished for the season.  The mild temperature contradicted the aftermath of broken trees and sticks and spilled leaves, leftovers of a harsh and heavy fall.  Mercy was in her own world, sniffing every single little thing, happy, eager, silly.  Oblivious and reliable.

As we wandered down the road, my eyes fixed on their usual spot on the verge. I'm taken by the helter-skelter nature of things I find there.  Weeds, wild flowers, rocks, clumps of mud and dirt, a wrapper, a bicycle reflector, a piece of an old yard sale sign, puddles, leaves, a worn glove, logs, and stones--all atop an undeterred road.  The occupation of chaos. I was drawn to the many stones along the way and just one I dropped in my pocket, a token of this day.  I felt the solid weight of reassurance as I mulled it over in my fingers.  For me, it offered proof of simple joys and discoveries.

Tomorrow begins a new week, undeterred by uncertainty or anticipation.  Winter is close by and will soon cover us in a blanket of snow, burying the fall, covering our wounds, and wrapping us in the certainty of its weight.   I look forward to the coming days and this change of seasons. With your stone in my pocket, I am reminded it's worth its wait.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Making the Most of That Effing Hour

Die-Hards: Mark and Sara Bunyan

So, here's how we spent our extra hour today.

While I was out in Amherst with Meredith, Mercy threw up and projectile-pooped from one end of the house to the other.  I blame it on the tree in the back yard that came down in the effing storm last weekend (yes, effing).  The tree was a beautiful Callery Pear tree--perfectly shaped and gloriously covered with little white flowers in the spring, and apparently highly toxic to dogs when its branches are strewn about the ground and within tasting range of curious canines.

After I scoured the house, myself, and then gave Mercy a bath, my parents blazed their way from  Connecticut and tackled the tree, the little toxic pears, and the bizillions of branches on the ground.  And listen to me on this--you really, really can't appreciate the true size of a tree until it's all in pieces on the ground.

In addition to tackling the tree, Mom stepped in a big glob of dog poop, Dad's chainsaw gave out, lunch was prepared and served, and we stacked a half-cord of seasoned wood from last year's pile. Mercy seems all better.  According to my calculations, Mom and Dad should be arriving back home in Connecticut right about now.

And speaking of poop, I'm pooped.  I'm sure Mom and Dad are too. I'm so grateful for their help.  They  still always save the effing day hour.