Seed Dropping Season
Plus mending meetups resume!
Welcome to Clouds Form Over Land, writing about resilience, imperfectionism, and our relationship to the earth.
Three trees live in the rectangle we rent in Richmond — crepe myrtle, black walnut, and sweet gum.
The myrtle has peeling bark, creating a natural mulch on the ground below. When we moved in, it held pink flowers that danced outside our bedroom window. Today it has little seed pods, shaking off in the wind. The walnut has been dropping lime green pods, about the size of tennis balls. The outer layers rot away to reveal the familiar walnut shape. Scott and the squirrels collect them for nocino and nourishment respectively. I have plans to dye some wool and fabric with the walnut’s outer husk. The sweet gum is dropping spikey pods, about the size of a ping pong ball. These make us think twice about walking barefoot, after two years of nearly no shoes.
Our time at sea altered and heightened our curiosity about our surroundings.
When we landed in Florida, I suspected that the world around us might feel less lively than it did in Central America, where less of the land is developed for human convenience. I was delighted to see how much life was dancing at the edges — dolphins, iguanas, jellyfish, birds of all sizes. My skill for sighting was strengthened by snorkeling, jungle walking, and horizon staring, and there is often a little critter somewhere in my 360-degree view, especially if I slow down and zoom in. Skinks, spiders, cicadas, squirrels.
We’ve foraged goldenrod, prickly pear cactus, muscadines, walnuts, pawpaws, thyme, lavender, rosemary, sage, and firewood since arriving. We sourced a chair, two tables, curtain rods, envelopes, and patio furniture from the curbs of neighbors, harvesting the city in a sense. We saw a large owl swoop over our street while waiting on the porch for an incoming storm. Ample air conditioning distanced us from our surroundings in the hot summer, while also allowing us to take a whole body sigh of relief.
Working on house projects feels familiar within a schedule that is decidedly alien.
We built a shed and several shelves. We have a favorite brand of drywall anchor.
We spent a lot of time at Lowes, together with a singular purpose to bolster our home’s function or fashion, just like we always have. On our way past the garden center, I clock the prices of various plants and struggle to justify a $30 pot of mums. I wandered off while Scott waited on the sheet metal shed kit and I found a three-pound bag of wildflower seeds for $8. No instant gratification, patience pays.
The back of the wildflower packet advised scattering the seeds in the fall, as that is when the flowers themselves drop seed. The bag says that spring is fine too, but I suspect the cold incubation of winter helps the flowers along somehow. Starting early and slowly, with no expectation of results. I read an article that suggested the second frost as the ideal time for planting. Tonight the temperature is forecasted to drop to 39, the first time I’ve seen a reading in the thirties in a long while.
I thought that I would be somewhat unflappable upon moving ashore. All of the nights on watch with the lonely ocean and expansive sky forced me to face myself and find a way forward. The mechanical and logistical failures stretched our problem-solving skills and unlocked our creative potential and tenacity to keep asking, “OK, that didn’t work but what if we try this?”. The beauty and wildness of the ocean, jungle, desert, and reef walloped us with wonder whenever we had the capacity to take it in. The extreme physical sensations and seasickness of some passages tapped a strength I had only hoped existed within me. And yet, these past few months may be some of my hardest to date. Despite the relative safety and stability of my new surroundings, I’ve been struggling. And then I’m second-guessing the validity of that struggle because of all of the legs up I’ve had in life. Because I got to do any of this at all, and also because it is over.
The wildflower seeds and the tree nuts are showing me how to shift into a new season. I have been blooming for a long time — on the move, ceasing the day, etc.
I strive to get somewhere and then strive to get to the next somewhere.
The schedule fills up past the point of enjoyment, and tasks have a way of drifting from priorities, with core relationships taking the backseat to minutia.
After two years in the sun, I’m ready to tuck in for a while, ready to drop some seeds and see which ones take come spring. I’m ready to let a few things go, to make room for whatever grows next, later. I’m ready for some of this skillful striving to benefit others outside myself, and I’m also ready to be a little softer.
Reading: Ducks by Kate Beaton with
and The Hunter-Gatherers Guide to the 21st Century by Heather Heying and Bret Weinstein.Making: Sauerkraut, apple crumble, and a knit cardigan.
Mending meetups return, this time monthly.
Last year, I started an experiment called MENDING MONDAY. A handful of us met up on Zoom to tend to our material worlds and eek a little more life out of our objects.
After a summer on pause, we’re picking it back up on Tuesday, October 24, 8 p.m. Eastern. Reply here to receive the invite link.
Any big change is an adjustment, and you're going through a big one now. Moving is considered one of the most stressful things we can do, and yours adds the dimension of moving from sea to land. Give yourself time; you will adjust.
Hello Ashley
Let me know if I can help with your journey on land. Thank you for sharing
Caryl Quinn