Be Gentle, My Love


 

June 12, 2025, 9:40 a.m.
A dark, dark morning with torrential rain and intense wind. I pull back the curtain and lay in bed and watch the tall white pines sway back and forth. A sudden flash of light and moments later a low rumble. Thunder. I love a good thunderstorm, especially while in bed. This storm is unexpected and I have a sudden realization that the kettle is empty. A thunder storm in this neck of the woods usually means a power outage. The grid is very fragile here. Our water supply is run by a deep well water pump and no power means no water. I get up and quickly head to the kitchen, fill the kettle and the washing up basin, just to be safe.

Rhubarb stands by the kitchen door but refuses to go outside for her morning pee. She is a magnificent swimmer in the lakes and the rivers but the rain frightens her. A clap of thunder and she runs back to the safety of the couch. She sits up straight, wide-eyed. I sit next to her. It's OK, my love, you're safe. I'm here. Sssshhh. She settles in, nose to tail. I switch on a light, make some coffee and sit back in my chair to listen.

More deep, melancholic rumbles, one after another, after another. Frank still sleeps. I peek into the mudroom and he is cocooned under the duvet, oblivious to the storm. I smile. The rise and fall of his breath comforts me. He becomes softer, gentler, smaller with each passing week. It's almost as if his ego dispels and what is left is the true essence of what makes us human. Love, pure divine love. Tears come easily for him now with no apologies. We sit together with whatever comes his way. But for now he sleeps and the storm passes and the day begins.

June 13, 2025, 8:20 a.m.
Finally! A sunrise without rain! Just clear, cobalt blue skies, bird song from the resident Northern Parula and the ever present chickadees and crows. Yesterday, I saw a pair of mourning doves on the bird feeder, their plumage toffee-soft, majestic when in flight but so humble and quiet when perched on the old apple tree stump. They are breathtakingly beautiful.

Frank is sparky this morning and it makes my heart sing. We have coffee together and he tells me stories of his travels to Mexico, to China, the desert in Arizona. I've heard them all before but I listen attentively and smile, grateful for his engagement, his dancing eyes and robust laugh. He was a wild man in his youth and he loves to speak about it. He tells more stories of racing stock cars, his work as a machinist, as a business owner, raising children, losing his son, almost losing his mind. He was physical, virile, opinionated, resilient, gritty. Had we met in our younger years, it would have been a fiery, tempestuous relationship, with hot-headed opinions and stubborn arguments. We laugh when we speak of this and  wonder aloud whether we would have liked each other. The years have mellowed us.

Frank decides to go back to bed for another half hour so I write out my list of things to do. I must cover the red currants in the next day or two or the cedar waxwings will demolish them. There is weeding to be done and more mulch to be laid. But I decide to do only an hour a day in the garden, instead of my full-on, work-until-I'm-exhausted maneuver. My recent neck injury has convinced me to be more intentional, more wholehearted in my work. It is an on-going challenge because my deeply ingrained Scottish work ethic tells me that if I don't work hard then it's not really work; that I have to earn my rest through hard work. I still catch myself ripping and tearing out weeds by the handful, as if there is not enough time to get it all done. So I stop. One at a time, I say softly. One at a time. No need to rush. No need to work until the body hurts. Be gentle, my love. So I listen to this wisdom. And I slow down. There, that's better. Just take it all in. The feel of the plant in my hand. The amount of pressure that's needed to pull it up from its place of attachment. The smell of the earth as the roots are exposed. There's no rush. There is only this moment in time. And that is good enough.




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