Betwixt and Between

September 14, 2005  7:20 am
Yesterday, I said to my dear friend, T, that I could easily live through a year's worth of late summer and early autumn. The deep, cornflower blue summer sky has watered down to a paler version of itself, with cool, diffused sunlight dancing through chestnut trees. Soft shafts of light brighten my kitchen with slow moving shadows. It has been an unhurried, steady summer for us. Incrementally, Frank grows smaller, slower, his energy dwindles along with his sharp-as-a-tack memory and his high-spirited wit. But his determination remains the same. Fuck this shit!' he sometimes says. I'm not ready to die yet. Well, don't then, you crazy fool!' I answer back. And we laugh and laugh and laugh. And he bravely carries on.

The vegetable garden went to hell this year because of the drought. I speak to other gardeners and we bond over this climate tragedy, relieved in one sense that it's not due to our poor gardening skills. Save for a rather mediocre harvest of misshapen, sweet tomatoes and some lovely stubby Chantenay carrots, the rest of the garden withered under the blazing, relentless heat. The carrots should last well into October. The remaining tomatoes will ripen on the kitchen windowsill and I will taste the remnant warmth of summer in my lunchtime sandwiches for at least another week. Nothing rivals a simple tomato sandwich on homemade sourdough bread.

The dawn is blissfully cool and clear now and I sit outside most mornings with coffee, a blanket, a shawl, and of course, darling Rhubarb at my side. She listens deeply to the forest, never taking her eyes from the pines and oaks and birch trees. She is convinced that if she sits still long enough a deer will appear and allow her to chase it. It is her life's ambition, I am sure of it. Autumn migration has begun. The hummingbirds have left for their long, arduous journey to their Mexican winter home and now it is just me, the crows, the bluejays and the chickadees that greet these misty mornings. Cobwebs are spun between every upward-growing spear of grass and plant, their delicate strands stringing the morning dew into glittering diamond necklaces. We eat lunch outside, dipping our grilled cheese sandwiches into ketchup, and we are glad to still be doing this together.


The night sounds are different too. Gone are the cicadas and the peepers. A few crickets linger, singing only during daylight hours. The pack of coyotes that live up the old mine road begin their round of howls just after 10 pm each night. I hear them from bed and, most often, I get up and sit outside in the dark, wrapped in my shawl, listening to their haunting, primal sounds. It is beautiful, visceral, strangely lyrical and, quite possibly, my all-time favourite sound.

I've been thinking a lot about liminality these days, that beautiful ancient concept of being neither here nor there; the place of transition between one place and another, between waiting and not knowing. September is most certainly a liminal place; it is the time between the heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter. Years ago I read a book by the Franciscan monk, Richard Rohr, and it left an indelible mark on me that I return to over and over again. He writes:

Liminal spaces are where we are betwixt and between the familiar and the unknown. There alone our old world is left behind, while we are not yet sure of the new existence. That is a good space where genuine newness can begin. Get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible. This is the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart and a bigger world revealed. It is in these transitional moments of our lives that authentic transformation can happen.

Living with and caring for this beautiful dying man is most certainly the biggest liminal space I have yet to find myself in. There are times when all I want to do is rush through it, to get to the other side, feel normal again. Other times, I want to step backwards, to the known, to the certainty, to the comfortableness of what was. But I know deep down that all that is required is to stand on this threshold and live fully into it. I am neither coming nor going. I am just here. And that is good.



How I Go To The Woods
By Mary Oliver

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with
not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and 
talkers and therefore
unsuitable.

I don't really want to be witnessed
talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have
my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become
invisible. I can sit
on the top of the dune as motionless as an
uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I
can hear the almost
unbearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with
me, I must love
you very much.


September 15, 2025 8:35 am
My focus has turned away from the gardens for the time being and I am knee-deep in home renovations. It's been five years since I did any sort of work to the house and I cannot put it off any longer. So far in the last week I have erected a frame for a wall and doorway into my front room studio. I've slung 8 foot sheets of drywall from the truck and into the house and cut and screwed them onto this new structure. I'm good with a hammer and nail and screwdriver and pretty efficient with a circular saw and measuring tape. But I'm not too experienced with taping and mudding so Frank has been the driving force behind this task when he has the energy, with me making notes on the sideline and taking over when he becomes too tired. Thankfully the framing is as level and straight as it can be for an 85 year old house. The next task is to lay a new floor throughout the entire house. After 8 years of looking at old tiles and plywood, I cannot wait for this to begin. My knees may think differently though. 







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