Mid-May

I have never been one for routine or discipline. Discipline in the sense that one has a specific time and order for tasks. I get things done, but in my own time. In spite of the fact that I love to dream and spend time just being quiet, my nature is to be active. Finding a balance between the activities of gardening and writing continues to be a juggling act. When I first arrived here, I gave myself plenty of time to adjust, organize my living space and check out the area. Then I told myself to buckle down and get busy writing, which I did. After a couple of months, when I was really settled in, I had to go to Houston to take advantage of the opportunity to work for a few weeks, which got me off-track mentally with my writing.

Then in a frenzy to take advantage of spring, I got carried away with too much gardening. Each evening I was so tired that I didn’t even have the energy for thinking, much less sitting and writing my thoughts. Then when I had a week of rainy weather, I started spending all day writing ¾from the first ray of dawn until late at night. As I was approaching the end of my second India manuscript, I began putting deadlines on myself.

In the meantime, even without any recent attention, my wild flower garden is ariot with blossoms of all colors, shapes and sizes. One morning a shady cover of dark clouds entices me to tackle an urgent gardening job. I have been waiting for a shady day to transplant my last flat of tiny perennials, so that they will have a chance to adjust to their new home away from the hot sun. Welcoming the cool air, I am in the garden early.

While transplanting the fragile plants to bare patches in the wildflower garden around the deck in the backyard, I find myself unusually content and happy. The fruits of my labor are shining around me in every color imaginable. Lovely pink and red poppies are sprinkled about. Bright orange and rose zinnias have begun to bloom. Yellow Mexican hat, blue larkspur, orange Indian blanket, purple lemon mint—all are in full bloom. Every flower seems to have a butterfly fluttering above it. Feeling that I have created a Garden of Eden, I sing while I am digging in the dirt.

However, as I am working, I seem to detect some oppressive sensation deep inside. Is this guilt because I am not writing for one day? Although I carefully keep my attention on what I’m doing, I kind of monitor the feeling in the back of my mind, for it is not one that I can easily label. In contrast, I notice that I am feeling unusually satisfied as I go though the motions of the planting.

After some time, I come to realize that I have been putting writing as a top priority. What a foolish thing to do! Words can never display the beauty of a single one of these flowers. Can words affect the life of another as much as seeing a bright fresh flower face to face? Once when the Buddha preached, he held up a flower. Only one disciple comprehended the message. In that moment, he understood the truth of existence.

When I think about managing a balance between gardening and writing, I suddenly realize that I have not been taking enough time out for enjoying this creation. I am literally jumping from one task to another, becoming a workaholic in my own way.

However, if I am compelled to action, at least let it be useful. At that moment, a couple of giant tiger swallowtails interrupt my thought as they float by. As I watch, they flutter together—dipping and soaring—in a beautiful display of camaraderie. Is that useful? I am so grateful for this creation and its wisdom.

It’s a good thing I planted while I could, for the warm weather forces me to be inside. Outside is just too hot for walking, much less gardening. When the poet wrote, “What is so rare as a day in June,” he was not living in Texas. However, we have been fortunate. Evanelle, a neighbor, says it has been the longest and nicest spring she ever remembers. Every time it has gotten so hot that I know this is it—unbearable burn—it clouds up, rains and cools off.

Even if I’m not able to walk in the woods because of the heat or thunderstorms, I know that every day I will discover something new in this lovely world I live in. It may not always be as exciting as finding cougar tracks in the driveway, or as lovely as a bush covered with butterflies beside the pond, but I can count on something great.

This morning I don’t even have to browse in the meadow; I find two new specimens right by the deck. Both of them are rather Old World critters, varieties which I have never seen before.

First when I survey my little Eden, I notice a huge spider web in the Chinese elm tree, strung with long silky threads attached to the flowering plants below. The web is quite a work of art considering its large size: a three-foot circle.

One has to learn to respect spiders; it wasn’t something that came naturally for me. When I spent a couple of years in South India, I began to notice the incredible variation of their webs. Some were huge renditions of the standard design, like this one, but I found others that were spheres and cylinders with tunnels. One was a long tight wire, so that the spider could scoot along it while hanging by two legs. Nature does love variety.

When I loved in Sedona, a huge spider set up housekeeping right outside my bathroom window. He was a funny looking fellow with a white box hanging on his backside. The porch light attracted many bugs that prompted him to scamper over to capture, then wrap with silky threads for his dinner. I became fascinated at watching him catch his prey—he was really quick. Then he would store the little packet on the edge of his web. Every three or four days, the web would become tattered from his daily dealings with struggling insects. Without a complaint or a moment’s procrastination, he would get busy spinning himself a new version.

When the cool nights of late autumn extinguished his bug supply, I would find grasshoppers for him in the garden. Quite happy with this easy meal, he would show his gratitude by discarding the carcasses on the sidewalk for me to sweep up. Then one frosty night, he disappeared without a trace. I wondered if spiders hibernate or simply freeze to death. The next spring I waited to see if he would reappear, but he never showed up.

So with these spider experiences to my credit, I am quite anxious to see what kind of spider this one is. Surprisingly, the little fellow is nowhere in sight. Usually, they are easy to find hanging out at the top of their web, ready to spring into action. To coax this one out of hiding, I find a bug in the grass, toss it into the web and wait. From a cluster of leaves above the web, the creature who appears is the biggest ugliest spider I have ever beheld. No wonder he was hiding, he would have scared away any prey. Blotched brown, black and tan, he must also be quite blind. He has to make a couple of forays before he actually finds the bug. Then he goes to work. Out of an opening in his rear, he excretes a stream of shiny webbing. Using his two back legs as knitting needles, he wraps up that bug in nothing flat.

I’ve never seen a spider excrete his webbing before, so I want to watch him again. Unfortunately, he is not fast enough to catch the bug I toss into the web. Even though he has a long thread on which to swing into action, after that expert first move, he appears quite clumsy. I toss him bug after bug, but they all manage to wiggle out of the webbing long before he appears, so I finally have to give up. Although the biggest and baddest, he is not the only spider around. Nowadays I have to tear a web apart every time I want to shower in the outdoor stall—buggy Texas.

Later that afternoon when I go over to prop up a plant that has toppled over from the soggy soil, I discover another new critter. The grasshopper that is staring up at me is so big that I honestly feel as if I have entered Alice’s Wonderland. He has grown so large that his wings appear to be useless appendages. I suppose that’s why he is waiting in the same place when I return with a wide-mouthed jar to capture him.

The average grasshopper is one inch; the largest are one and one-half inches. This one is over twice that size. It’s not only his size that is remarkable, so is the way he has decorated his black heavy armor, which shines like Chinese lacquer. His body and legs are covered with intricate designs in orange, while his tiny wings are veined with orange and black patterns. Even his antennae, so long that they’re curled, are highlighted with a yellow grid.

In spite of the fact that grasshoppers have eaten every leaf off the peach trees, I feel a little remorse at capturing him, and then leaving him to sit on the windowsill to dry for “show and tell” for my six-year-old friend Truett. After all, the grasshopper is a certain model for me. Have you ever noted that our grasshopper-ant conditioning is just the opposite of Jesus Christ’s words? Christ did not admonish us to put work first. He said, “Consider the lilies how they grow, they neither toil nor spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.