Waiting, in the cold, cold ground

I was going to begin this post with the quote from Martin Luther about planting an apple tree today, even if he knew the world was going to end tomorrow. I went on an internet search for the exact quote and found, as one does with these sorts of things, that there's no evidence Luther ever said or wrote this. It can't be found in his writings. Instead, according to the first page or two of Google hits, the first evidence of the saying comes from 1944 and the German Confessing Church, an expression of hope in the face of the Nazi regime. 

I thought of this saying yesterday while digging holes for tulip bulbs, 40 of them, plus some more holes for a scattering of hyacinths and snowdrops. The bulbs arrived at my house by mail two or three weeks ago. I ordered them last spring after receiving a series of emails with photos of brightly colored spring flowers and all manner of tulip colors and variations. They're no fools these marketing folk. You drive around town and see stands of tulips in people's front yards and dream of sprucing up your own landscape. Beyond the PayPal payment, there's no cost to ordering freely from what you see. Bulbs are properly planted in the fall. They're not shipped until the ground is growing cold, and then, if you want the flowers in the spring, you have to spend some time outside grubbing in the dirt. Or be embarrassed for your failure to get them in the ground. 

The box of tulips, hyacinths and snowdrop (very early tiny white flowers) sat in my kitchen for a week or more, along with another box of Dutch iris also ordered on impulse last spring. They were supposed to be kept in a cool place until planting, so I moved them to the table by the back door, a temperature drop of five degrees or so. I planted the dozen irises and half the hyacinths and snowdrops in the backyard ten days ago, tucked in and amongst the herbs and perennials by the patio and the fence. This is dirt that gets worked in the spring, so it's not terribly hard to dig holes four to six inches deep. I mostly remember what went where, some of them near patches of daffodils planted last year, or longer ago than that. 

But the tulips were destined for the street side of my house, in the open spaces around the forsythia bushes, in an area thoroughly overgrown with tall weeds. I paid landscapers to clear it out for me, an acknowledgment that it was a) a big job and b) something that despite a summer of good intentions I was never going to do myself. Yesterday, after a look at my phone said that the weather was about to get much chillier, I got the shovel and the trowel and the bulb planter out of the garage and went at it. The dirt was wet and there were roots everywhere, but I got it done. There's no immediate reward, other than no longer having that task hanging over my head. Nothing left to do but look for the shoots next April. 

I think that I am wired for hope, for optimism. This isn't necessarily a good thing -- it would be more realistic to be, well, more realistic. People will be hurt by the upcoming changes in Washington, people who don't have the resources that I do. And, I believe, abstract but important concepts such as truth and compassion have already taken a big hit. 

But where are the bulbs buried? The ones that will blossom pink and yellow in the spring? 

While digging holes yesterday, I occasionally encountered bulbs planted in previous years. It looks like I go back to the same spots, the same bare, cold places from one fall to the next. I took care to get those guys back in the ground, proven winners that they are. And now, before I eat breakfast, I'm going to check the Christmas cactus for new buds. 

November 2024

It's been quiet for the past couple months here at the Perverse Lutheran. There have been so many words out there that I've felt it's gratuitous to add any more. I've begun one or two posts that have been left behind as three-paragraph drafts. More often, thoughts or images have crossed my mind, literally, from right to left and then floated away. 

So here we are, well into November, a month that usually holds plenty of fuel for Perverse Lutheran blogging. All Saints Day, Election Day, Veterans' Day, then on to Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and the First Sunday in Advent. Past, present and future -- they're all here in November. 

The saints remembered in worship at my church on the first Sunday of the November 2024 included my 92-year-old mother, Marilyn Gotsch, who died on September 23. This past week I've been part of the so-called Democratic "elite" depressed and bewildered by the outcome of the election. Outside, the weather become autumn's crisp and cold, but inside, we're back on Central Standard Time. It's 4:45-ish as I write this and it's quite dark. Saturday's trip to big box stores for pots and potting soil confirmed showed shelves filling up with Christmas merchandise; the advancing army of velvety Santas that confronted me yesterday as I walked in the door at Home Goods (a "home decor" store) was enough to set off a panic attack.

Better to be quiet and stay home. I've counteracted anxiety by weaving at my loom. I'm still a relative beginner, executing a treadling sequence 30 picks long takes concentration. If I mess up, I have to be very deliberate about finding and correcting the mistake; I am not wired for this. I've had to fuss over this project. I discovered crossed threads and threading mishaps only after weaving six inches of fabric. I cut it off, re-tied, and began again. Today, as I sat down to weave my way to the end of the warp, I noticed what I thought was a major mistake four inches back. So I backtracked.

Un-weaving unfortunately reminds me of a poem from when I first learned to read called "Eletelephony." I was today years old when I learned that it was written by Laura Elizabeth Richards, the daughter of Julia Ward Howe who wrote words to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." 

Once there was an elephant,

Who tried to use the telephant—

No! No! I mean an elephone

Who tried to use the telephone—

(Dear me! I am not certain quite

That even now I’ve got it right.)

Howe’er it was, he got his trunk

Entangled in the telephunk;

The more he tried to get it free,

The louder buzzed the telephee—

(I fear I’d better drop the song

Of elephop and telephong!)

When I unweave, the more I try to set the threads free, the more the weft and warp get wound around each other in ever more elaborate ways. The shuttle catches on threads that are up when they should be down, and the more I manipulate the threads, the more unruly they become. 

And isn't that a lot like life? 

Craft as metaphor for the trials and triumphs of life. It's a cliche, but maybe it's also what powers projects on to completion, and sometimes even perfection. 

Today's hour of unweaving ended in a Sisyphean discovery. When I finally got back to the place where I thought I'd made an error, a closer look showed that I had not made a mistake after all. All the backpedaling was unnecessary. But it was time to step away from the loom. 

This past week has become a time to be quiet. There will be time soon to stir things up, to protest, to untangle and fix and change. In the past weeks, I've sometimes paused for a moment and thought, my mother died. That happened. Wow.  

The choir anthem yesterday morning had a rhyming text based on Psalm 139 in a setting by Alice B. Parker. 

Lord, thou hast searched me, and dost know

where'er I rest, where'er I go;

Thou knowest all that I have planned,

and all my ways are in thy hands.

The last stanza is more hidden and more vivid: 

If deepest darkness cover me,

the darkness hideth not from thee;

to thee both night and day are bright,

the darkness shineth as the light. 

It will be Advent soon. I'll have finished the project on my loom -- placemats for Christmas. I'll be rested and ready to stand up as a real, created and creating person among all the commercial Santas.