We've had some really pretty days in the last few weeks, rain followed by bright sun. The hills are green and fresh looking; the sky and clouds are sharper, more focused. The light quality has improved. It's thicker, richer, sweeter, as if butter and cream have somehow become involved; not like that thin winter stuff that "'tis like the distance on the look of death." ...shudder...
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I feel more connected with my world when I know the names of things. For example, there is a little bird that starts each morning with a little "chit-chit" noise that, within a half-hour or so, moves into a trilling, twirling, darling little song. I first met said little bird when I was living in Salt Lake City, where I was absolutely charmed by their unabashed cheerfulness. Though I often listened to them with pleasure, I'd never seen the birds. One afternoon, while walking on the University of Utah campus, I finally saw one singing it's little heart out in a tree outside the art building. As I stood, listening and watching, a man walking by said, indicating the bird by pointing his thumb over his shoulder, "Cheerful buggers, aren't they?" I asked him if he knew what it was called, "A house finch, I'd think." Sure enough. Google-ing "house finch" brought up a picture of the very same little red headed charmer. After I'd learned the name that belonged to the little darlings, it was as if I knew them personally. Their song would immediately conjure up a name and face in my mind, as if I were talking to a friend on the phone.
Well then. With regard to becoming attached to things I can call by name:
I've been studying the names of weeds for a little while, working to remember common and Latin names, and the regions of origin for the non-natives. Well, the result of this education is that I find myself becoming rather attached to some of the weedy friends to whom I've now been properly introduced. In fact, sometimes I feel downright maternal to some of these plucky specimens. We have a patch of dirt where I've let the pimpernels, chickweed, and wood sorrel go a little wild. They're so stinking cute. They look like a piece of cheap calico, the kind that could be sewn into a kitchen apron, but they're ready to go to seed, which means I have to pull them up, or suffer the consequences... though, those consequences don't seem as bad as they once did. I mean, who doesn't want to grow their own calico?
While I'm at it, I have a horrible confession to make: I've secretly been propagating the dandelions in the front yard. It's gardening blasphemy, I know! But I really do love those fuzzy golden heads! Oh, what is a girl to do?! If anyone were to find out I would certainly be blacklisted by the California Native Plant Society-- which mightn't be such a big deal, but they do go on some wonderful field trips, and I really would like to go sometime... sigh...
