Winter Wonderland
It's been raining here for what feels like months, and although I've learned the hard lesson--after eight and a half years living in Northern California homes without central heat--that during the winter it's likely to be warmer outside than inside, we've nevertheless spent most of the days of this season cooped up and wrapped up and huddled up by the fire. (It's also better to stay inside if you refuse to change out of your pajamas, of course.)
Lately, though, I've been inspired to take Wombat outside more--that is, if I can call it "inspiration" when it's really just "trying to keep him from using the bookshelf as a ladder to the ceiling fan," and I can say "more" when I mean "once"--and, not to get all foofy on you, but it's been kind of magical to watch him explore the great green world beyond the area rugs.
Even after months of neglect and overgrowth, our backyard is pretty spectacular, but it's unfortunately not what you'd call toddler friendly. He's too young for the zipline and the treehouse (which has become a raccoon toilet anyhow), and the pond is just an accident waiting to happen. He's too feisty for the hammock, too grabby for the rose garden, and too unstable for the raised beds, which are all sharp-edged stone and composted manure.The centerpiece of the yard, an angel trumpet tree, dangles and then drops its golden vases every fortnight, but, a member of the genus Datura, it's hallucinogenic at best, toxic at worst. There isn't a single patch of grass.
But this is our yard, the land Wombat surveys from his crib each morning and afternoon, the space he'll grow up calling his own, and so it's my challenge to find ways for him to enjoy it, and an even greater challenge to set him down and let go of his hand and let him show me how it looks from three feet off the ground.
At this time of year, the yard is lousy with sourgrass spread out like a cushion to soften a stumble.
The mulch (the m-fing mulch) is a hearty stew made by the trees and the earthworms and the birds and the squirrels.
We close our eyes and listen to the shhhh-shhhh-shhh of the bamboo and then open them when we hear the scritch-scritch-scritch of some tiny creature scaling the redwood.
We look under toadstools for signs of civilized life in miniature, and we keep ourselves open to the spirit of an old birdwatcher.
We walk slowly, tread gently, whisper quietly.
We uncover forgotten treasures as often as we discover for the first time what's been there all along.
We don't worry about muddy shoes or dirty knees or how many days left until the spring.
I have never commented on your blog. I am a devoted reader and love it. I have a 10 month old and I look to you for laughter, advice, and support. Did you know you did all this for strangers? I hope so. Love your little man and his amazing yard.
Love your backyard.
Oh, I can't wait to get back outside again. Winter in PA is nowhere near as friendly or as green.
Also, his little jeans in that last pic are KILLING me. But I still can't believe he's old enough to be all standing alone and walking and such.
When did he become a little man? I STILL can't get over it!
In a few years, he is going to LOVE this yard. Don't change a thing- he'll grow into it!
I adore this post. What a totally awesome space to wonder and wander in.