Guess Who's Going to Star Island?

Me!  Get to go out for a couple of nights to help close up the shops.  And I saw my fat friend Toadsy this morning, too--a very good omen.  He's been a constant presence in the backyard since spring.  He's very big, and very active.  I swear if I've had enough wine, he looks like a small rabbit when I catch sight of him hopping along the perimeter from a distance.  So--what do a toad and the Isles of Shoals have in common?  Celia Thaxter, of course.  In the photo above, he's stalking a slug near his cement likeness.  About toads, Thaxter writes:

The toad has indeed no superior as a destroyer of noxious insects, and he possesses no bad habits and is entirely inoffensive himself, every owner of a garden should treat him with utmost hospitality.

I certainly do my best to be hospitable.

And there's that slug.  Thaxter writes:  

It seems to me the worst of all the plagues is the slug, the snail without a shell. He is beyond description repulsive, a mass of sooty, shapeless slime, and he devours everything.

Agreed.

Hours later, when I walked by the spot where I'd seen him earlier, he was nearly buried in a little hole in the dirt.  I hope he takes refuge here and emerges next spring, as Thaxter describes:

Early in April, as I was vigorously hoeing in a corner, I unearthed a huge toad, to my perfect delight and satisfaction; he had lived all winter, he had doubtless fed on slugs all the autumn. I could have kissed him on the spot.

Still Life with Hummingbird.

Esther saw something glinting green in the grass, and found this beautiful creature that just days ago buzzed and flitted and delighted.  It's fall. I'm sad.

 "Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." (Hamlet)

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.  (Romeo & Juliet)

My mood, as summer ends, makes me think of Celia Thaxter off the island.

My heart remains grateful, but autumn's arrival makes me feel ...


Land-Locked


Black lie the hills; swiftly doth daylight flee;
And, catching gleams of sunset's dying smile,
Through the dusk land for many a changing mile
The river runneth softly to the sea.

O happy river, could I follow thee!
O yearning heart, that never can be still!
O wistful eyes, that watch the steadfast hill,
Longing for level line of solemn sea!

Have patience; here are flowers and songs of birds,
Beauty and fragrance, wealth of sound and sight,
All summer's glory thine from morn till night,
And life too full of joy for uttered words.

Neither am I ungrateful; but I dream
Deliciously how twilight falls to-night
Over the glimmering water, how the light
Dies blissfully away, until I seem

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek,
To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail
And dip of oars, and voices on the gale
Afar off, calling low, -- my name they speak!

O Earth! Thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore. 

Even on a gray day, the ocean will cure what ails you!

Nothing today to say about job-hunting or gardening.  We headed to Ft. Foster in Kittery, and for some reason, the clouds made it especially magical.  Kayaked over to Wood Island and found sea glass, saw a seal, and luxuriated in the bliss of everything but the moment falling away.  It was perfect.  In honor of my husband and Star Island, for which I am bound tomorrow, here's a quote from Celia Thaxter, Shoaler, poet, and gardener extraordinaire: 


There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.


White sandy beaches have their place, but there is nothing like the exquisite character of the Maine coast!

The garden, late July, after rain

Loved this recent poem, "July," by Louis Jenkins, from The Writer's Almanac:

Temperature in the upper seventies, a bit of a breeze. Great
cumulus clouds pass slowly through the summer sky like
parade floats. And the slender grasses gather round you,
pressing forward, with exaggerated deference, whispering,
eager to catch a glimpse. It's your party after all. And it couldn't
be more perfect. Yet there's a nagging thought: you don't really
deserve all this attention, and that come October, there will be
a price to pay.

And this morning, after last night's rain, it really was July's party in the garden. The stars of the show were the nasturtiums, followed by the zinnias, as you can see.


Last week was my first week sans job.  It takes a while to get used to--and I'm not there yet.  My friend Nate, when he learned of my resignation, said, "Be prepared for the shock of the slow return of joy to your life." That "slow return" has started--a steady trickle of peace that comes mostly from a jarringly sweet absence of MONDAY (and the anticipatory dread I'd awake with in the pit of my stomach on Sunday).  


I'm trying to slow down, which isn't easy for me.  There's a real temptation to go-go-go (I can cram an entire summer into one day and make everyone miserable while I do), and there's the anxiety about the future--that, as the poem says, "come October, there will be a price to pay."  So, I scan the job listings--should I apply for this position?  That position? It all boils down to this: What the hell do I want to do with my life--and once I know, can I get paid doing it?  For now, though, it is time to do as Lao-Tzu, Tao philosopher, and my wise husband advise: "Practice not-doing, and everything will fall into place."  And don't forget to breathe.