Betwixt and between

Home for a few days, a break from work in the city.   Astrid's on my lap, a welcoming presence, grounding me, purring, keeping me sitting down to write.  She's been my constant companion, making me feel as if no time has passed since our last coming together.  She's a wonder.

And what is home to me in these betwixt and between days?  (And when are they not that?)  I don't feel a lack of home these days.  I don't feel homesick when I'm away from this place.  Home is more wherever I am.  Home's here, home's at our sublet in NYC, home's on stage performing in the play I'm loving doing in the city, Home's backstage before and after the show, filled with warm bon homie and best wishes for one's best work.  Home's riding on my bike through Central Park in all kinds of weather or up along the Hudson River, up past the George Washington Bridge.  Home's sitting under the canopies of elms on Poet's Walk (again in Central Park), home's spending time with Richard, home's out to dinner, home's on strolls through the city, home's laughter, on and on and on.  Home's Astrid's warmth on my lap right now, beckoning me to be here now, be present, just sit, notice, pay attention.  Okay, okay.  Home.  The word itself has such a hummy, comforting sound to it.

So green outside here today.  Bursting and burgeoning.  And spectacularly sunny.  It fools you into thinking it's warm outside, especially since it's Memorial Day, the unofficial beginning of summer.  BUT 2 days ago we had 3 inches of heavy snow here, "a poor man's fertilizer," Royce dubbed it, and though there are few physical traces of it left, the wind holds invisible reminders, a brace, a shiver, a chill.  Betwixt and between.

Have I kept you up on the travails of Hector, our young gander?  I believe I have.  I spied him in the front lawn fluffing and preening himself, by himself, and shake shivering his head quite a bit in between preens, like a fighter in his corner of the ring between rounds, trying to shake something off, bring himself back to coherence.  In the background on the pond across the road I saw that the female goose had come off her nest for a stretch and swim accompanied and guarded by hubby.  I pieced together what must have happened.  Hector and the Canada gander had been hanging out, being buds - I'd seen Hector standing guard over him in the front yard earlier in the morning as the Canadian snatched 40 winks.  Then the missus had decided to take a rest from egg sitting and instinct must've kicked in and, like a rabid, possessed  creature, the Canada gander had turned on his pal.  Hector might've fled for his life like he had in the past, that time witnessed by Richard.  But Hector will forgive and forget.  He's like the loyal partner of an abusive drunk.  "It's alright, he still loves me, he's still good at heart.  These scars and bruises?  Oh, I just had a bad fall."  Oh my heart goes out to him.  Trying to find a friend, camaraderie ... a home.  He's been kicked out of the domesticated goose bunch - something he brought on himself, but again it was nature and instinct kicking in, him contending with Shmuel, one gander too many.  And now he's fostered an unlikely friendship with a wild one, that will offer temporary friendship.  And, who knows, maybe Hector's drawn to the out of the ordinariness of it, a touch of the unpredictable, the dangerous.  And those guys can fly!  Oh, to be able to do that.  Flight!  To fly!!  And one day, Hector buddy, they're all going to fly away from you.   Not to discourage you from making an unlikely friendship, but -- oh he'll get over it.  I'm going to be the one with heartache witnessing the whole thing.  He'll probably forget the whole thing in a couple days.

And speaking of birds, an industrious bluebird still resides in our yellow birdhouse, mounted to an old pole at the back of our garden.   Richard and I startled it this morning as we surveyed the growth our raised beds and it darted out, zipping for safety.  It perched high in a nearby apple tree until we were well away and then it returned to building a nest.  We don't think she's laid any eggs yet.  Everything's a bit late these days.

Shmuel's in tough guy stance, standing sentinel to Emily and Mary Ann's brooding.  Both are sitting on 8 eggs each, but we suspect none of the eggs are fertile.  We hope to be pleasantly surprised and have a few goslings soon. Time will tell.

Okay, up to the garden, work to do.  Be well, have a great day.