Stretching to Become

My cane taps a friendly tune as it rounds the corner, heads up an incline and turns down a paved road. Ah, to home ... nestled in lush greenery of foliage and flower. My muscles are sore, sweat has dampened my tee shirt, and now my feet ache. But eyes are bright and I am wearing a toothy, mischievous smile “because I did it!”

Although only ten minutes away, my head swelled with pride with this solo flight. I am still in rehab mode with a healing hip, but independence is not far off.

Stepping into the front door, the cane is tossed aside and the reacher -a mechanical, three-foot long, contraption that picks up stuff – is grabbed. Affectionately called the claw, it is aimed at straightening errant shoes, lifting the mail, grabbing runaway blueberries from lunch. Then dancing about with the cloth laden broom, interesting what-nots are captured that bent knees still cannot reach. The rest falls into the forbidden place of some other time, which means no scrubbing kitchen linoleum for me!

The backyard is another matter. I really enjoy planting tomatoes, basil, peppers, and zucchini. I coax each blade of grass, and hum tunes to every budding rose. It’s such a thrill to see fresh growth spring forth! Of course, there is a huge effort to carefully plant, prune, fertilize, weed and wield a watering can. This is all wonderful… but also backbreaking, never-ending work. My healing hip balks. No solo flighting here ...

Instead, the trusty cane points this way and that as my husband and grown children happily dig and sweat into the rich earth. Its not without a tug of remorse. I need to get past the disappointment of not wearing the badge of muddied knees.

Hmm… There is a valuable life lesson in all of this—of letting go and allowing family to take on these tasks. Looking over my shoulder, I see them so earnest to please me, yet very much enjoying the good Earth.

I am handed the hose and ease a gentle mist on the baby crops. Droplets delicately touch newly formed leaf, glistening as they sway. Delightfully, the fine spray catches a ray of sunshine as it flows into a delight of rainbow colors.

A magical moment.

But there is one more thing. Another task eludes me—strawberries. Say what? Because this time of year I embrace all things strawberry. The berry patch beckons with its sweet goodness, as the first berry is plucked and tasted. Pure delight.

Crazed with strawberry desire, the basket is quickly piled with one juicy berry upon another. My hand is a reddened mess, my clothing covered with red juice and hay. Suddenly I am drooling with expectation … imagining the next step.

Which is the creation of juicy, tasty bites. Strawberry shortcake. Strawberry rhubarb pie. And the headliner-strawberry jam. A big process, of cleaning berries, moving on to cutting and mashing. Then piling the berries, sugar, and pectin in a huge weathered pot. Now out comes the ample wooden spoon. The concoction is stirred and stirred to a rolling boil with a dense froth on the top, which is skimmed off. Ah … the sweet steam blushes my cheeks and delights my taste buds.

It is time to pour the hot berry mixture into readied jars. The jam will need to cool and thicken, set-up for awhile before scooped unto rich ice-cream, cakes and my favorite - a toasted English muffin.

Taste buds are running wild. Wait a minute … this year I will miss the toast and jam, the picking, cooking, processing … the entire process. What to do? This is when inner resourcefulness is put to the test.

My art tablet is pulled out as well as pen and ink.

Closing my eyes, I imagine. And then it becomes. A simple rendition of one of my favorite things. Etched in still form, it has a peaceful presence. The drawing makes me smile, and anticipate another year, another day. When on bended knees, luscious, sweet strawberries are mounded high in the wooden basket.

… “and that’s how I live it.”