It’s cool this morning, a fire burning in the woodstove, though I hope to swim once the mist has lifted. A sign of fall? 6 jays were waiting for seed on the railings beyond the sliding doors. Usually there are 2, or 3. I recognize those ones — one is large and aggressive, one has some white on its eyebrows and a bit of white under its chin (if a jay can be said to have a chin), and the third is a bit more timid than the others. But the gang this morning seemed interchangeable. If I don’t bring seed to them right away, they’ve learned to follow me around the house by appearing at windows where I can be found on the other side. Their favourite seems to be the window over the kitchen sink. They tap on it with their beaks. A couple know about my study and come to the chairs brought under cover for winter just by the window beyond my desk. They don’t tap so much as dance. I’m reminded of Louise Erdrich’s beautiful book about motherhood, The Blue Jay’s Dance, with its description of their courtship rituals. In late winter, our Steller’s jays are more attentive to one another, grooming each other, and I’ve always loved their tenderness. It’s not in evidence now, with the large one eating its fill and rushing at the others who try to take their share of seeds. But what can we know of them and their private affections? Their wildness is not ours, even if we think we might share something in the moment a jay peers into a window and taps at it with its strong beak.
So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?
–Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay’s Dance
By the fire, drinking my second cup of coffee, I looked through photos on my phone, deciding which to keep and which to discard. And it seemed so difficult to believe that every morning in June I could go out and cut roses to put in all the jugs. Moss roses, old sweet noisettes, sprays of unnamed apricot climbers. I’d go out in a rush to put on a sprinkler and stop to cut an armload of roses. The kitchen would fill with their sweetness. And later the sweet peas, the lilies, the clear blue agapanthus. For our Thanksgiving table, there are still some late roses to cut — Lady of Shalott, Mme Alfred Carriére.
In Gatineau last weekend, I paused for moment by a tiny painting I bought at the Kosiv market in western Ukraine in 2019. A man had small stall arranged with a few dozen oil paintings and when Angie and I arranged to buy a few — I was thinking of Christmas gifts for Forrest and Brendan and their families — he was so delighted to know they were going to Canada. I think I paid $10 each for the ones I chose. This one, though painted in spring, was a house I’m certain we passed on our way up the mountain to our hotel.
As my grandfather’s country moves into another season of war, I think of the the kindness of those we met daily in Ukraine, I think of the peace of that house, and I wish I’d bought every painting on display that day. I wish I’d never said no to a glass of horilka (given the number offered, I felt I had to decline some of them!), I wish I’d stayed longer, spent more time with the relatives who found me at the hotel on the shoulder of mountain you can see in this painting, and I wish that the worst humans didn’t have the most power in this world. It’s cool this morning, a fire burning in the woodstove, though I hope to swim once the mist has lifted. How many days do any of us have left to do the things that call us to attention? The jays squabble on the railings, hoping for more seeds, and any minute now the bold one will find my in my study, thinking a thousand thoughts that don’t seem to be connected, but are part of something I’m trying to parse. How roses can sustain us for seasons beyond their flowering, the memory of a small house under flowering cherry and pear trees (though I saw it in September) can shape the untidy dreams of hope, and the jays in their unruly constancy require generosity, and even love.
The ground I tend sustains me in early summer, but the garden of the spirit is the place I go when the wind howls. This lush and fragrant expectation has a longer growing season than the plot of earth I’ll hoe for the rest of the year.
–Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay’s Dance
