Creative Sanctuary

summer

Cicada Song

By Allison

Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch

This bean has recently fallen under the spell of cicada music.  As the day’s last light falls, she wanders from Grandma’s porch into the front yard to explore the emerging sights and sounds of twilight…  she seems most intrigued by cicadas, which the Bean Girl sometimes refers to as bicadies.

She hears their song—verging on deafening—but she doesn’t see them.  Perplexed, she returns to the porch, peppering Uncle Jack and Aunt Allison with questions.  What are cicadas/bicadies? Where are they? Why do they make that noise?

We dig deep to share what we remember about the insect.  In the winter, they live underground.  After many years, they are ready to come up and spend time in the trees.  Cicadas have wings.  When Uncle Jack gets technical, Bean Girl makes her way back to the yard, swatting at oak and hickory trees with sticks.  She hopes to lay her eyes on a cicada.

Her precocious exploration sparks my own inquiry.  What do cicadas teach us?  I recall that they are a beloved symbol of Provence.  They spend years underground before seeking the sunlight.  19th century poet Frédéric Mistral even granted cicadas their own motto:  the sunlight makes me sing.

That light is slipping through our fingers.  The evening air is heavy, but we feel autumn coolness pushing up against these last days of summer.  As Bean Girl searches the yard, we settle deeper into our spots on the porch and sip the last of the rosé, engulfed in cicada song.

 

Inspirations

Out on The Porch

The Song of the Cicada

 

Maximizing Summer

By Allison

My little patio garden is bursting.  Each year, I tinker with this square space off my kitchen.  I’ve learned that it’s too sunny for impatiens and that begonias thrive in the morning sun.  Potted herbs always take off, and so each summer I find myself swirling ribbons of basil into gazpacho, stirring mint into lemonade, and topping my green salads with chives.

Yet as much as I cook, I can’t possibly use all the herbs tumbling over the terra cotta pots!  The basil is blended into pesto, frozen in ice cube trays, and then transferred to freezer bags, to be popped out later in the year.  Last summer, I finally started drying sage, mint, thyme, and rosemary.  Why did I not think to do this before?

After snipping the herbs, I bring them inside and give them a good rinse.  I remove and discard all the yellowed or bruised leaves and thoroughly dry the rest. I lay them out on a big plate, and the drying process begins.  In the days that follow, I flip them, shift them, and watch their slow transformation.  As I go about my day, I may sense a hint of mint in the air; sometimes I’ll notice the sage leaves begin to curl.  I honor the humble beauty of a patio garden by preparing herbs for colder seasons.  I waste less of summer’s goodness.  And perhaps most unexpectedly, the weeks of herb drying become a meditative experience for me—one that requires focus, attentiveness, and care.

Each herb dries in its own time. As they are ready, I gently nestle them into the glass jars I’ve set aside and labeled.  Months later, I will reach for them to season a pot of lentils or bundle them into a bouquet garni.  These moments will bring me back to the summer fullness of my lively little patio and to the slow beauty of watching herbs dry.