The Abundance of Things

The broken bird feeder, filthy with the flour of old seeds. The light bulb, stationary, never illuminated at the unused desk. The treadmill full of speed and miles, but no destination. Imagine all the unalive things having a sense of self. How guilty do I feel about the unused paintbrush? What about the binder clips in the antique tin can that bind nothing? Or the old brick out in the woods beyond my house that must live with only its memory of having been something. The only thing that comforts it is leaf-litter and the temporary anatomies of sky water.

My husband and I recently purchased two new rugs for the house. We carried them into our home and gently placed their rolled bodies on the floor. Our curious dogs sniffed at the taut rolls of fabric bound by such useful, good tape. Together, my husband and I carried the dining room table covered in wonderful books to the kitchen. We carried the chairs, draped in my soft knitted cardigans, to other parts of the house. I swept the floor with what I hope was a self-fulfilled broom and watched the dust of our lives scatter into the garbage can we look down into every day. We smiled at each other, realizing that the other had already retrieved a pair of useful scissors, their blades reflecting the gentle light of our home. We bent down and cut through the tape, ending its career of hold and tighten. We unrolled the first rug across the floor and I was so delighted by its enormity, its color, and how it brought the dining room into a cohesiveness. It was one place come alive with the fantasia of many lovely objects: the two book shelves stuffed with books about everything from disability to camping to bird watching to sewer systems to Audubon's paintings; a harmonica; the camouflage binoculars I lovingly stole from my father; a roll top desk topped with small boxes of postcards and other forms of blank correspondence; an apothecary full of strings that have not yet been knotted into artful things, stamps that haven't been wetted with ink, and multiple types of glue; many pairs of shoes that we slip on to tend to the yard or the dogs when they're in the yard; shells I have scavenged and still love; rocks I have collected in Vermont and still love; a vacuum cleaner, so industrious and mighty!; a painting of a train that I thrifted. We stood back and marveled at the soft palette of color, texture, and pattern that now adorned our floor. The floor where my bigger dog dances and sings when I come home and how when I squeezed my hello and my I love you and my I'm home and will always come home to you into his thick body, he often slipped and slid because there was no rug there! And now there is. We carefully placed the dining room table and chairs over it and still I marveled, walking bare foot along its edge. I felt bad doing that and even told my husband how it is such a shame to bring home such a beautiful thing just to walk all over it.

We did the same with the other rug. I mindfully swept the living room floor of dog dust and small twigs--those sweet twigs that have once belonged to something alive. We unraveled the fabric body across the floor and oh, what a different personality this one had! Mesmerizing in its pattern and bold in its coloration. Our big dog--the one who sings and dances--was afraid and fled upstairs to the bedroom, the lovable nitwit he is. This rug really popped and had texture, massaging the bare foot that walks across it. This rug that will witness our evening conversations, hear my soft sleep-sounds as I doze on our difficult couch, and will often be warmed by dog bellies. And speaking of dog, we coaxed the nitwit back down the steps, encouraging him to acquaint himself with this new friend sprawled across the floor. He walked on it only for a moment and immediately jumped onto the difficult couch. Maybe the pattern frightens him much like how cattle don't like to walk over grates I said to my husband. We often compare the nitwit to cattle. This rug has proven to be a good addition to our objects de familia. The nitwit has grown accustomed to it, often rubbing his itchy chin along the textured fabric. The rug collects all the dog hair and all the warmth of dog bellies.

I pulled out my phone to photograph the small, brave dog relaxing on the dining room rug. Cell phones live the most exciting existences, being held up in front of the eye to view the beautiful vista, to capture the vista. It holds all the correspondences, however lovely, however horrid. They store, witness, gather, compute, problem-solve, inform, and go everywhere, tucked safely into a butt pocket or waterproof/shatter proof outfit. They're sleek in their covers, their glistening screens. And sometimes they work just as well as other phones despite how shattered and battered they are. They rest peacefully near the bedside, literally recharging, and sometimes get the lucky chance to enter a mode where they simply cannot be disturbed. They are shaped perfectly for the hand like a breast or a beverage or a steering wheel. They often live a long-enough life and then are replaced but honored in the perfect reincarnation of a SIM card. I photographed the small, brave dog and sent his image through the air and into the phones of my friends.

Today is the first day of spring. Today, I will push seeds into starter soil, care very much for them over the weeks, and see what happens. I don't know why I feel some anxiety about it. Anxiety is often a fear of failure and that's exactly what this is. I don't want to fail to give life to all those potential packets of fruitful promise. Those little seeds, their existences tucked so neatly into a small, hard body that can get stuck under my fingernail or blown away by an exasperated breath. I will push them into the soil and they'll flourish under the cool brightness of artificial sun that I can bend and situate this way and that. For the second year in a row, a false sun will blink into and out of itself in my basement. There is no slow rise. No overcast quality with chances of wind or thunder. Just sudden brightness and sudden darkness. Eventually, the leggy seedlings will spend some time outside, learning the definition of wind, birdsong, and cloud-cover. In the evenings, when it becomes too cold and the green house runs out of space, I will bring some into the dining room for the books, harmonica, roll-top desk, and lovely rug to watch over.

Yes, I will push seeds into dirt on this first day of spring. And whatever else I do today will just be a wonderful abundance. Maybe I'll go for a hike and praise some rocks. Maybe I'll go grocery shopping and hold a mango in my palm like it's the only mango ever. Maybe I'll finish a book I have been reading for too long. Maybe I'll order more yarn that I will knot into something warm and magnificent. Maybe I'll join a group of people and mindfully walk around some wetlands, pointing my binoculars at this, marveling at that.