Breathing In

A couple weeks ago, Mr. W had to cut down one of the orange trees in our backyard that had been struggling for over a year. It was failing to produce leaves on a lot of its limbs; losing strips of its bark. Although it somehow managed to yield two oranges this spring (straight from its trunk), we knew it wasn't going to make a full recovery.

When he began to dig up the main stump, Mr. W discovered that the trunk was rotted through.

Apparently when he and Sweet Pete had re-landscaped the backyard many years ago, they accidentally buried the tree too deep. I didn't know this until Mr. W explained it, but trees have a transition area between their roots and trunk that is very fragile. If this root flare is buried or over-mulched, it will deprive the tree of oxygen and cause it to suffocate.

It made me think about what happens to people when too much gets piled up against us. When the dirt of work and life stress; emotional turmoil; loss; change; illness—all the things that can build up around us—come at once, we usually end up feeling rotten, too. We can't produce like we normally do. We can't breathe. We've got to cause our own personal earthquakes to shake away the soil and get the air back in our lungs.

I'm trying to do this now, as I have a nasty cold and haven't exactly been feeling rot-free.

For me, the way to re-oxygenate usually starts with getting fresh air. Letting the sun hit my root flare and the breeze dry up my dampened equilibrium.

Today Mr. W and I went on a nice hike near the Hollywood sign. Then I spent time looking for signs in my own backyard—signs of hope, new growth, promise of good things to come.

Here's what I found:

 

Little strawberries almost ready to be picked.  

  

The beginnings of our first crop of avocados on the tree we planted in autumn 2010. 

 Baby grapes. Not sure the varietal but very glad to see them in our yard.

 

A teeny artichoke hiding among the massive prehistoric-looking leaves of the plant.

 Boxwood basil - a new discovery for us this year. We planted small clumps of it,
along with several tomato varieties, where the old orange tree used to stand.

 This zucchini has probably already grown 10x the size it was when we first put it into the ground. 

Snap pea blooms popping up in between corn shoots along our back wall. 

I can only imagine what it will be like when we live in Santa Ynez one day and walking outside to get some air can include a quick stroll through the vineyard and a visit to the chicken coop. Those exhales are going to feel incredible. 

For the Love of Pete

Last Thursday, Mr. W and I lost one of our most cherished friends. If you read my old blog, you'll remember him as "Dirty Painter," a handle I gave him when he harassed me for not making him a star character in my posts. I named him Dirty Painter because he was a phenomenal artist who loved to create pictures of scantily-clad girls. We have one of his masterpieces hanging in our living room and just about everyone who ever visits compliments us on how amazing it is.

Dirty Painter's real name is Pete.

He was a friend of Mr. W's for close to fifteen years; roommate for five. I knew him for four and a half. He was the kind of guy that guys wanted to be like and girls wanted to be with. This man had charm and charisma like nobody's business. His personality was so big and bold, I don't think there are enough words in the English language to properly describe it. His energy—and huge smile—filled up the room the moment he walked in, and that was before he started entertaining you with hilarious stories and reenactments. "Whapow!" is one of his famous story-telling words that could describe anything from the sound of a friend's butt hitting the snowboarding slope to the pop of his imaginary gun as he threatened to shoot squirrels who were disrupting his garden.

I remember when I first met Pete, I felt like I was getting to see a whole other side of Mr. W that I didn't know about. One that included massive laughter and crazy hijinks. Pete was always up for a good time and always working on some sort of major feat—everything from making the perfect dessert to dominating in an ironman triathlon. I have so many memories of him killing it on the Rock Band drum kit when we were all here goofing off on a Saturday night, and making phenomenal pancakes for us to eat with him and his sweet, precious lady love Southern Belle.

In 2009, he and Southern Belle talked Mr. W and I into doing the Muddy Buddy race with them the day after Halloween. Of course they made it across the finish line far before we did, but were there cheering us on as we crawled through the mud pit.

That was one of the greatest things about Pete—he was a total warrior on his own, but also a huge team player. You knew he had your back at every second and would do anything you asked of him. When Mr. W was in London and the water heater pipe burst here, he was the one who came to my rescue.

Last spring, we were lucky enough to have Pete as a groomsman in our wedding and that boy tore up the dance floor more than just about anyone else. Some of the very best pictures I have from our reception are of Pete busting his unmatchable moves. At the end of the night, he was on his way out the door when the song Xanadu came on and (after I went screaming after him) he came back onto the dance floor to cut one final rug with me. I love that boy for appreciating Xanadu and disco.

I can't quantify the shock and heartache we felt last week when we'd heard we lost him. It still doesn't seem possible. Energy like that doesn't seem like it should be able to be extinguished, ever.

Over the weekend, Mr. W and I went to a breadmaking class we'd book after Christmas and as the chef was trying to do something she said, "Oh for the love of Pete."

YES.

That statement rang in my ears the rest of the day and has been sitting there since. Oh for the love of Pete. All for the love of Pete. So much of it out there for him. So many people adoring and missing him. The pain of his passing is directly proportional to the immense joy he gave us all through the pleasure of knowing him. That costume he's wearing above could have been his daily uniform. The boy was a warrior at heart. God picked the strongest man to join his angels.

Loss

It never seems real when someone you know dies. When the news is delivered, you find yourself asking What? What? What? as though you've heard the messenger wrong. The disbelief overrules any faith you had in your ability to listen.

No matter how you turn the idea over in your head, you cannot make it sink in. It doesn't seem possible. You feel like you are dreaming and that any moment, you'll awake. Relieved.

You walk outside to get the mail and wonder how it is that the sun can still be in the sky, the breeze still exhaling through the trees. How is it possible when nothing is the same anymore? There should be less light. One less laugh in the world should dim all the brightest stars. The entire earth should react to the loss.

It is strange that anything—anything at all—can continue on its normal trajectory.

Maybe there should be comfort in the fact that we keep turning the same orbit even when change and pain befall us. But it just doesn't feel right. It feels like all should go dark and silent. At least for some time.

Life is a precious gift that can be far shorter than ever deserved or thought. Squeeze your loved ones tight every day. Feel that breeze and the warmth of that sun. Soak up every second of it and spread your love over people like honey.