“Moving between worlds is an art, finely honed by not only artists, but many on the work-a-day treadmill of life. Side to side, many of us have multiple jobs. Up and down, we deal between tangible reality, as well as dreams, and secretive longings. Digging weeds, singing songs, viewing media, fretting, pushing thru depression, climbing trails to reach higher points of view, or resting, if we can, under the most convenient arbor, or blanket, or oblivion. The sun makes heat, the clouds make cool, the trees make shade, the car carries us wherever, with or without air-conditioning. People need us, or ambiguously, people don’t. It’s sometimes hard to understand when to enter, when to exit, or when to stand by, just in case. We all want to belong, but not to impose. In the garden, hierarchies must be managed, or let run wild. Neither is better, but being artful, one can find a place in the middle. “I wanted to tell you ... “ she says, her tone, slightly sheepish, “we found a yellow jacket nest under the picnic table”. I feel a sudden twinge of culpability; bad enough they’d discovered wasps in my outhouse, a couple weeks back, while using it, and been stung. “Oh, no” is all I can come up with, in the moment. She is being more than fair. Later on, her partner fills in with more details. He’s typically lighthearted, and reports in, dispassionately. “I got up at 4 am”, he says, as if describing a cool TV show, “and knocked out the nest in the dark. I didn’t see where it went, until morning”. He pauses then, ever so slightly. This leaves me hanging, much like the nest, before it was displaced by his stick. “And then ...? “ I offer, with a slight vocal upturn, part curiosity, part horror. “They were angry”, he says. What are true friendships made of? It would not be far off to cite this tiny natural disaster, for guidance. His smile lights up, and he is soon on his way, skipping down the porch steps, to finish weed whacking my field. We’ve recorded more than half of what is sure to become a much loved, lyrical, Vermont-centric, rural roots album, the day before. How disturbing to us, really, are these poorly placed bees? After a week of tick & deer fly aggression, endless hose coiling, dew points over 100 degrees, seat-of-the-pants plant designing, forgotten lunches and not enough water, we still have each other, and each other’s backs. So when I talk about moving between worlds, I am never short of examples as to how we roll. We roll, we roll, and then we roll some more. Like so many we know, there is nary a cessation to the rolling required to keep up, pay the bills, show up for things, and not be a jerk. Oddly, the more we give, the more we receive, done in the spirit of holding to an honor code: that of friendship, and relentless self appraisal. Not harsh, not damaging, not dogmatic self appraisal, but the kind that says: let’s build this garden with the best of what we have, together. I’ll start.”
