Reeds and Seeds

Here is something that makes me extraordinarily happy:

I am within walking distance of a church containing a pipe organ.

Back in Washington I had to bicycle (up hill both ways, of course) to reach an instrument. And now, I can cross the road, dart through a side-yard, and find myself under the auspices of a huge stone church.

I'd emailed them out of the blue and asked if I might practice there. The administrative assistant forwarded my name to the organist and I was blessed by goodwill and trust and just tonight I met him and was introduced to the instruments. Yes, instruments, because there is a second organ from 1830! Oh history! A wee thing with keys smaller than customary and a surprisingly good sound. And all sorts of grand pianos around, too.

The main pipe organ has three manuals (eeeee!) and 32-foot pipes for the feet (meaning: deep and resonant). There is a reed stop (think celebratory marching army) that is particularly lovely as well.

The church is stone, looming and venerable, and inside endless colored glass windows glow the sanctuary with goldenrod light. Tall ceilings stretch expansively--I felt the reverence and appreciation like being inside a castle--and the sanctuary smelled mystically and deliciously of smoke. Incense? I asked of Mr. Organist. No, actually. He explained the church had burned in 1930, and had been rebuilt. And on humid days you can still smell the walls breathing out smokey residuals from 80 years ago. History's aroma.

I was ecstatic to play in a space like this, like playing in the very center of God.

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Since Monday, I have been residing in the Little Room in the Messy House, a big old student place just near down-town Geneva. The graduated seniors are in the process of moving out and I'm doing my best to settle in amongst boxes, sticky floors, and old kegs. I keep turning off lights they leave on, but they've been generous to share with me a heap of left-over Weggie's sandwiches from their graduation party. I've pretty much been eating them every day (and today for two meals) because the fridge is so burgeoning that the thought of amassing my own ingredients and cooking is rather wearisome. I do pick up strange eating habits when I live alone (when there is no beautiful Indian man any more, cooking beautiful curries). 

My mother's colorful quilt soothes this little room--my nest and sanctuary--into a place of being, and I went from the first night here of Lonely and Dismal to remembering how many other little rooms I have inhabited, with that very same quilt saving the space, and have since then perked up and feel comfort coming in here.

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Spending hours poking cabbage, kale, and endive embryos into trays is much less disagreeable when I bicycle to work (rather than sitting an hour in the car). Mr. Bossman, first thing in the morning yesterday, observed to the two Base-ball Cap Boys their lack of energy, but then regarded me and noted I was all high on endorphins. True. My bicycle route has only a single stop-light and the rest is nicely painted houses with intentional gardens, and views over apple orchards. I rode White Springs Lane, passed White Springs Drive, crossed White Springs Road, and also there were White Springs Manor and White Springs Farm. (I guess people like to fit in around those there white springs)

There is not much glamorous about agriculture. As a master's student, while studying soil and managing a project sounds cool, really, when you unravel it, all I was doing was Counting Stuff. Counting weeds, counting how much mass was in things, counting samples. Counting labels, counting bags.

And working in industry, at this seed company, what I am doing now is: Moving Stuff. Moving trays into the greenhouse, out of the greenhouse, moving plants into the soil, moving water onto the plants.

Lady Elise was very wise yesterday, during our giddy little skype conversation. "Agriculture just IS repetitive", she noted. But there are nuggets of good learning and experience amongst all the repeating. She also noted that sometimes we need a more simple era of time in our lives, giving us air to look up and around and consider. Especially after such a blur of activity, of bicycling southeast Asia, of blasting all over Seattle, of a cross-country road trip, of a beautiful tragedy and losing this heart, of defending a thesis.

There is a time for reaping and a time for sowing.