My Own Tiny Kingdom

It is good to be back in Lloyd where the mountains do not shock me every morning with their beauty and height which makes me feel a little bit as if they might fall on me. I am a flat-lander and even Lloyd is a little too hilly for me sometimes and even as I recognize and appreciate the beauty of places like Black Mountain, I know that my feet belong on level ground and hopefully, near an ocean or at least a large body of water.
Still, I am so glad I went away and had almost an entire week to get up every morning and go outside to see those beautiful mountains, to be there at a time when every day there were more new leaves on trees which had been bare when we arrived, to see the flaming forsythia (I think), the weeping cherries, the distant clouds on the mountains.
But Lloyd is beautiful too right now. My yard looks gorgeous, even though the wisteria and the Bradford Pears and the Tung Trees have finished blooming and are now leafed. It is so green again. Even the pecans are leafing and we know it will be hot soon. And the Magnolia Grandiflora will bloom with its huge lemony blossoms, almost too big to be called flowers. Here are a few pictures of what I can see in my yard this morning.

 The Ashe Magnolia is open. Smaller and more delicate than the Grandiflora but with a heavenly scent and its own fragile beauty.

When I first moved here, I would make a practice of digging up ferns in the woods on my walks and transplant them into the bed which became the camellia bed. Here is one which has certainly taken hold. In the background, you can see one of my giant begonias which overwintered in the house and which is beginning its tiny, disproportionate bloom.

My six beloved hens and their protector, Elvis. He did a good job of watching over all of them while we were gone. They are all safe and sound and yesterday I fed them leftover cornbread and also some watermelon and they are happy I am home for that. Otherwise, I am certain they do not care which is perfectly fine with me. They are laying regularly now, as is the rather feral hen, Miss Honey, who lays in a nest in the garage. I just collected two of her eggs, one of them as warm as a baby's neck.

A pot of pink Knock-Out roses. Soon they will be too shaded by the pecans to bloom but right now, they are lovely.

Buddha in the hollow log with impatiens and a pot of fern. He is always laughing, that Buddha. It is good for me to remember that.

A little pot where wild violets have found their way to grow and thrive.

And so yes, I am home on my two small acres, in my old house. My therapeutic soup last night was some of the best I've ever made and I am looking forward to sharing it tonight with my sweet man who is off earning a living. It was strange to turn on the TV while I ate and I couldn't abide any of the Real Housewives and settled on a few moments of Rushmore and, like the making of soup, the faces of that early Wes Anderson movie calmed me and I went to bed and read some more of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel which I read aloud to Mr. Moon for eight hours on Sunday as we drove from the mountains through the flatlands of Georgia where we stopped for a meal at a place where the other diners made me feel almost slender and we got the Senior Meal which was huge and cost $6.59 and I got Greek baked chicken and green beans and fried okra and a corn muffin and I couldn't even finish it all and then we got back into the car and I read him some more as we drove through the south, through the storm, and then through the calmer darkness. We were in Black Mountain with our memories, we were in Georgia with our car, we were in London and in India with our minds as I read the words of the book.

The world is huge and it is available to us all in one form or another and if we are lucky, we have our own beloved nests to roost in, to settle down in, to come home to, to make and eat our soup in, to sleep in.

I believe I will get out the sourdough starter this morning and stir it up and remind it that it is alive and make a loaf of bread.

I am home.

Like the violets in the small pot, I thrive in small places. I know that about myself. And even as I am here, being grateful to be home, I am thinking of Jessie and Vergil in Rome, I am wondering what they are seeing, how they are feeling, what they are eating, how love feels in Italy. I imagine it is amazing.

Good morning.

Love...Ms. Moon