Mountains, mole hills and this elusive Spring

It is the essence of truth that it is never excessive. Why should it exaggerate? There is that which should be destroyed and that which should be simply illuminated and studied. How great is the force of benevolent and searching examination! We must not resort to the flame where only light is required.
Victor Hugo

“Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.”
― W.B. Yeats

(a spring rain drips down the soon to be budding maple tree / Julie Cook /2015)

Quick!
Did you see it?
Ohhh darn, you missed it.
It was right there in plain site. . .I promise!
Just as you turned your head, poof, it just disappeared.
What a shame. . . .

And so it is, ode to the ongoing elusive dance between Winter and Spring.
Warm, temperate and dry has been few and far between.
Frustratingly wet and chilly are proving to be more the norm.

Yet slowly and doggedly surely. . .
Little by little
a wee bit of color here
and a wee bit of life there,
each easing onto the scene.

And as with any time of transition,
there are to always be those herky jerky periods of stops and starts–
those glorious moments of wonder and those awkward spells of turmoil

Life certainly mirrors our seasons does it not?
At times there are the magical moments of marvelous ecstasies,
the slow dormant quiets of loss,
with each being traded for the tumultuous trials of transition.

Springtime, this spectacular time of passage, is certainly a time of clashing forces.
Warm air masses begin colliding with cold air masses.
Angry storms abound as a reluctant Winter battles to hold on to power.
Each season, each time passage, vies for control.

This time of yearly transition affords the random observer to be privy
to the passing of one realm to the next.
The proverbial passing of the torch from one reluctant monarch to the next.
Death and decay giving way to the expectancy of birth and renewal.

And as with any birth, as magical as it is,
birth exacts a certain amount of pain.
Marvelous, precious and delicious does not come without labor, toil and work.

And so it is with human nature.
We often see that the well intended can either deal with things honestly and straightforward,
tackling one thing at a time, or we can witness the misguided going off willy nilly,
making mountains out of molehills.

(an image of beginning renovations and renewal of a worn torn yard / Julie Cook / 2015)

(two different victims of some sort of foul play / Julie Cook / 2015)

As far back as the 16th century it seems people have been making mountains out of molehills.
The expression was actually recorded in 1660 in an English lexicon of idioms. A similar expression was recorded even earlier, in 1549, using a different visual reference but still with the same meaning.
Therefore marking our history with an age old conundrum. . .that mountains and molehills appear to be an ongoing human condition.

There is no doubt that you know the expression. . .
the whole taking of something seemingly small and insignificant and in turn blowing it up until it is almost an unsurmountable trouble.

Sadly it seems with some folks that such an undertaking is simply how they choose to operate on an ongoing basis. The taking of a simple task, situation or issue. . . turning it and everything around them into a disproportionate crises. Hopelessly preferring to stir up everyone and anyone in their wake. Leaving the likeminded and team-players mystified, frustrated and dazed.

It is during such times of battling, clashing and climbing that we must remember that good things can and do come from bad. That the obstacles placed before us, either by happenstance or by the misguided and malcontents, can either be approached and dealt with, depending on how we decide to proceed, or can fall victim to the perceived mountains produced by the lowly molehills.

I for one prefer to step, perhaps even stomp on the molehills, avoiding the ensuing mountains and make for the pretty flowers of Spring. . .that we could all be so like minded. . .

(blooming tulip flower / Julie Cook / 2015)

Death be not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne

“Oh my gosh, does she really have a picture of a giant dead mole on her day’s post?! This is Wednesday no doubt, as in wordless Wednesday… Not only is Julie never wordless, she’s posting an image of a dead mole!!” As the texting world would so aptly put it “OMG!!”

Not to fear, no need to panic… nor is there any need to put in a call to PETA. There is an explanation–there is always an explanation.

Yes, that is indeed a picture of a dead mole. Did I kill the mole? No. Am I gald the mole is dead? Somewhat. If you’ve ever had a yard or a garden plus a healthy addition of moles, you won’t have much of a yard or garden after the moles take up residence. We have had mole problems for the past couple of years. I am the humane one around this house and I forbid putting any sort of poison or traps into the ground or down the holes and tunnels.

One does run a risk, however, merely walking in our yard. The tunnels of the moles are so deep that you could easily twist an ankle when unknowingly you take a step only to have one foot sink a good half a foot down. Let’s not forget what happened this past Spring shall we when our little cookie here stepped into a drainage ditch no deeper than these mole holes. Our yard is simply crisscrossed with the burrowing holes. And on top of that, my purple cone flowers and lovely stargazer lilies have all mysteriously vanished. Yard havoc pretty much sums up living with moles.

Say what you will about moles merely burrowing and not nibbling on roots and I say balderdash!! I triumphantly planted lilies and the cone flowers in the yard. The next day, as I went outside to feast my eyes upon my handy work. I noticed the plants were all several inches shorter. Odd…. No, I was not hallucinating—I know shrinking plants when I see them! The following day after that I went back outside to check on the plants and this time they were totally gone. No leaf, no petals, no chewed up plant from say a wandering deer. Nope, just holes…..

My cat Peaches is a very docile cat as I’ve mentioned before. She has never killed a bird. She sits under the tree where all the feeders are located and birds will even alit on the ground by her to feed on spilt seed. She chases butterflies. That’s the extent of it. We won’t go into Percy whose outside world consists of the back deck. He is not an outdoor cat due to his traumatic injuries sustained as a tiny kitten, but we won’t discuss what happened to the hummingbirds—I just can’t talk about that yet.

So imagine my immense shock when I found this mole, feet skyward by the garage door. Peaches came ambling over, as I was investigating this most suspicious death, with a keen interest in the victim. I quickly put two and two together. I didn’t know whether I should scold her or congratulate her. The mole did not look to be victimized. No wounds to speak of. And such a lovely coat of fur it had—I almost wanted to pet it…but I refrained as I fetched a shovel instead in order to dispose of the body.

It was a huge mole but of course I don’t know how big moles grow. Judging from the size of the burrowed trenches in my yard I suspect that they get as big as Peaches. I am sorry that something in the yard was killed. I’m not a fan of any animal ever being killed—I even have a soft spot for the local variety of road kill of possums and armadillos that seem to be indicative of the South. But I suppose I hope this may mean that my yard will flatten back out and that my plants won’t oddly disappear.

When my husband arrived home that evening I showed him the pictures of the deceased victim and explained my suspicions as to who had committed the crime. He turns and looks at Peaches as she makes her way into the house. “Way to go knot-head!!–that is the first thing you have ever done right!” I don’t know if Peaches understood his pleasure in the deed she had committed earlier but she does seem to understand that “knot-head” is his pet name for her….and I do use the word pet name a bit loosely.

The moral of the story? Well, I’m not sure. A cat will be a cat? A mole will eat your yard? A husband will tolerate the wife’s pet if it proves its worth? I don’t know if there is a moral. There was no joy in the loss of life but I do hope to be rid of a trenched yard.

Better to be a cat than mole I suppose………and what about those naked mole rats—ahhhh… that is another story for another day—until then,happy Wordless Wednesday…