Moss gardens, blue boots and other assorted miscellanea

I didn't take this picture myself and I don't know where it came from, but I had to post it because it so gorgeously illustrates my latest obsession – the moss garden. I've been collecting little pieces of moss everywhere and storing it in jars, making little tiny terrariums, tucking it in under the feet of house plants ... It's just the most beautiful color, and so fuzzy, and I love the different forms. Some look like tiny little ferns; others grow in clusters like stars, or miniature aloes or succulents. And for some reason in this driest of winters in as long as I can easily remember, it seems prudent to keep in my mind's eye the image of the lush, green, wet winters I hope will soon return .....

Here's a selection that Mr. A collected for me yesterday from the flower beds next to my office. Two different kinds, plus some oak leaves. The little one on the top right is one I got out of the creek bottom today – slipping on a rock, smashing my knee and destroying a new pair of tights while simultaneously landing with one hand right in the middle of a dried up blackberry bramble. Yowch. Totally worth it, though.

They're resting at the moment on my favorite blue and white plate, by the way – the only one of its kind, which I liberated from the Bauhaus when I moved out in 1986 and have carted around with me like a sacred relic ever since. I've eaten dinner on that plate almost every day for almost 25 years! Not tonight, though.

In other news, this afternoon I went to the plant nursery to see if they had any button ferns in two inch pots (they did not, but are going to get me some by next weekend) and on the way back I decided to finally stop and check out the shop that's now open in the little house I lived in for almost nine years, across the valley on the highway into town.

I almost never even go over to that part of the valley anymore and when I do I make a point of Not going past my old house. It's true it was shabby and ramshackle even before I moved in, and didn't improve much in terms of structure or stamina in the time I lived in it, but I loved that little house so much, and took such care to make it my own space – I knew every tree, every flowering vine and bulb, every bush in the hedge, and planted so much more while I was there, including perennials and herbs and several fruit trees that are now producing beautifully (according to my friend who still keeps a studio in the back of the lot) – it sort of broke my heart to leave it, even though it was what made sense to do at the time, and still does.

So for almost three years I've avoided even looking at the house, preferring to remember it as it was when I lived in it. I could see from the road that the subsequent tenants had ripped down all the jasmine and climbing roses from the front porch and roof, and even that was more than I wanted to know. I also heard from two different sources that my beloved ancient walnut tree had been cut down, and the back of the lot down by the creek was being used as a dumping ground.

Anyway – I guess enough time has finally passed to secure my memories against the threat being overshadowed by a new view of the place ... So I decided to stop. Since it's now a shop that nobody lives in, I was hoping I would be able to actually go into the house and snoop around, instead of having to guess what was happening to it based on what little you can see over the fence, from the road.

Maybe you're one of those romantic types who's expecting me to say that I was pleasantly surprised – charmed, even – by the changes the new tenant has made. Maybe you think I'm going to say that I made my peace with the place at last, and was finally able to release my jealousy and wish it happiness in its new life with its new people ....

I would've loved it if that had happened. I guess in a way I did make peace with it, but not in the way I expected to. First I will say that the stuff they're selling there is not so much in the line of "antiques" as it is more run-of-the-mill "dusty and chipped old junk that smells like mold." They've broken out part of the fence and opened up the French doors from the kitchen onto the patio, which is piled up on one end with soggy old couch cushions, mildewed books, broken lamps and other detritus. The entrance to the shop is through these doors, and from there through the kitchen, which is somehow much, much smaller than I remember, and which looks broken down and depressed now that it's no longer being cooked in by candle light and lovingly cleaned with my special homemade lemony cleansers and filled with climbing plants and flowers and beautiful one of a kind plates and cups and crystal – from there you go into the living room, which is also much smaller than I remember, and similarly depressing in its garbagey clutter, dust, and smell of neglect. The stone fireplace is covered with black smoke stains that they haven't even bothered to remove.

Looking out the French doors into the front yard all I could see was more broken, rain-ruined junk strewn and stacked around, and a 20-foot eucalyptus tree that has sprung up right next to one of my Santa Rosa plums, close enough to kill it if they don't take care, which it doesn't appear they intend to do.

They've nailed up a plywood door in the bedroom doorway, so I wasn't able to see in there.

I did notice that the walnut tree has NOT been cut down, which made me happy. And my favorite little flowering almond in the front yard has buds on it, so at least I know they haven't killed that one yet (though most of the other things I planted are no longer there).

The positive side of this little excursion is that I've finally freed myself from the image I had in my head of that house as being the perfect place for me, that I had to abandon for love. Which it was, at the time, and which I did – and which I'm still glad that I did. But now, when I look around the house I share with Mr. A – which in my mind has never really measured up to the cottage I loved so much – I'm seeing it more for what it is: a solid, well-built house that is slowly being transformed more and more into a place I'm coming to love just as much as I loved that cottage. It's true it isn't as charming as the old house, but it also isn't falling apart – it isn't on a noisy highway – the rooms are bigger, the doors actually close, the water pressure is good, it has amazing views in every direction, and I'm not living in it alone, waiting for a good man to arrive in my life. He did arrive, and here we are together.

I still love the years I spent living in that little house, though. What I remembered today is that I'm loving my time in this house, too. I think allowing myself to take a good look at how that house has moved from the past into the present has helped me see more clearly where I really am right now, myself. I can't wait for Mr. A to get home so I can tell him about it.

As for the blue boots – there are two other buildings on that property, and right now all three of them are occupied by vintage retail shops, one of which is a new place specializing in hip western stuff and amazing boots. The pair I almost got were an amazing turquoise leather with a tall shaft and a low heel, and so close to a workable fit – but in the end I reined myself in enough to admit they were really at least a size too big, and so long I would've been constantly tripping over them. I know this because more than once or twice already in my life I've fallen in love with boots that are too big for me, and every time, I've lived to regret it. Once I came close to losing a tooth when I tripped while my hands were full and landed face-first on the pavement. Those were the cherry suede shearling-lined Dansko boots that stained the cuffs of my jeans red ....

So – no blue boots for me today. Besides, boot season is almost over now. Soon it will be time to start scouting for clonky platform sandals again. Actually I guess that time is already here – so let the stalking begin!

P.S. He also had these, which were too small – unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on how much you would've loved/cringed at seeing me tear it up at the next farmer's market dance party in leopard fur platform shortie boots.