I have given bags of rhubarb to neighbors, frozen some, converted more into compote, and processed another five pounds into jam, a grapefruit-and-rhubarb combination that tastes like a sunny morning. This weekend I plan to challenge the family with a new recipe of braising brisket with honey and rhubarb. But despite my aggressive harvesting the rhubarb is endless, the thick rhizomes thriving under the hills of mulch and manure I unwittingly piled on top of them in the fall. Oh, well, at least this part of the yard is growing while the front’s conversion from lawn to vegetables has me chewing my lip over seedlings that sprout and then yellow.

Though I fret, I am enjoying this discovery of my new house, the secrets being revealed outside and in. I have delighted at the apple tree blossoms’ change from pink to white before falling like snow, and I have heard others’ voices echoing in small, dark corners as I discover handwritten notes that share the home’s history.

In the late afternoon the backyard beckons, and I decide dinner will be late so that I may spend time on the stoop, drinking a glass of wine and eating a bagel slathered with jam made from ruby-red stalks grown right here, because, you know, there is no place like home.

Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserves
Adapted from “Chez Panisse Fruit” by Alice Waters.

2 pounds rhubarb
2 grapefruit
4 cups sugar

Wash the rhubarb and cut it into 1/2 inch chunks. Peel the zest of the grapefruit and chop finely. Put the rhubarb, zest and sugar in a pot, and juice the grapefruits over it. Let the mixture stand for 30 minutes to allow the sugar to dissolve and the rhubarb to release its juice.

Sterilize 5 8-ounce canning jars and lids, following the manufacturer’s instructions. Put a small plate in the freezer to be used later to test the consistency of the jam.

Bring the pot of fruit to a boil over high heat, stirring to prevent it from sticking. Skim off any foam. Cook the jam, stirring often as it thickens. Begin testing its consistency by putting small spoonfuls of jam on the cold plate, which allows it to cool quickly in order to determine its thickness. When the jam has cooked to your preference, turn off the heat and ladle the jam into the prepared canning jars, allowing at least 1/4 inch of headroom. Seal with the lids according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Makes 5 cups.

“I was late so I changed into shorts while driving,” said a man sitting behind me in the bleachers.

“Were you wearing shorts underneath your pants?” a woman asked.

“No. I did it at three lights. At the first light, you take off both shoes. At the second light you pull off one pant leg. At the third light you pull off the other.”

Suddenly I remembered something I saw months ago while waiting at a red light. The driver of the car ahead of me had rolled down his window and shaken out a pair of jeans, then folded them up before driving off.

This morning I am kicking myself for not turning around to look at this one and the same man.

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A DIY brew by Raleigh Briggs, author of  “Make Your Own Place: Affordable, Sustainable Nesting Skills,” I have been mixing since the fall:

1 teaspoon liquid castile soap
2 tablespoons white vinegar
14/ teaspoon each of eucalyptus and lavender essential oil
3 drops tea tree oil
1 teaspoon borax
2 cups hot water

Mix all ingredients together in a spray bottle. You can use this on everything but glass. Spray it on, scrub and rinse off with a clean, damp cloth.

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A reason provided by Brenda Ueland, author of “If You Want to Write: A book about art, independence and spirit,” for not making it:

If you are always doing something for others, like a servant or a nurse, and never anything for yourself, you cannot do others any good. You make them physically more comfortable. But you cannot affect them spiritually in any way at all. For to teach, encourage, cheer up, console, amuse, stimulate, or advise a husband or children or friends, you have to be something yourself. And how to be something yourself? Only by working hard and with gumption at something you love and care for and think is important.

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Two questions wrung from a dishcloth pattern: Is there a part of you that is collecting dust? What are you going to do about it?

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And finally, something beautiful:

Charles Bukowski’s “The Blue Bird,” which begins:

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

The poem was adapted by Cambridge School of Art student Monika Umba.

In the morning a wind had blown the cherry blossoms from the trees, leaving the lawn looking as if a giant bottle of Pepto Bismol had spilled across the grass and trickled into the gutter. His wife’s footprints had made tracks in the yard as she left that morning, but he waited until evening, when the air was still and quiet, sweet with the smell of crushed petals, before he pulled out the lawn mower for a second straight day and ran it over the freshly mowed grass to chew up the flowers. It was then that the woman returned, walking the same direction along the street, around the same hour.

He was wearing large yellow headphones that protected his ears, and his eyes focused on the grass ahead of him as he concentrated on making smooth circles around the trees, so he saw her shoes first — black, scuffed, a sole peeling away from the toe to resemble an open, smiling mouth. His gaze jumped to her tan face, to hair graying, a thick stripe of pink braided through the silver and brown, to loose jeans tightly cinched around her waist, the ends caked with dirt, dragging and frayed, to her jacket with a sticker that he squinted to read, paying no attention to the drifts of petals he was mowing: We are Trayvon Martin. She looked ahead, not at him, and carried the two plastic bags.

The lawn mower ran into the hydrangea bush and stalled. He pulled off the headphones and could hear her — humming? As she passed, he could see that the letter H was still there, taped, yes, definitely taped, to her jacket. Harmonize, hypnotize, hallelujah.

He was happy she had returned.

For a second he considered jogging down the street, closing in on the heavy bags, the worn shoes, the tan jacket, all which he believed might be able to explain the letter H if he could only study them for long enough. Hurried, harlequin, happy. But the figure did not look happy with her curved back and bent head. Maybe helpful? Seattle had real, live superheros after all, people who dressed in costumes and patrolled the streets to keep them safe from thief and thug. There was one, he could not remember his name, who had gotten into trouble with the law because he had used something like pepper spray to breakup a fight. And what had happened? Had he sprayed the wrong people? Or had he hurt the assailants, who were now pressing their own charges of assault? Anyway, it had been in the paper and his identity was exposed. Maybe this was the helpful superhero, assisting the home-bound senior citizen, although a superhero who delivered groceries was dull. Humdrum, hidden, hairbrained, hoodwinked. Perhaps the woman did not know there was an H on her back, placed there by another passenger during a crowded bus ride, someone armed with duct tape and an intent to attach the letters of the alphabet to the backs of strangers. The paper had just carried a story about an old woman who had retired and chosen the goal of walking every street within Seattle’s border — a healthy endeavor, yet not as interesting as the goal of alphabet dispersion, of letters on the loose, wandering the streets of Seattle and inciting puzzlement.

As he wavered, the figure, the jacket, the letter all disappeared down the street. If he ran right now, he could look into the woman’s face and know what the H stood for. Of this he was certain. But for a second more he waited — hesitated, hovered, hemmed and hawed — and he felt the muscles in his legs relax. The decision to sprint or not had been made, and turning on his heels toward the house he brought the entire line of thought to a halt.

Rhubarb has sprouted in the piles of manure and mulch.

The ground is dry enough and the sun warm enough that I napped outside as kids played.

Everything is clipped: lawn, raspberry bushes and four heads of hair.

Backpacks haven’t moved from the corners where they were dropped.

Mornings are quiet, filled only with the sounds of Marcel preparing for work and me, writing.

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I’m anticipating the season’s first rhubarb soda and the return of the school week. What are you eagerly awaiting?

“They turned around, and they saw, there by the great rock –

wings, it seemed like hundreds of wings, spreading, folding, stretching –

and eyes

how many eyes can a drive of dragons have?

and small jets of flame …”

Yesterday I planted more seeds, breaking and scraping the soil that was dry and cracked from three consecutive days of warm breeze and sunshine. I lifted the layers of material that replaced the front lawn, pushing aside first mulch, then compost before I reached a thick layer of  straw. I had to tear the warp and weave of this mat that was threaded with worms in order to create an opening for the lavender and strawberry. Ivan joined me, breaking open the dried marigold pods and sprinkling them across the dirt. Together, we’ve planted sugar snap peas, fennel, cilantro, California poppies and rocket. I like this list, which runs down the back cover of my writing notebook alongside the column I’ve created for birds spotted in the backyard.

I was at the bedroom window when the cloud of birds returned a second time, swirling around the edges of the juniper. This time I locked my eyes on them, noting the plump body, long tail and short beak. They were the color of a desert in winter. Confident I had enough to get out my bird book, I thumbed through the pictures of brown-and-gray birds until I saw the bushtit, a tiny knitter who weaves a nest from grass and spider web into the shape of a sock and hangs it among the branches of a tree: My birds had a name. Psaltriparus minimu Once again I was thinking of Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wind in the Door.”

“Sandy got up and shut the door firmly. “You were gone long enough.”

“Did you count the stars or something?”

“We don’t have to count them,” Meg said. “They just need to be known by Name.” ‘

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In that spirit, the beanie’s name is “Fortnight” a pattern by Brooklyn Tweed. It was knitted in Shelter’s “button jar” and “hayloft” yarn, a targhee-columbia wool. Ivan says it’s pretty nice and cozy.

I pushed my way through warm air humming with bugs to stand at a muddy creek and watch cardinals chase each other through tree branches.

I sat in the clean silence of a Shaker museum.

I ate fried pies.

And fried catfish.

And fried corn.

I traveled alone, the first time in seven years. Oh my, that sounds so long, to have seven whole years pass since I was last responsible for no one but myself. I’d planned to write on the plane and fill pages as I traveled across the country, but I was too self-conscious to open my notebook.

My thoughts fluttered about me, drifted by like perfume, sweet but elusive.

Even after I arrived, I could not pin them down.

I’ve been to Tennessee to bless my niece, for I was was her godmother and it was my job to dry her off after her baptism and rub the sign of the cross onto her forehead with my thumb. But what I will remember is how her mouth was a tiny red butterfly and that she enjoyed chewing on the Sunday palms.

I’m back now, and it feels good, not as jarring this time.

Once again, I’m pushing my way through air that is cool and green.

I’m listening to updates on science projects and replays of missed soccer games.

I’m shouldering my half of the parenting responsibility and smiling at the sigh of relief from Marcel.

In my absence, the garlic has grown and mysterious mushrooms have sprung up between the shoots of wheat where my vegetable garden should be. Everything is okay.

TEN MINUTES OF TABLE CONVERSATION

FADE IN:

INT — DINING ROOM — EVENING

A family sits at the dinner table. The dad is at one end of the table. On either side of him are twin sons, SAM and MAX. The mom sits at the other end of the table, and on her left is older daughter, CHAJA. A younger son, IVAN, is playing off-stage. The meal is almost over.

MOM
(over sounds of IVAN playing off stage)

Now Max, why do you need to build a volcano for your science fair project?

MAX
(bending his head and mumbling into his plate)

To show how baking soda and vinegar will explode.

DAD

What? Speak up, Max. What does a volcano have to do with baking soda and vinegar?

MAX
(still speaking into his plate, but louder)

It looks cool, and last year a kid did it and he won an award.

MOM
(sending a look of help-me-out-here to DAD)

Couldn’t you use a cup and not mess around with the volcano?

MAX
(finally looking at his parents)

But it wouldn’t look cool.

DAD
(grinning at MOM)

So why a volcano and not a nose? Stuff could spew out of the nostrils.

(Laughter from ALL)

CHAJA
(from over her shoulder as she heads into the kitchen)

Yeah! You’d get a ton of votes.

SAM

Or you could build a penis.

(Hoots, followed by more laughter and red faces)

IVAN
(Off-stage, singing)

Penis! Penis! Penis!

DAD

Whoa! Now that would get you some attention, probably get you kicked out of the science fair and maybe even make it into the paper.

MAX
(grinning)

Yeah, I could build this giant penis and have –

MOM

O-kaaaay. No more! No more! The volcano’s fine. You can do the volcano, and I can see you boys have been paying attention in sex ed.

FADE TO BLACK.

My Life as a Screenplay, Act One: Five Minutes of Afternoon

The music is heavy in some pipes, lighter in others. Sometimes I hold my ear to a pipe and hear nothing at all. My children run their hands on the pipes that look as if they hold a hundred years of rust, but really are made from plastic and wood and paint. They feel the vibrations from the music hidden inside, while their eyes untangle the tubes in order to determine where the songs will be repeated. One of them discovers a new opening and silently gestures for me to listen to the song’s deep drone, slightly less than menacing and falling just short of foreboding, it travels through the foundation of rock and soil, through the old wood floor and into my ears.

I step back, listening to the room converse with my children, waiting a little longer before catching their eyes and pointing to the door. Outside, we sigh as if we’d been holding our breaths.

Wow, one says.

Did you notice how our ears became more attune to the music, so what sounded like a silent room when we entered, vibrated and hummed when we left? I ask.

Maybe someone turned up the volume, another suggests.

How long were we there? the third asks.

A half-hour.

Wow.

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Uprising at the Suyama Space is a collaboration between artist Rick Araluce and composer Steve Peters. It ends April 13.