we are the not the first on the trail after fresh snow. there have been many. boots, deer tracks, dog prints, raccoon hands, horseshoes, even something with tire tread. many.
but it is of no less value to us – this trail – because others have walked it before us. and it is of no less import.
often, after a snow or a melt, there are indications of the alternate trails hikers have taken – to avoid icy snow or slippery mud. we follow those sidetrails, grateful for the wisdom of those before us. their experience suggested to us a different way to go – a decision point. often, we have been grateful after following that which seemed to help mold our choice. and, often, we have seen the impact after not following. falling is falling.
the trail – and how to deal with ice or mud or other tricky impasse – far less potent than the things we now must muster up from helpful hints on the trail of life, learnings of the past, from lessons and decisions of the wise before us.
now we must deal with the dastards and dastardly all around us. now we must make informed decisions about the future – with history as our guiding force, discerning. now we must act with conscience – pushing back against any sway of the temptation of quiet, pushing back against any catalyst of evil. now we must empower ourselves with knowledge – with the vast volume of perspectives that can ground us in truth and integrity, that can point the way to holding this democracy.
many have come here before us.
we need remember that – in any shape or form – falling is falling.
it’s dark when dogga’s cold nose wakes us; it stays dark while we sip coffee. we watch out the window and talk quietly, waiting for the sky to lighten and the sun to rise. we have happy lights on the windows over our headboard and those are lit as we wait for natural light to fill our room.
but now – in the middle of all the chaos happening, the middle of this dark period of time, the middle of sadness and disappointment and fear, the middle of divisiveness and rifts and anger, the middle of uncertainty and insecurity – now, we light this lodgepole pine. every morning. it is directly in front of us – through the single french door and across the sitting room. its light is a beacon for us, not even an exaggeration to say this mustard seed is like a lighthouse.
we’ve – of course – taken down all the holiday decorations. everything looks a bit drab in comparison to the sparkle we all add to the season. but we’ve added some more happy lights, cause, dayummm, we truly need them. on the ficus tree. on the old door that stands against the wall in the living room. in the sunroom. and candles at night – wherever we are.
you may tire of hearing of our happy lights – and i understand if you’re already there. we all have to do what helps keep us centered, keep us grounded, keep us vigilant, keep us hopeful. happy lights are what do it for us.
i remember, years ago, visiting mammoth cave. we purchased tickets for the tour that takes you down, down, down underground, where you walk the walkways of the cave, where they take a moment to turn off all the lights so that you might experience the darkness of that place. it’s bracing. i have decided i am not a cave person. i cannot imagine the intense difficulty of working in the mines; i cannot imagine exploring caves for research. some people have way more moxie than i do.
the things happening in this country are beginning to feel as dark as that immense cave system. no, that’s generous. they do feel as dark as that cave, as dark as any cave beneath any towering mountain, deep into the earth, without light.
it seems obvious we need to choose a luminary. we need to gather and stoke this light. we need to bring everything we’ve got. if we wish this sea-to-shining-sea to remain a democracy, we need to stand in the light, light up all the dark dank corners of vitriol and authoritarianism, shine light on that which is hidden, on twisted lies and untruths that protect the most powerful. we – bravely – need to speak up and speak out. we need to expose the shadows for what they are.
and if it takes happy lights to get there, then so be it.
i am – truly – not quite sure how we would survive without this trail.
it offers sanity in a world that seems to be losing its very center. it offers quiet in a world noisy with horrific news. it offers peace in a country that doesn’t seem to understand peace any longer.
we breathe on this trail.
we talk about other things – projects and dreams.
we get lost in our own thoughts.
we – know – in the way nature makes clear – we are simply two tiny parts in a big whole.
blogsites supply some analytics about your blogposts. wordpress can tell us which posts are viewed, how many views, how many visitors we have, their countries of origin. the site, however, is not totally protected against bots, so some of the information – when the numbers seem exponential – is obviously generated by non-human sources. there are moments i laugh – or sigh – and say things to d like, “wow. like they have nothing better to do in name-a-country than to sit around reading reverse threading, eh?” i know better. my words are not likely to assuage – or even be the vaguest bit interesting – to people in dire circumstances, in countries full of upheaval or war, in places where trying to find just a bit of food is paramount. i am humbled by people who are in such drastic conditions or situations.
we have a thing about our shadows. and our feet, too, truth be told. there are many photographs on my camera that depict our shadows or our feet in a wide array of places. “we’ve been here,” i feel like these say.
it’s like a footprint. though the prints and tracks around us in this picture will fade with snow or rain or other prints and tracks, they will never really go away. the imprint will always remain part of the texture of the path, a part of the fabric of the trail.
i feel like our shadows are the same. though the moment the clouds move across and block the sun, the moment the sun dips below the horizon, the moment we move on – our shadows seemingly disappear. yet, something in me feels that they actually remain. our shadows – like the shadows of deer crossing the path to find shelter in the bramble, the shadows of hawks and a bald eagle or two above, the shadows of squirrels scurrying or horses elegantly cantering through, even the shadows of fuzzy caterpillars making their way – they all remain part of the many layers of what has existed, what has passed by, what remains in the energy of that place.
there are people imperiled in every corner of our world and there are people honing cruel skill at the denigration of others. there are people thriving in closely-held self-actualized dreams and there are people burdened with feelings of failure. there are people who are always the helpers and people who hostage-take others’ well-being. we all add to the energy of the world.
i feel like i really would like to do my best to make sure my shadow adds even the tiniest bit of goodness to the vibrating atoms of this world. being outside reminds me of the evanescence of it all, the transitory of us.
(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)
and so…
it is almost a week prior to this day that i am writing this.
i just found out that my cousin tony died. my dad’s sister’s son, we had only reconnected in the last few years and had not – yet – re-met each other. this makes me inordinately sad today. in a busy world that sorted its way through the pandemic and then hence, a visit together had not yet happened. time did not wait.
i didn’t know he was ailing, and maybe he wasn’t. maybe it was sudden. either way, it came as a shock to me and i could feel it contract my heart, squeezing it and eliciting regrets.
i hope – now – that we will someday meet cousin tony’s family…his children, his grandchildren. i hope to hear some more stories. i hold onto his older postings, politically in alignment with my own thoughts and beliefs, grateful for his assertiveness and candor. i hold tenderly onto those moments we had on the phone together – two cousins who missed out on sharing life together.
my dad’s sister – my aunt helen – had four children. with the exception of cousin maria, they were all older than me by years. that rift thing that fractures families sometimes – that I’ve written about before – took most of the years. the remaining years and months and days that have passed have taken three of my cousins. my cousin linda remains. in a tiny family, it seems important to travel east and spend actual moments together.
this has been a season. there has been much loss for many people around us. every single time we think we have time – in the future – with someone, i feel as if we learn that might not be so…we are reminded that there is no lock on – no tenacious hold – we have on life itself. we can try our best but these moments keep ticking and we are just lucky enough to be in them.
the sky was brilliant out the front door. i called d to come and see it.
the phone’s camera doesn’t really capture it. the colors were so much more vivid. the dusk so much more palpable. the intake of breath so much more visceral. falling into the pause – a moment of the infinite.
and we got to see it.
that’s the thing. it’s all there to see – always. connection, beauty, love.
it boils down to standing on the front porch, gazing at the sky.
we have two pinecones on the mantel. because, well, in these times, under these circumstances, in the middle of this middle, one pinecone doesn’t seem like enough.
we enter the new year.
and we draw on the pinecone – its symbolism is hopeful with descriptors of meaning like resilience, regeneration, connection to higher consciousness, abundance, good fortune and protection. right now, there is not much i wouldn’t put on the mantel to ward off negative influences.
pinecones on the trail always get my attention. there’s something about the starkness against the snow that is simply beautiful. and, on this day when everything was so vivid, this pinecone invited me to kneel down and capture it.
if there was anything i would like to remember – every single day – this new year, it would be just that – that everything is vivid, everything is inviting our notice. i would hope to remember to pay heed to all that is around me – even the simplest of it all, the seemingly inconsequential. i would hope to remember to kneel in the snow.
for as each day ends i feel that i will find – as i sort through the hours and minutes – that it was the least of it all that made me feel most alive, the least of it all that made me know that my one, wild life includes pinecones and deer tracks, cold fog over the lake, dogga’s sighs, the holding glance from d, the suspended ninth. it includes the belly laughs, sous-cheffing next to each other, the first sip of coffee, our favorite trail. it includes new gutters and rube goldberg fixes, fuel pumps and matching flannel pjs. it includes the birds at our feeder, the squirrels on the wires, the last hugs we had from our kids, the sun lingering in a pink-peach-fire dusk sky.
sometimes the most important stuff is the least important stuff. the things that carry us from one day to the next in troubled times, the things that sustain our will and buoy our faith, the things that give us courage and let us exhale.
the pitter-patter of dogga’s feet is what will wake us this morning. he has no awareness that it is christmas morning, no concern about santa claus or light or manger scenes or presents or even non-stop holiday music radio. he just wants us to wake up, to turn the coffee on, to feed him breakfast, to let him out. his routine is the same every day – every single day. it is most definitely an aussie thing, even over and above being a dog-thing.
and we’ll sit under the quilt and the comforter and sip coffee, leaning back against a pile of pillows, watching as the sun rises in the sky out our windows. the skinnytree will be lit in the sitting room off our room so that we can gaze at the happy lights in the dark room as we talk, with dogga curled on the bed at our feet.
when d goes to make breakfast, i will sit and ponder previous christmas mornings, thinking about our daughter and son when they were little, when they dove into the bed trying to wake us, to convince us to open the louvered doors into the living room where we could see if santa had actually come to our house. and then, as the years started to go by, we would wait for them to wake up, to stumble with pjs and maybe blankets, to open stockings first, to rip into brightly-wrapped gifts and hear the glee of such a morning.
it’s quiet here today. all the happy lights will be lit, the trees gleaming, the music playing. we’ll cook and eat heartily, go for a hike in the woods. hopefully we will talk – even briefly – to our girl and boy and perhaps a few other calls. maybe we’ll play rummikub. maybe we’ll have a bonfire out back. maybe we’ll sing at my piano. it will be our intention to have a day of light.
in the midst of everything – everything – going on with us, around us and in concentric circles that widen out to include our community, our nation, our world, we will continue to intend light.
because – ultimately – “goodness is stronger than evil. love is stronger than hate.” (desmond tutu)
we are back door people. we haven’t always been back door people, but years ago the handle on the front door refused to unlock properly, so the only sensible thing to do was become back door people. and so, ever since then, i could count the number of times we have used the front door as our entry – even since the locksmith came and fixed the front door lock.
but lately – with the significant amount of ice on our driveway from the ice-damming of which you are weary of reading about – we have been parking in the driveway a bit further down and – drumroll – going in the front door.
this confuses the dog. he has gotten used to our entry through the backdoor – it’s been the norm for most of his life. when we come in the front door, he arrives in the living room looking a bit befuddled. but dogga comes around quickly – acknowledging our arrival home – and his aussie wigglebutt starts wagging.
i have to say – though it’s been quite a while now since the locksmith smithed the lock – having two options as doors feels rather decadent. and gives one a different perspective on one’s home.
i haven’t been an attached-garage person for three and a half decades – though that was fun while it lasted. the never-get-wet, never-get-cold, never-get-hot, never-get-misted on – all of that – is rather nice. but that ended in florida and I wouldn’t trade the non-attached-garage personhood identity for florida residency.
so. the front door.
because we used to exit LBS or big red and walk down the driveway toward the garage and through the ever-popular metal accordion-folding ghetto fence, up the deck steps and across the deck to the back door, we would see back yard things on our way in. we’d gaze and stop and comment – on breck-our-aspen, on the flowers, on the deck seating areas, on the birdfeeder or birdbath birds, on the squirrels – whatever caught our interest, struck our fancy.
now – at least in these last two weeks – we have been – really – noticing the front door stuff. it is impossible to not appreciate the grasses as you walk to the front door. and in these last snowfalls, these grasses are utterly gorgeous. bent under the weight of the heavy sticky snow, they gracefully give to the season, knowing that their return in the spring and summer will be mighty. each blade, each frond – yellowed with autumn – now covered with pristine white fluff.
when you allow things to take your breath away – even simple things – it is amazing how many things will do just that.
one of these days we will go back to primarily using the back door. there’s always lots to see, despite how well we know these bitty routes in daily life.
these icicles are not for the meek. we are, luckily, not meek. we are well-versed in icicles and in the removal of icicles. well, at this moment, make that the continual removal of icicles.
the gutter guy came the other day. it was in the 20s out, so it felt like a heatwave. but not enough of a heatwave to do any work on the gutters. though we are scheduled for the future, we are still gutter-challenged, which makes us icicle-laden.
it helps to drive around our neighborhood of old houses and see other houses with hanging ice sculptures as well. usually, the only difference is that their sculptures are hanging off their extended soffit and fascia – something i wish we had on our steeply pitched cape cod roof. but alas, we don’t. so our icing is a tad more threatening to the inside of our home than theirs. suffice it to say, it does my heart good to see someone else with the same kind of gutter-roof setup as us. no, this is not schadenfreude. it is a shared sense of dread and a big outpouring of empathy.
so i try to take advantage of the unusual conditions and photograph the ice up close and personal, try to see the beauty of it, try to appreciate it. ahyup. it remains ice, nonetheless, and – for us – that is less than enthralling. were we to be viewing an icy waterfall or river we would be captivated. but the ice forming along our roof line holds little charm.
it is most definitely my hope that there is no ice on your roof, that your gutter flows freely, that no damn damming has come your way.
but if it has, know – in your heart – that we are in your camp, we stand – frozen – with you and it warms our heart to know we are not alone. we have wondered if there exist online support groups for ice-damming-survivors. we are ready to help with words of wisdom or tools of the trade should you need them.
we know its curves well. if they could whisper, they would share the secrets of our conversations – conversations of the last decade – times calm, times fraught.
if the curves could speak, the dirt we have kicked up with our boots would sputter and cough, spilling how many painful moments there have been on this trail, how many times one of us has wept.
if the curves could speak, the underbrush just to the side of what is worn down would rise and wave verdant leaves, singing about our triumphs or the laughter that has ridden the wind just above us.
if the curves could speak, they would talk of the ping-ponging of decisionmaking, decisions discussed, decisions debated, decisions made – all on this trail.
if the curves could speak, they would mournfully tell of regrets, of disappointments, of trauma.
if the curves could speak, they would opine on our opining…of health, of politics, of purpose, of relationship, of faith.
if the curves could speak, they would – with glee – share the tiny goodnesses they had overheard, the learnings they had witnessed, the big abundances they had eavesdropped.
if the curves could speak, they would brush the air with words that describe something fluid, something everchanging, something they have helped to not be rigid.
if the curves could speak, they would wordbubble with every shape and form of love, spoken and shouted, sung and murmured.
if the curves could speak, they would give up our secrets – every last one of them.
but the curves cannot speak. and they hold close our hushed voices, our loud voices, our confusion, our tears, our anger, our laughter.
they could not know how much knowing them has aided us, comforted us, pushed us, reassured us.
and i suppose we could not know how well they know us.
spent. the at-least-ten-foot-tall sunflower by the library looks spent. but oh, no, it is not spent. the transience of its time – of time itself – is just the beginning of a new phase, a new purpose, a new cycle. its seeds perpetuate its enduring soul. it keeps on.
“i’ve spent the past fifteen hundred days working tirelessly toward a single goal – survival. and now that i’ve survived, i’m realizing i don’t know how to live.” (suleika jaouad)
and so, here in the little garden just outside our favored library in town, this sunflower is still in its glory. tall, stately, i still catch my breath to see it. alone, it towers above all else there.
today we will have irish stew and mashed potatoes for dinner. it is not a traditional big turkey extravaganza nor is it a gathering of many at our table on this day. but we two will sit – with candles and cloth napkins and steaming bowls and bread – and we will give thanks for each person in each of our phases who have helped us work toward survival, helped us with endurance, with purpose.
we will be grateful for the full table in our dining room just two weeks ago, our beloved children, with us. we will offer up thanks for the food we will eat, for each other, for cherished ones, for being together. we’ll likely chat about thanksgivings of our growing-up, tales of earlier grown-up thanksgivings, thanksgivings when – to their delight – our childrens’ dad did an early-morning turkey-dance with the turkey, thanksgivings when our parents did the traditional end-of-the-table carving.
and we’ll dream about thanksgivings to come when – hopefully – this nation will have come back to its senses, when it will lead with gratitude and appreciation for all its people and its wildly fantastic diversity. we’ll ponder when extended families might return to the holiday table together, in love and generosity, with compassion for each other and all the others, all schisms laid out forever to rest. we’ll wonder about the seeds of the soul of this day – thanksgiving – and the true honesty and heart behind the honest and heartfelt wish – “happy thanksgiving” – we’ve heard so many times this week before today.
we are reminded every day – by something or other – that we all don’t really know how to live. it goes beyond survival, beyond the giant yellow bloom on the ten foot tall stalk. it stands the transience of time and its soul of goodness endures, cycle after cycle.
it is not spent.
and we are grateful for another chance to keep on.
reverse threading 