by the time it was late enough to see both, we were tired. saturn and the moon were supposed to be sharing close space in the night sky, but it was cloudy and we seriously needed to sleep. the show went on without us, somewhere behind the clouds a glorious celestial ballet.
and the universe carries on with universe stuff. our planet earth still rotates on its axis and moves through its elliptical revolution around the sun with gravity keeping us in check in the solar system. through no effort on our part, it all just happens.
but when the universe picks up high-powered binoculars and zeroes in on planet earth, i wonder about how it views what’s really going on. when the universe dons readers and looks at the fine print of what humanity is really doing to its mother earth and its inhabitants, i wonder if there is a sinking feeling, a loss of hope, gossamer strands of what-is-goodness floating off and off, sans gravity.
lucky for us that – despite insane efforts at denying climate change, an abhorrent lack of environmental responsibility, vicious bigoted and hideous genocidal initiatives, flippant care of wildlife and natural resources, what seems a staunch dedication to a lack of peace-on-earth – we – on this floating globe – somehow are granted another day.
it’s no surprise we’re tired. it’s no surprise a lot of people are tired.
there were multiple times – when my sweet momma was here on this earth – that i brought her yellow roses. they were something special between us – an expression of love between mother and daughter.
yellow roses have a different significance than red. they are indicative of friendship, the deep bonds of love, warmth and joy, fresh starts, gratitude, hope. i read that in japan yellow roses symbolize courage and inner strength.
months ago, a dear friend gave me a small mini yellow rose plant, likely purchased at the floral section of a grocery store. it had several miniature yellow roses blooming and several buds in the waiting when i received it and i figured that it – like other more temperamental plants – would run its course.
it is months later. and the yellow rose is still in its original pot. it appears to love its residence next to the old garden table, on the deck, sharing a bit of space with the basil. it has flourished – bud after bud, bloom after bloom. it has embraced life beyond our expectation. even now, with its leaf-nod to the approaching fall, it has three buds – three bursts of beauty in the offing.
and, every day i look at it i think of my sweet momma. and i wonder about how this particular plant has been so resilient. i wonder if it had a littlebitta help from her.
i wonder if this plenty – this profusion of buds and blooms are tiny messages from her – sent in love, delivering bravery and perseverance. they are certainly well-timed.
and – if my sweet momma is the one whose green thumb from some other plane of existence has helped along this little plant aspiring to burst past what’s expected, to burst past little-life – i remember she is the same woman who wrote: don’t underestimate me…
the headline on the catalog page read: don’t just go somewhere. be somewhere.
i lounged in the gravity chair on our deck and looked up. just beyond the peaked roof of our house, inbetween the pine tree and our westneighbor’s tv antenna, with the wire that stretches across our driveway stretched right through it, there it was:
the clouds had drawn the sun. exactly like i would have done it had i had big fat sidewalk chalk in my hand and i was drawing on the breezy jet-streamed canvas of the sky: an arc for the sun, rays coming from the hot center. it was obvious, clear, pretty doggone cool.
i grabbed the phone to take a picture and, before it disappeared as if someone had lifted the cellophane on a magic slate, drew it to d’s attention. we were both a tiny bit giddy at this small gift in the sky.
and that’s how i want to live. being somewhere. in each moment.
with all the horrific going on, it is not hard to wonder about time limits on presence.
so – in addition to paying attention, to drawing attention, to downright attentiveness attention to all of that horrific – i’m going to pay attention, draw attention, be downright attentively attentive to being here.
and down the road, around the corner, in the littlefreelibrary just off the sidewalk, the sesame street gang spoke to the wild range of emotions i was feeling.
“happy and sad, grouchy and glad” was facing the glass door of the wooden library box, just waiting to be taken home.
thinking of how many lessons i learned from sesame street and its – clearly woke – characters – even as a parent of young children back in the day – i was tempted. sesame street’s diversity, embrace of differences and handling of difficult topics of injustice was a breath of fresh air….clearly too loving and kind for today’s anti-empathy-anti-free-speech-anti-inclusivity-anti-equality-anti-compassion-anti, well, anti-democracy crowd. it’s exhausting. sad and grouchy don’t even touch it.
i pointed out the book to d as we walked by and we both laughed when i said that it was the perfect book – the understatement of the wild ride of emotions that we have living in this country at this time. i would extract happy and glad to relate only to our personal lives and not the state of the unconscionable insanity of this country.
i didn’t read the book – we didn’t even stop and take it out of the littlefreelibrary. though if we walk past it again today, i might just do that. it might help.
i want to see how elmo and grover and cookie monster deal with the roller coaster of feelings. goodness knows i have some trouble with that these days.
i don’t honestly think that john lennon’s song needs much explanation or needs me to go on and on about my own yearning for a peaceful, compassionate world.
this tiniest flower of spanish needles reminds me of tenacity…as every plant produces about 1200 seeds to ensure its continued propagation – its desire to be in this world.
to be in this world…to be a part of this universe…to be valued.
we walk – when we walk in the ‘hood – past this plant every day. and every day i am enchanted by these tiny blossoms, in each phase of their living, each season they exist.
and i wonder how so many people – so cavalier – so uncaring – right-here-right-now – in this country – find it so hard to care about the very existence of other people when it is really so very easy to be grateful for the even the tiniest flower.
because we really needed to, we went for a hike that day. we went to the trail where we have processed much life. because this was a day in which we needed just that – a place to process.
the first snake we encountered was motionless, but in the dirt of the path. we gently lifted it and placed it in the trailside vegetation, out of harm’s way. the second and third snakes were also in the middle of the trail and we moved them as well, for there were several bikers zooming their way around and we were worried these snakes wouldn’t be visible in time.
and then there was the praying mantis. there it was, just waiting for us as we rounded the bend. it allowed me to get up-close, taking several pictures of it – its forelegs folded as it watched for prey. it looked at over at me and i talked to it, a tiny bit envious of its ability to remain zen-like in such an uncertain moment.
repositioning the praying mantis would have been much more difficult than the snakes, so we didn’t move it and we hoped that it would nimbly move on – with its impossibly delicate, needle-thin legs – across the trail in its quest for food.
we looked for our mantis the second time around our looped trail but it had disappeared. it left us with its memory – a rare sight for us – and with affirmation, symbolic meanings that were, indeed, timed well.
for praying mantis encounters symbolize things like good luck and stillness, spiritual guidance and courage and strength. we read that it also can be indicative of divine protection, a messenger.
praying mantises are masters of disguise – blending in. they are still and patient; their camouflage in nature – looking like twigs or grass – helps them find prey. this graceful green creature – showing up to us on the anniversary of the day of d’s dad’s passing – seemed serendipitous.
to be mindful and still, patient and strong and courageous…in the middle of uncertainty…all the messages we needed on that very day.
“i go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.” (john burroughs)
planted in a barnwood planter – one that is split in half where the top half balances on the bottom half – I have been tending this mint all summer. we have used it in suntea all through these months. it’s made a few appearances in quinoa tabouli. and then.
then – all of a sudden – it went dormant. the stems were leggy and leafless. it seemed done. i snipped it all back, tossing the dried stems behind the potting stand, and i resolved to buy mint for the remainder of the suntea season. and then.
then – all of sudden – there it was. a few new sprigs and a few more. yesterday, i picked mint for the fresh jug of tea and took a few pictures of the new lush green leaves.
petsitter ann had told us to beware – that the mint would take over the garden were we to plant it in the ground. so we heeded her advice and chose this planter instead. i’ve already decided it will be the mint planter again next year. because we will surely need mint again next year.
we’ll need it so that we can watch its zealous growth – bursting from the very beginning, right out of the nursery pot.
we’ll need it for our cool tea, for our tabouli, for the zucchini parmesan pasta dish.
we’ll need it to gauge the hot sun and the water levels of our other plants – it responds to changes in weather and moisture, giving us good indicators for tending our other herbs as well.
we’ll need it to watch firsthand something that, well, just isn’t very fussy about stuff.
and we’ll need it to remind ourselves of the regenerative power of spirit – that even if something seems passé, even if something seems dried-up – done – out-of-season – even if something seems downright irrelevant – there is still an ever-lit pilot light.
here at the end of september – heading rapidly into october – elton john’s “your song” lyrics – “how wonderful life is while you’re in the world” – are relevant to me. we soon will celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary and life is truly wonderful for me because david is in it.
so the card at the antique shoppe caught my attention as we passed by it a couple weeks ago.
just as quickly as that charming card caught my attention, so did one hanging on a rack below it: “i tolerate you“.
putting them together – a yin-yang spectrum – they made me laugh aloud and i showed david. because – you know – blissful adoration and barely tolerating someone go hand in hand.
we both had a good laugh then. people in the shoppe stopped and looked at us. we kept laughing.
as we move through the days remaining of our ten married years and into the beginning of our eleventh married year – particularly at this time in our lives – we take heart in this laughter. as victor borge said, “laughter is the closest distance between two people.“
it’s one of the things i love most – laughing together. particularly when i am feeling tolerant of him.
“we are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” (dr. seuss)
reverse threading 