and in the middle of the night – him sleeping like a baby and snoring like a freight train – while i am sitting there, wide awake, gazing adoringly at his smug-sweet-sleeping-snoring face – as much as i remind myself my insomnia is not his fault – it is neither his joy or his angst – it is not his to own or relinquish – it is not his to have and to hold – he tends to bug me just the teensiest-tiniest-minutest-nanoscopicest-infinitesimalest-bit.
and from my tiny home under the clover, i can look up and see that maybe the sky is clearing and the rains have stopped. the whole town has put up black umbrellas; some are bent from the wind and most are taller than they are wide, so it’s still easy to get caught in the downpours. and i can see – over there – the brown fulton birdcage umbrellas all set up, rounded bubbles – but everything that has been drenched is now drying a bit and it’s all verdant green and lush. it’s time to carry on.
i’m leaving my little home under the clover to go back out into the world. to see its giantness and feel the arriving sun and appreciate the balance of sunsoaked and rainsoaked, to try and understand the relationship between lack and abundance, to navigate the seesaw of positive and negative.
i see that it is quite possibly all about perspective. for the birds flying over our umbrella-world don’t see us here and, from our vantage point under the umbrella canopy, we don’t see them there. it’s only in the open field that we see each other, in the open field we can discern and hear each other, in the open field we can find truth.
my perspective has gotten lost from time to time, focused merely on my own parched landscape and drenching rainstorms. stepping out, looking around, taking stock – i see past the tiny market-umbrella-town in which i’ve taken shelter.
and i am no longer silent. there is much to be said, much to be learned.
and in the sun i’ll revel. and in the rain i won’t carry an umbrella.
in the way that dads are corny, my sweet poppo was just that – a little bit corny. somehow, it seems it’s supposed to be that way. his humor was lighthearted and the way he repeated some jokes was comforting. “do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” he’d quip. waiting just a few seconds, he’d respond to himself – if you didn’t beat him to it – “not if it’s in cans!!” and then he’d laugh. every time.
i think he was buying time to think when he’d quip about the rhubarb. it wasn’t like he was intently concerned about the rhubarb. matter of fact, i only remember them growing rhubarb maybe one or two years, back behind the house. and even then, it wasn’t like he was a huge rhubarb fan. i think the only way he liked it was with strawberries – in a pie.
but his jokes were harmless and predictably silly. no stand-up routine for him, he was just daddy-o, trying his best to carry on. and because he wasn’t a giant conversationalist – he turned that over to my sweet momma – he’d just fill in the gaps. “well, how do you like them apples?” he’d say.
i’m pretty sure he’d had loved the corn we grew in our backyard this summer. the squirrels and chippies had everything to do with this crop. they’d deplete the birdfeeder in mere hours, tossing kernels and seeds everywhere. i have no doubt where the cornfield came from. but it was pretty astounding to see. we suddenly became prolific mini-farmers.
it was everywhere. next to breck, our aspen. inbetween the ornamental grasses. under the birdfeeder. under the potting bench with our herbs. next to the garage. yesterday we found it in the front garden bed.
i could hear david’s dad columbus chuckle from the other side when we found it in the front garden. a cornfield-lover from way back, i figure he might have had something to do with that. we laughed as well, delighted in a – hmmm – corny kind of way.
for the longest time we left it all right where it was. there was something really pleasing about glancing out at the corn.
but then we decided it was time to pull it out, so that it wouldn’t suffocate our intentional plantings. we took pictures and then pulled it, thanking it for the entertainment it had provided.
outside on the driveway we talked to our westneighbors. we talked about our hummingbirds and our feeders and the birdbaths we had placed in our yards and the chippies and squirrels stealing seed and the birds gathering in the bushes. we were all zealous, loving the little creatures in our yards. “we’ve turned into our parents,” i noted and we all nodded and laughed.
and then, there it was. in our pond. the first frog in a couple years.
it was helen, who is steeped in her gift of faith, who told us the significance of having a frog appear. “f-r-o-g,” she said, “fully-rely-on-God.”
it is astounding how very much the appearance of this frog means to us. in the middle of the middle, a nod (or hop) of reassurance is unbelievably gratifying.
not every frog likes a photo shoot, but “hope” participated nonetheless. she was shier than most of our other frogs, but maybe that’s because she’s just getting to know us. one of our frogs – 2020 maybe? named “pando” – actually let me pet it, stroke its head and speak to it up close.
regardless, we’re a tad bit worried because it is so late in the year. she arrived on the equinox and the fall weather will race past the starting gate, sprinting to winter.
there are heartstrings attached to this vw. mine. it’s been a part of my life since 1971, although it wasn’t specifically mine then. it became mine in 1976, when i “bought” it from my sweet poppo for a token amount of money. just to do the math for you – so you don’t have to (even if you don’t want to know) – that is 47 years ago. this little super beetle has been mine for 47 years.
and it still is.
now it resides in the one spot in our one car garage, next to the lawnmower and the solo stove, a little bit of potting soil and some spare clay pots, the wheelbarrow with the flat tire, under the eaves with the old screen door and the snow rake, the tricycle and the little red wagon, a couple of old webbed aluminum lawn chairs and two zero gravity lounges, just far enough away from the bikes suspended on j hooks, covered with a couple dropcloths, keeping the dust off.
i love it.
it has history, as most things dating back 47 years. it was purchased in germany brand new and my parents drove it all over europe. i was there the day we picked it up on the docks in ny after it was shipped to the states. i was there the day my parents fell in love with a giant painting of fjords listed for sale at a seafood restaurant and it wouldn’t fit in the bug so after dinner we waited while my dad drove home to get the other car. i was there when driving in snow, i slid directly into the curb and nothing happened. i was there when my sweet dog missi pooped in the backseat well. i was there adventuring, layer-caking jobs, buying cornflakes to survive, with the windows down blasting 1970s AM radio. i was there with my bug on the beaches, out east on the island, driving in the humid heat of florida, in wisconsin the day i went into labor with my baby girl. i was there on the re-homing drives from new york to florida, florida to wisconsin, state to state. through thick and thin it has been a constant. even if it’s in the garage. even not driving.
i suppose my dad would say to sell it. and i’ve thought about it. there is likely someone out there who would relish rebuilding the engine again, re-oiling its joints and changing out rubber stuff that needs changing. (personally, i sort of like the idea of that restoration project myself.) and then, the bug would be driven and gleeful.
but i don’t know. i mean, even director/producer ron howard drives an old cherished bug around california. so there are other people who “get it” – driving an old bug around here – or anywhere else one might live.
both my kids (and probably most people who know me) can attest to my threadiness. so no one would be surprised that this little bug is still in the garage. i am heartened by the fact that my neighbor has an old triumph in her garage, same sort of story. it’s nice not to be the only one…
we pushed it out of the garage to clean – a yearly (or so) event. checking for evidence of chippies homesteading, with a soft sponge and a microfiber cloth i gently washed it. and then i did a photo shoot as it smiled and mugged for the camera. it knows how much it’s loved.
my sweet poppo died three years before my sweet momma. when she died, the tilt that my world had already felt dove down into a deeper angle, the axis of the earth struggling to keep it in balance. the loss of both parents is profound, no matter your age.
it had been years since i had heard or seen a blue jay. they were common where i grew up, the screeches of jays in the woods or the trees surrounding our home. they have husky voices, always a little bit raspy. but they make me think of home.
i still remember the first day i saw one – after. it’s a few years ago now.
we were hiking on one of our favorite trails and suddenly i could hear them. they flew across the path and i stood still, reveling in the moment, taking it in. since that day, there have been more sightings and i have heard their birdcalls, even out our bedroom window from time to time.
since they are a common bird in wisconsin, i wonder how it is i missed them.
and i realize that sometimes the way home – the sound of a blue jay – is something we just don’t pay attention to, something that falls down on the list of priorities. until one day.
the day comes that all the really important stuff comes into focus. and we realize that we have – maybe – taken for granted the stuff that really is a part of who we are. we slough off paying attention to those things, those places, those people because we believe that there is plenty of time – later. or perhaps there are reasons we cannot grant grace to those things, those places, those people and we somewhat haughtily, in some selfish kind of righteous amnesia of our own actions, put them to the side, the corners of our hearts. or maybe we are just too busy and we have gotten lost, overwhelmed in our very real and partly contrived busy-ness.
any way you look at it, i am surprised i didn’t see the blue jays. until after.
now i hear them, see them, find their feathers in the usualness of our days. each time it is like a tiny nod to home, to all the moments of goodness, to the realness of unconditional love in the midst of the ridiculous hardness of life.
the volunteer morning glory just showed up. all of a sudden. in-between the cornstalks growing under our birdfeeder, when the sun was low in the sky, its quiet blue-purple peeked out. i – literally – ran to it. and there, tucked in, were two beautiful morning glory blooms. but – absent – were the infamous heart-shaped leaves. i googled it. an unwelcome volunteer, this ivy leaf morning glory can be toxic to our dogga – who loves to graze on various vegetation – and, sadly, must be pulled out.
i was going to try to avoid the obvious parallel here – volunteers who show up, but not with the best of intentions. we’ve all met them. people with power and control fantasies who turn up in organizations where they immediately volunteer for positions of leadership. because organizations are eager for the energy of new volunteers – even when they are unknown – many will thoughtlessly place someone into these positions without restraint. that’s when all hell breaks loose. (welp, i guess i didn’t avoid it.) the ivy leaf morning glory can be hallucinogenic and can cause tremors and other physical ailments in a pet. yes…same, same. an organization can tremor itself into oblivion with the perceived goodness (read: agenda) of the volunteer, new or otherwise. it’s best not to allow your sweet dog or your cherished organization to ingest mind-altering substances.
but on the flip side? had this volunteer purple-blue flower been safe, it would be heartily welcomed in our garden. we welcomed the small cornfields that dot our yard. we welcome the volunteer ornamental grasses that show up where we didn’t plant them. we welcome the sneaky groundcover with yellow flowers and the wild geranium. but – since the ivy leaf morning glory is over there by the corn where dogdog schnuffles around – and it’s noxious – we will be cautious. we aren’t watching him every moment while he’s outside in his backyard and we want him to be safe.
and so today we’ll thank the beautiful flowers of this variety of morning glory as we pull it out and we’ll protect our sweet tripper. no volunteer flower is worth him suffering in any way. our discernment is imperative.
his amber eyes are mesmerizing. his double coat of hair is as beautiful as it is plentiful. his heart is huge and his sensitivity is tuned in. his quirks are numerous and his dedication is steadfast. he is always present and only rests when he feels like he is finally off-duty at 8:30, his self-chosen bedtime. he’s taught us more than i could possibly write about.
he’s been central since he arrived. in everything. it’s one of those miracles that he’s here – with us. it’s one of those time-warpy things we realize it’s been ten years. already. and so soon.
what our dogga doesn’t realize, maybe, is that he is our whole world just as much as we are his. samesies.
we could feel it in the air the other morning. stunningly sunny, a cool air wrapped itself around me as i stepped out onto the deck to watch dogga greet his day. the coffee was brewing and the ‘hood was quiet.
and suddenly, it was obvious.
summer is coming to a close.
and we grasp onto those last days. we are in wonder about how it is possible that the summer has gone by. we stare ahead – into the galaxy of sky – pondering what is to come.
and we do the one sure thing.
we keep holding onto each other – hand in hand – all of us – in the racing flight of time.
and i ponder the reverse. what if E.T. was from earth and was somehow left behind on some other planet with living and breathing beings? would the earth-alien be as wistful about leaving earth behind? would the earth-alien be anxious to go back, to return to earth? what special powers would the earth-alien reveal on the new planet? how would the earth-alien respond to this different place, these different beings?
the thing about the movie E.T. is that it left us with a heartened view of what an extra-terrestrial might bring, the connections an extra-terrestrial might find, might form. it was a feel-good, cry-at-the-end movie and there is probably not one of us who viewed the movie who cannot hear E.T. saying, “E.T. phone home” or his parting words, “i’ll be right here” in our memory bank.
but what about the reverse?
what would a contemporary earth-being bring to another planet? would it be a sense of camaraderie or a dedication to division? would it be a symbiotic working-together or over-indulged competition, lines drawn in other-planet-dust? would it be open-hearted empathy or apathetic closed-mindedness? would it be an attitude of every-one-for-themselves? would there be any tenderness, any gentleness, healing mindfulness or would the attitude be haughty and mean-spirited?
if we didn’t get to cherry-pick the person who was sent to this other planet, how likely is it that the other-planet-beings would be glad that person showed up, to welcome them with warm hospitality, to sit and try to communicate, try to understand each other?
the spaceship flower on the side of the trail sent my imagination off and running.
but it made me also wonder this: if we would – indeed – want to carefully-as-possible pick an earth-being that might represent humankind to another planet’s beings – making sure that this earth-being would bring all the best qualities of humanness, the most nurturing, cooperative, collaborative, forthright, most loving, and all-embracing traits and behaviors, wouldn’t we want the same as the leader of our own country?
E.T. was hiding in the bushes under the spaceship flower. he glanced up at me and whispered, “scared here. wanna go home.”
i handed him the flower and off he disappeared, leaving us all behind to think carefully about what we wish for in humankind on this good planet earth.
reverse threading 