there is something infinitely reassuring when a pair of mourning doves chooses your yard. these two sweet doves spend lots of time either in our yard or peripheral to it – in the trees, on the wires, on the neighbor’s roof overlooking our backyard – all directly related to whether dogga is in or out.
it’s not just because they are symbolic of peace, love, hope. it’s not just because they are representative of new beginnings and emotional healing and moving forward or are thought to be messengers from the next dimension. their gentle nature, their cooing, their life-long dedication to each other – all suggest comfort. seeing their sweet pudgy selves sitting together on our patio or brick pavers, on rocks lining the pond, or even gazing into the yard from high wires above – all slow my heart down, ease that quivering vibration present in my chest.
i’m hoping that this particular pair is steadfast – that they don’t let dogga’s barking or antics frighten or dissuade them from staying here. i’m hoping that they continue to make our home their home.
in these times it occurs to me that we need to take our cues for solace and serenity wherever we can find them. we need to look to the ever-presence of nature, through its own challenges with thick and thin. we need to welcome the signs and nods of assurance and consolation to which we may not have been paying attention, to acquiesce to the solid news that seasons change – regardless of what we do – there is a natural order, there is harmony.
those little mourning doves have a lot on their tiny shoulders.
it was not warm. at all. though the sun was out, the wind was off the lake and it was a bit brutal.
we huddled in a small cluster in and amongst a lot of other people, all gathered together to rise above the chaos that is this country.
our presence counted. we were merely two in the eight million or more who came out to the protests on saturday. with our little posse we were six.
and here is what i know.
i know that our energy – our very presence at this event – was part of an energy that strove to overcome the inertia of shock and utter dismay of the populace of this nation. our energy – our very presence at this event – is a statement of pushback that echoes across this land. our energy – our very presence at this event – is part and parcel of the responsibility as a citizen of this republic, of the protection of its democracy, of holding truth to power.
what will happen now will ride on the compounded energy of these efforts. what will happen now will be aided by the acknowledgement that we are part of an aggregate aghast at the illegality of this administration. what will happen now will spread in concentric circles and multiply like cells birthing new life – this time to an aggrieved nation. what will happen now will happen because of hope and dedication, fortitude and the steadying words of the united states constitution and its amendments. what will happen now will be a continuing consolidation of pushback against authoritarianism.
but it’s not the endgame. it is merely the energy of movement, of activism, a path into resistance.
it’s a lot to take in, we agreed, as we held vigil later that day, watching – on tv and social media – the protests across the country. it’s a lot of change to hope for, we worried, as we talked about how fast the latest destruction had happened. it’s exhausting and invigorating – both – we sighed from under a throw as we watched.
but the thing we were glad for?
that on a blustery blue-sky day we walked to the protest and were present in the midst of everyone else there.
the honeysuckle has an early arrival on the trail. it makes me want to sit and write poetry about pioneer honeysuckle growing in the forest, along the edges of the path and deep into the underbrush, right on the heels of winter. poetry about a hopefulness that comes with early forward-peeking signs of spring, promises of growth, a nod making the past distant.
we have a way of holding onto the past – a metaphoric rope, if you will – with people and circumstances strung along it – holding the knots like tiny toddlers in a preschool line hold the knot of a rope to which their teacher is attached. in the case of the toddlers it is for safety. in the case of all of us – who drag along with us all the most toxic of our lives – it is not for the purpose of safety.
the day before my birthday i consciously chose to drop that metaphoric rope that dragged all the yuck with me everywhere i went. i have decided that there is no more good that can come from dragging the worst with me – every recollection of betrayal or hurt or time when healing was impossible. i decided – on that day – the day before my 67th birthday – that i was worthy of putting that rope down and leaving the past distant.
now, don’t get me wrong. as a thready person (and clearly, the use of the word thready must be deliberate) nearly everything is on some sort of connective tissue that stretches back to my heart. a compendium of threads and tissue and rope. some of those i will cling onto and hold dearly – that would be the ones with love and learning and success and hardship, a balance of life’s goodness and challenges, people i hold dear, filmy threads that don’t include people who have been intentionally mean-spirited or who have hunted opportunity to be demeaning or to exploit. those? those heavy loads will have to stay behind. i have finally realized – at long last – that i owe those people nothing and my choice now is laying down the rope with the rope-knots they are clutching – weighing me down – taking up space in my brain and heart. it’s way past time.
and so the honeysuckle’s appearance is like balm. new green. renewal. rejuvenation. a new season. a new cycle of growth.
it is a pioneer in the earliest spring, courageously greening when winter can still dash it, pummel it with ice and snow. but it has the promise of its history – when it has survived even with the change in season, even with threat of the challenge of weather. it both brings forward what it’s learned about survival and puts down the pain it has carried from past ropeknot instances in its life in the woods.
someone – just shy of five decades ago – told me i was dirt. it was meant to belittle me and scare me and it did.
i’ve just realized that i am. dirt. an honorable and basic part of this earth like every other living being. but i am also honeysuckle – and morning glory – and daisies – and peonies. i am house finches and black-capped chickadees and cardinals and march robins. i am poetry floating on the breeze and notes in sequence not yet captured. i am sun and moon and the horizon and the tide.
i am stardust on the edges of the trail, forward-peeking.
the seedheads stay present all winter. thimbleweed is ready. eventually the wind will carry it, dispensing it, seeding new growth, spreading it far and wide. the wooly tufts are evidence of nature taking care of nature.
the concentric circles are all around us. in reminders we get every single day, we are prompted to remember that even the tiniest of our actions will impact the next and then the next and then the next and then…
it is what makes me feel so utterly disheartened with what is happening here and now. it is not just the cruel actions of others that ripple out. it is also the mindbogglingly complicit inaction.
once again – and over and over – i see the absolute transience of this moment. once again – and over and over – i see the silky filament that exists between am and am not. once again – and over and over – i try to take in – to make part of my being – the presence of mind to be present, the ability to be stopped in my tracks, a nod to wondrous, utter gratitude for breathing.
to be amazed by the tufts of thimbleweed, to carry a sunrise or sunset, to drink the sun into our bodies, to hold one another.
and once again – and over and over – i wonder how it is that there are so many who would choose cruelty over kindness, who would choose corruption over goodness, who would choose marginalizing others over lifting others up.
how are we taking care of each other? what are we spreading in rippling concentric circles from our very center? how are we carrying, dispensing, seeding, spreading life – living – far and wide?
look to thimbleweed. its resilience, its anticipation. the seedheads seem to be ever-looking forward, planning for its survival, anticipating its continued beingness.
maybe – just maybe – nothing less than what humans should be doing.
when i was growing up, the time approaching my birthday was certain to be weather schizophrenic. but by the time my birthday arrived – the end of march – i was often pictured outside in a sweater, standing by the yellow forsythia bush in our front yard. on long island spring had arrived to stay.
here it is another story.
we just passed through fierce winds, sleet, a pummeling blizzard. as i write this it is supposed to be 70 degrees by late this afternoon. my birthday? a forecast of 38 with much colder windchills. now, were i in the high mountains of colorado, it would be about 72 degrees on that day. ahhh. but there’s no such thing as climate change, eh?
the old brick wall out front seems to hold the accumulating warmth of the afternoon sun. a couple days ago i went out there with my camera and was surprised to see tiny shoots of daylilies cozying up together in the leaves of fall we left there for insulation. even the little cabbages – sedum – in the front garden are appearing, tightly-wound and tucked into the dried stalks that remain. crazy.
however crazy, though, it made me insanely happy to see these tiny greens. the rising hope that growing things elicit…
it appears that we have made it through most of the winter. though i am certain not to be all cavalier about it – it can easily make several more appearances in snowstorms or ice or windchill – i can feel my spirit lighten – even the tiniest bit – thinking of spring.
we had to change the timers on all the lamps in the house that were on autopilot. we had to change the outdoor happy lights. every few days, i scoot the “on” time back a little later. each day as dogga wakes us early-early it is a little bit lighter as we sip coffee, watching out the east windows.
we now have two adirondack chairs that sit stacked on the deck. we’ve sat in them a few times now – on the patio, in the sun.
this is a time of renewal, nothing short of a bit of miraculous.
and we know – even with the green shoots and the sun and the light – that it may not be an easy spring. we have much to face – those of us in this country. and we each have our own stuff as well. so much dank darkness to push back, so much truth to let into the air, so much light to shine, so much fortitude needed to get there from here.
the hawk didn’t move even as we rounded the bend in the trail. it stayed in the tree – watching – its clear vision taking in all that was below it, the lay of the land, so to speak. not swayed by anything other than what was true, it quietly watched, consciously aware.
it is what is striking about these times in our world. the amount of conscious avoidance – the ignoring of what is happening – the lack of question or research even in the face of the obvious – acting with eyes wide shut.
it is reprehensible that so many people deliberately ignore all of which is destroying this country, closing their eyes, not taking any responsibility for their inaction and for their complicity, their lack of seeking to learn the facts, their willful blindness.
it takes my breath away to know that people i know and love are consciously avoiding the truth and, thus, supporting the immense chaos that is now this country…even though every – suspicious or otherwise – single thing that has happened or is happening would confirm the existence of that very chaos.
we went around the bend and stopped. we looked back at the hawk and i took a few photographs, wishing i had a stronger telephoto lens.
and then the hawk – which had remained relatively motionless as we approached and stood underneath the tree in which it was perched – took off.
flying over the meadow and marsh below it, it was clear to us that it had set its sights on something, its focus zeroed in as it flew.
the hawk landed on a branch across the marsh from us. still laser-focused on its prey and the ground below, it had the tenacity that comes from clarity of vision.
with wisdom and power, this hawk had an instinctual plan based on being aware.
how is it that there are a plethora of people in this country who fail to function even at the level of a bird?
i’m having a chance to renew my relationship with the harbor town. a tiny spurt of time here, a tiny spurt of time there. one of my favorite places on earth – the dock, at night, clanking masts, the sound of small fishing boats and soft troll motors – it is a good thing for me to revisit all this at a new time.
i didn’t know how much i needed to re-create this tie, to heal it. i didn’t know how much i needed to walk the pebbled beach, to scout for rocks and shells and driftwood, to sit and stare at the waves coming in.
when we left the last time we brought home this driftwood garland. we hung it in the place in our sunroom that seemed to be waiting for it. we sit next to it every day. and in the night that was draped in darkness from the storm, we sat next to it in candlelight.
we’ll go back. we’ll maybe pick up some more rocks for our rock garden. we may find a shell or two. we may bring home a piece of driftwood or other sea treasure. we’ll see.
the thing i do know is that each of these times i find another piece of me there. i rejuvenate another memory, process another bit of it all, feel affirmation.
somewhere on that beach, on that dock, in that town are pieces of my 19 year old self. the girl with the dog who climbed on the jetties and danced on the sand, who ran on the boardwalks and soaked in the sun on big old beach towels. there are pieces of me to reclaim, to go pick up in the corners of my memories, to re-empower. there are truths to release into the air of the world – finally. there are notes poised, floating in the air to compose, words in peripheral vision biding time to be written. i can feel the vibration of it all – that flutter in my chest.
and, though it is now a fancier bistro, the next time we’ll go – this place that was a pub where i’d fill up on baked clams and salty air. we didn’t go the last time because we knew it would be expensive and we are careful about our budget.
but the next time – yes – we will go.
because there is no price that you can put on the restoration of power, the retrieving of juju, the butterfly-net-capture-and-healing-release of muse that had been muted, stalled from trauma. to sit on those stools – even if they are different stools – is to sit on the sacred ground of yesterdays ago. it is something to celebrate.
the driftwood next to me in the sunroom taps my shoulder and my heart. it tells the story of ebb and flow, of survival and resilience, of transformative renewal and of a metamorphosis into something that has ridden the waves of the sound and – ultimately – emerged stronger.
there is nothing like fierce winds, torrential sleet, and a blizzard to get your adrenaline going. it’s been a minute since a bit of quiet.
so monday morning – as we gratefully sat under our comforters and quilt and sipped coffee – the sound of red-winged blackbirds in our pine tree was like a symphony – significantly even more moving, at this moment, than listening to the ode to joy finale of beethoven’s 9th symphony.
we were in the aftermath.
even with the bits of destruction we experienced and unexpected – but necessary – expensive repairs – some already made and some on the ever-present maintenance docket – we felt the change and we rested in the sound of birds who had essentially disappeared during the chaotic weather.
the sun came out, we saw a bit of blue sky.
we took a breath.
there will be other storms.
some will be weather, some will be personal challenges, some will be directly connected to the state of this country.
and for any of it – for all of it – we need to gear up.
so – for right now – the sun, calm winds, melting snow, a few comforters and a quilt, coffee and the birds of our backyard will all help. they stoke up the fortitude, endurance and resilience we all have and we all draw on, the fragile crossing from destruction to recovery.
we talked about what this stunning vine would look like in a time-lapse video of itself – curling around this stem of underbrush, coiling in and out. it would be fascinating to see.
we watched a PBS special of a vine – reaching, reaching – for the sky. it was nothing less than intense. it would seem that vines are definitely in the every-being-for-itself gang, striving to get sun and squashing – choking – all in its way. which, in these times, sounds devastatingly familiar.
i see this vine off the side of the dirt trail we are on – tightly wrapped around underbrush – and think about how stuck it is, there on that stalk. i wonder – as I look at it – if it is even possible to unwrap itself, to loose its deathgrip on its victim, to shed its imperative to conquer as it climbs. or if it is lost in this dedication, this seeming mandate; if it is too immersed in its scheme of obliteration.
once a vine is a vine is there a point of no return, that dedication to climbing the ladder, so to speak, with no thought of that which it is crushing?
a little research shows that vines climb and block sunlight – starving the host plants. they add weight to delicate branches and foster rot. they are smothering. many are rabidly destructive, aggressive invasive species, hard to mitigate, impervious to control or checks and balances. hmmm. again, sounding familiar.
as i studied this creeping grape-vine-knot in the woods, i was struck by its beauty, taken in by its curves and the graceful way it had wound itself. it did not occur to me – as i studied it and photographed it – of the harm it may be causing. a little time dedicated to research, to asking questions, to garnering factual information and the vine-knot took on different meaning and made me wary of any championing i might give it.
“vines can deform trees by interfering with branch growth.” “active, localized efforts to manage and eradicate wild grapevines exist in wisconsin, primarily to prevent them from choking out trees and native vegetation.”
“without constitutional checks and balances, the presidency risks shifting toward authoritarianism, where the executive branch can ignore court orders, dismantle regulatory independence, and weaponize the department of justice against political opponents. this breakdown of oversight allows for unconstitutional executive orders, consoldation of power, and the potential erosion of democratic norms.”
“symbolizes wisdom, intuition, and the ability to see beyond deception or hidden truths.” (google)
it was on our way back on an out-and-back trail. we had already had the good fortune of hiking in the sun, our shadows falling on reedy marshes and fallowed underbrush of the forest, deer crossing our path.
the trail was muddy. i was watching where i was stepping.
and there it was.
a solitary feather.
a search told us it was an owl feather.
though there are resemblances to hawk feathers, i’m not minding the idea of going with owl – particularly since the symbolism is timely.
so, let’s go with that. (of course, i do welcome any birder’s opinions on this.)
we left it there, on the trail.
but we carried with us the good news of its symbolism, the wisdom, intuition and ability to discern truth. heaven knows we all sure need that right now.
in these times of unbelievable chaos, unbridled deception and grift, rank, depraved cruelty, a country being unconscionably deceived by its appallingly incompetent leaders, we are certain to need to stand in earnest wisdom with clear-eyed views of what is real versus what is propagandized or outright lying. we need to move with grace through all these challenges, protected against vast negative energy, step by step toward transformation and renewal in our country.
maybe we should all carry a virtual owl feather in our back pockets as we walk through these days.
reverse threading 