there is a reverence of fire. it centers me into stillness, quiet time when much else slips away. just silently staring at its dance makes time – always vibrating – shift into slower motion.
there are moments – sitting in front of a fire – when you can feel that you are coming back to yourself. it is like the somethings that have been covered over, put aside, chucked away come forward and the fingers of flame burn off what hides it from your heart. the fire melts the rigid in you, pushes you past doubt, past angst, and beyond places that ache.
and suddenly we are a tiny bit open – more open than before – to the universe tapping our shoulder, to releasing the fear of being raw, to cracking open the vulnerable, to receive gifted divine intervention, to maybe-just-maybe wings to Back.
“in the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan. earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. snow had fallen, snow on snow. snow on snow. in the bleak midwinter, long ago.” (in the bleak midwinter – gustav holst, christina rossetti)
it is rare now for us to read the news. we are not watching it on any screen nor listening to it. it is bleak, iron-fisted, filled with stone-cold hearts.
but…even now…somewhere, deep in the winter – now darker and colder – now more barren and bleak, is spring.
john o’donohue wrote, “within the grip of winter, it is almost impossible to imagine the spring.”
in the same blessing he also wrote, “from the black heart of winter a miraculous, breathing plenitude of color emerges. … the rhythm of emergence is a gradual slow beat always inching its way forward…”
our wish for each other…that we find in our heartbeat, light. and that we bring that light to another.
and the grip of winter will not hold.
“the cold is relenting; seeds are wakening up. colors are beginning to imagine how they will return…”
the reeds on our trails in the winter – tall and willowy, reaching for the sky in a color that looks like leftover sun you saved in a jar. the cattails are massive, even the ones that have lost tails…all dwarfing us. tall stripes in the marsh cutting perpendicular into the horizon, they are exceptionally beautiful.
i’m not a stripe-wearer. with the exception of one hooded baja pullover, i’m pretty sure i own zero clothing items with stripes. this has not always been true.
i distinctly remember a pair of multi-colored striped bell bottoms i really loved – way back in junior high. i remember my candystriper uniform – candycane stripes for volunteering in the hospital. oh… and those ever-present red and white striped terrycloth footed dr. denton pajamas. i remember the stripes on my v-neck sweater – the one that everyone had back in the day – navy and maroon v-stripes on a white cable pullover. i distinctly remember one other sweater – a turtleneck – a favorite – that had stripes. i wore it tucked into my jeans way back in high school. i remember stripes i wore when i was a volunteer “arrestee” for the american cancer society’s jail ‘n bail. but i can’t remember many other stri-ped (two syllables as they say) things that have made it into either my closet or my dresser.
and – in more information than you ever needed or wanted, some further thoughts on stripes:
as i sit here and look around i am struck by the horizontal stripes that surround me. the obvious wood floors – though these are vertical as well (mostly) depending on where in the room you are standing. the miniblinds on all our windows. the louvered closet doors, the dresser drawers, the many tiny drawers in the wooden armoire, the stacked (not standing) books in the glass-front chimney cabinet. many patterns – all horizontal.
if, however, i were to wear stripes, they would have to be vertical. horizontal and baby-borne hips don’t go well together. (at least in my opinion as it relates to me). i don’t know if this helps to explain my love of beadboard or my love of big old doors. both vertical. there must be a theory of explanation in there somewhere.
i think i also have a thing about wearing stripes – i feel like if i am going to wear them, they need to stay parallel to the ground – 180 degrees straight – even stripes, not all wonky and helter-skelter…like part of the stripe tucked in and part untucked and on some skewed sort of angle, which bugs me to an unusual degree of being bugged. horizontal stripes have a lot of room for error. and stripes…seriously…well, they should be neat – tidy stripes. it just feels to me that stripes are like that. they demand precision. i try to veer away from such strict parameters.
maybe that is why i wear solid colors mostly. there is less worry about conforming to specific stripe/plaid/print rules, real or imagined.
it is good that i am not a santa’s elf. i am way beyond wishing to wear red and white horizontal-striped tights.
it snowed last night. there is a dusting on the deck and on the roofline that i can see out the window right now. even a dusting is magical. even a dusting is snow. even, if it were only a dusting, only this, it would be enough.
the snow earlier – in november – didn’t last long but – while it clung to the adirondack chairs – i went out, crunching through it, to take a photograph, to remember it. it was the kind that snowmen are made of. and, even if that were the only snow, only that, it would have been enough.
i am trying to learn the art of even if, enough. for right now. for this moment. for standing in this space, spinning on this earth in this solar system in this galaxy. the next moment is a mystery – on repeat – a measure of blank space, again and again.
you don’t just arrive there, we are not simply maestros of this art. it is – what i am seeing – a process like the tides. a little wave in, a little wave out. a grain of sand in, a grain of sand out. it is not simple but it is…actually.
it is the recognition – when you are feeling in right mind, when you are feeling more balanced, when you are not hijacked by outside influences – of the right now and a nod that even if….it is enough.
in this time, these times, our yearnings are real. and – as our world turns and we approach a time of far greater chaos than we have likely ever known in most of our lives – we can see that the even if, enoughs are going to play a big role in staying grounded.
it is a work in progress, i suppose, for each of us. we – mostly – live in societies where more is more and less is, most definitely, less. we are not typically validated in our less. we are not typically commended for finding value in less.
but it is the gift of the tide and time. you begin to realize that the tiniest pebbles that drop in on our personal shoreline are often the mica of life. you begin to realize that they balance out the grains of sand that are pulled out each time and tide.
and so i, maybe like you – am trying to be satisfied with – at peace with – the even if, enoughs.
even if we don’t have enough time with someone – but we have a tiny bit – it is enough. even if we don’t have enough stuff, newest stuff, trendy stuff – but we have a tiny bit – it is enough. even if we don’t have enough time – but we have a tiny bit – it is enough. even if we don’t have enough snow – but we have a tiny bit – it is enough.
though the even ifs make us – make it all – feel somewhat fragile, the enoughs are a good place to seek, a good place to live.
“may this house shelter your life. when you come in home here, may all the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. may your heart be tranquil here, blessed by peace the world cannot give.” (john o’donohue – for a new home – benedictus, a book of blessings)
back in the day – referencing the 80s and 90s or so – i used to have lots of dried flowers – everywhere. dried flowers and herbs and red peppers were definitely a thing then, part of the homey, country look – hung on any hook, any trellis, any door jamb you could access. it all felt comforting, smidges of beautiful, tiny respites from busy-ness.
there’s a moment in the movie my big fat greek wedding when ian miller tells toula portokalos that he remembers seeing her a previous time. she, who has had a bit of a self-makeover, says, i was going through a phase then. i was frump girl. in one of the best he’s-a-sweet-guy moments, ian responds kindly, i don’t remember frump girl, but i remember you. and you cannot help your heart from going pitter-patter and you just know what might happen….
well, i have gotten over the dried-flower-phase. though i loved it then – and completely embraced it – there are no dried flowers hanging around now. though, truth be told, i do have a few dried daisies from our wedding tied with jute and a little garden lavender posey gathered with string. oh…and the first rose d gave me. and i think there is some hydrangea drying (long-term) in the basement and maybe a few wildfield thistles in the sitting room sharing a vessel with a bit of pussywillow. oopsies. i might have been a bit off on the word “no” in “no dried flowers“…
perhaps I should yield on using absolutes.
moving on.
i am most definitely a fierce appreciator of dried flowers and wild weeds in the fields and meadows of our hikes and adore the textures and morphing shapes of them through the seasons. it is likely that we have already shared a thistle or two as our blog images, but – – – this one, this one counts too, i argue for its inclusion.
because of my propensity for hangingontothings – emotionally and in real life – it is quite amazing that all those -older- dried flowers made their way out of the house from the latest 80s and through the 90s. when you have lived in a house this long – 35 years – you know it will iterate through time. and you cannot hang on to all the vestiges of the last phase, no matter how splendid they are.
so now, here i am, not even sure what this post is about. this stunning in-fallow-stoking-up-energy thistle made me think of the dried-flower-phase, of things that – at some given time – made our home feel like our sanctuary. i suppose i might let you just try to connect the dots.
or you can just nod your head, roll your eyes and quietly support my stream of consciousness today.
oh, tiny one. this little morsel of a being – a fuzzy caterpillar – at the bitter cold end of november. we watched to make sure it made its way – the rest of the way – across the trail and into the tousle of leaves on the side.
surely it was brave, this tiny one. surely, resourceful, for green leaves are no longer plentiful. surely, stalwart. surely, not here in the outer world much longer, as it will winter under decaying wood, this woolybear. a time in diapause.
but it didn’t seem concerned about all this. it just moseyed on, across the trail, unaware of our study of it, unaware of the photo shoot, unaware of the challenges that might befall it. it just powered on.
maybe that is the thing we now need to do – power on.
in whatever way it is we choose, on whatever path we take, just keep on keeping on – despite fear, despite the odds, hoping that our fuzziness will protect us from the predators.
and when the world we are in becomes harsh, we might just slip into a diapause of our own, seeking places of peace – to survive.
a closer look. i like to turn my macro-lens eye at things…to look at the detail of them. the close-up is often so very different from the overarching view or the afar – and, out in nature, it reveals tiny worlds we are generally unaware of.
i aimed my camera at the reed grass plumes. gorgeously graceful, arcing, they are plentiful in our yard – and their dance in the wind brings life to our gardens. i was astounded at the closer-up photographs, ropey, twine-like, fibrous. are these jute fibers shot with a macro lens?
there is so much more than meets the eye. from a distance, we give nod to the plumes, appreciate them but not necessarily the complexity of their makeup or their role. as a singular object – a reed grass, a plume – it is likely of little consequence to us.
but contextually – in the context of the garden – it is a haven for the winter, a place where creatures will find safety and warmth, protection from predators. this singular grass may make the difference between survival and not for some critter out there.
there is a lot going on now in the arena of this country. incompetent leaders are being selected to destroy the hard work of the past that protects rights and freedoms, that addresses survival for the populace.
we could giggle at the singular choices – laugh – guffaw – at the insane maga administration and cabinet picks that can only point to destruction. were this to be a movie – a farce, satire – about the country, it would be tempting to laugh – it is that unhinged, that thuggish. but it is not a movie and each singular choice has profound consequence – even if it does not directly affect specifically me or you…yet.
and so, contextually – in the context of our country – it is a breeding ground of calamitous policy – deliberately harmful to our democracy, deliberately regressive, deliberately hurtful – expressing the wish even for crushingly austere hardship – led by a catastrophic kakistocracy. there is nothing to giggle about there, nothing funny about that. the close-up is a macro view of a cold overarching exploitation of these united states.
we can sit back – and watch the show – some of us (though not including the personal “us”) feeling somewhat impervious to the destruction-to-come. one can poke fun to get through a moment or two. but from afar or close-up – either one – the consequences of this election – the choice that almost half our fellow voters chose – will eradicate what we know.
there are gleefully menacing people – predators – out there, just chomping at the bit to have power, to reign with supreme control, to remove all the reed grasses from our gardens and leave us there without the safety or warmth of democracy.
sometimes at the end of the day we can hear the bagpiper playing on the lakefront. it’s a bit haunting. and it makes me think of buglers who trumpet taps: “day is done. gone the sun, from the lake, from the hills, from the sky. all is well, safely rest, god is nigh.”
we often hike in the afternoon – after all our tasks are finished. so it is not unusual that we run into the sun setting as we begin to return toward the trailhead. and now, in these late autumn days, that is happening earlier and earlier.
it was particularly beautiful to see the sun on the day i took this photograph. it had been cloudy and we didn’t expect the sun to pop through above the bank of clouds just over the horizon. we were grateful.
i’m guessing that this is the way to move into these uncertain times. to note the clouds and to be grateful for the sun. we are troubled, much like you might be as well. we can’t pretend that everything is coming up roses or that this future will be smooth sailing. but it is doing our hearts and souls harm to linger constantly in the toxicity that was voted in. i certainly have spoken my piece about all that.
i also can’t simply play taps to our country. because all is not well, because i don’t feel like i can safely rest and because I’m thinking god may not be being all peaceful-nigh-like watching hypocritical thuggish people steeped in bigotry, revenge, cruelty being all righteous in his name. so taps is on hold.
i will, however, lean on the day, the sun, the lake, the hills and the sky to remind me of what is really, truly real, what is really, truly beautiful. i will be mindful of the importance of the each-others in our lives. i will draw strength from any and all light around me, around us – including the unexpected elusive sun setting in cloudy dusk.
i wanted to pluck it off where it had landed. floating milkweed snagged on dried brush. but it was too beautiful to pluck – this pure white fluff in the middle of much brown. so i left it there for others to see and carried away a few photographs.
fluffs like this always make me think of dandelion fluff – and childhood – and wishes sent on the wind. curiously, there is – somehow – still dandelion fluff out there, on the trail, in the middle of november.
maybe the universe – overseeing all fluffs and all other things – knows we need a vessel in which to put our wishes, a way to wish them, a little wind to carry them on.
a few years ago – for holiday gift giving – we purchased a few dozen sets of flying wish papers. we sent them out hoping that each recipient would feel excited by the idea of flying their written wishes into the air. the icing on the cake of these wish papers is the lift-off – after you have written your very own wish on the paper, it is lit and lifts off into the air, turning into the finest of ash.
flying wish papers and milkweed fluffs, dandelion seeds – they are all somewhat like prayer flags – expressing to the universe a heart-wish, a prayer…asking the universe for a chance…something we wish to achieve, maybe imploring…for peace, goodness, health, maybe something whimsical, maybe something serious.
maybe the point of wishing is to make us more attentive – maybe more courageous – about what is in our hearts. maybe the point of prayer flags is to make us more attentive – maybe more courageous – about what is in our souls. maybe it all connects us inward – to places that aren’t superficial, that do not slough off the amazingness of actually living.
the milkweed fluff captured me. i wished wishes for solid ground, for good purposes, for decency in this world. i wished wishes of regaining balance, of hope, of support for each other.
wishes – both simple and complex – gathered on the filaments of the milkweed fluff. it waited there, on the brush, to gather more wishes from more wishers. and, then, i imagine it flew off into the wind, possibility in the air.
and i carried wishes – that had somehow magically turned into intentions – home with me.
and the finest ash settled on the forest after we left.
we know these trees. we have walked this trail amid these trees for years now, processing life as we go. they are familiar to us; they feel like chosen family – waiting for us, to hear our voices, our laughter, the crunch of our boots on dirt, pebbles, leaves. they are curious – to hear snippets of challenges, of joys, of sorting – bits and snatches of our conversation as we hike.
these trees – all of them – the sculptural, the leafless, the verdant, the not-yet-shed-their-leaves, the evergreen – hold us, help us feel secure in this place, in this world. the curve of the trail – how we know it well – gives us pause in worry, recognizing the reassurance of the known.
there are three or four trails like that here. memorized, well-loved, never surprising and always full of stunning surprises. there is a specific trail – through stands of aspen trees – on a ridge in aspen. there is a specific trail – with the pungent scent of pine trees – along a mountain stream in breck. if we could teleport there – to either of those trails – we would. for they both speak to our very souls.
“and into the forest i go, to lose my mind and find my soul.”(john muir)
we return home – to this place on earth that can both travel with us and be acutely found in our cozy old house – with less-burdened hearts. though sometimes momentary – in a world leaning into insanity – the trail tucks wisdom-bits into us and we bring home space that reminds us to breathe in the very minute we are in, grounding us.
and so, we try to go here – to the close-by – often. especially now.
we are aware of beauty. we both notice it and look for it.
we walk and talk. we walk in silence.
and the trees tap us on the shoulder as we pass and whisper sweet nothings to us.
