as autumn moves into full bloom, it is track-able on our westneighbor’s fence. the virginia creeper vine is fully immersed in the transition of seasons – producing berries for the birds, changing color day by day.
but there are fewer and fewer leaves now on the vine. dark is longer and colder and the cicadas and night crickets have ceased their song. in turning back the clock, there’s no turning back the clock.
and we head full-tilt into this season, knowing that winter’s lull will follow, that a time of fallow will start.
we blink back the wistful for summer, for early fall’s warmth as we head into the colder seasons. and we try to remember what we treasure about this next season, just six short weeks away.
with different eyes we look to the horizon of each day – changing our expectations, sorting to presence and appreciating each remaining leaf.
and soon the fence will be bare, save for the vining twigs.
but under the soil there is a gathering momentum of energy. and one of these days again – in the way that nature continues and continues – in the way that goodness goes on – it will burst open and we’ll see growth again. the vine knows.
“life is only a reflection of what we allow ourselves to see.” (trudy symeonakis vesotsky)
when i started my first teaching job – at a K-2 primary school in the poorest part of a county in florida – i found out quickly that the previous teacher had a favorite record album that she played over and over and over. i’m not sure how much music teaching she did, but i know that she played this record for every class, every day. it was a female artist’s album, one of her earliest. in those days her albums were all contemporary christian fixtures, full of praise songs, lyrics based on biblical messages and worship.
even back then – in this very first teaching job in the very first school – i knew that it was not appropriate to play this album ad nauseam like the students described their previous teacher doing. i was not teaching at a religious-based school; this was a public school and i had a different obligation to these children. it was most definitely not to foist christian music upon them.
in perusing social media i just saw rumors that there will be an “alternate” half-time show for the super bowl game, featuring two country artists who i thought knew better. in these times – in a world that draws strength from its diversity – it is unbelievably tone-deaf to think that we need an alternate quote-unquote “all-american” show and just the mere suggestion of what that definition likely means makes my stomach hurt. if we are to believe what we are reading in social media about this show, it is steeped in an incredibly narrow definition of faith and family and freedom – and what “all-american” actually is. it is painful to think of the people i know who will watch this – cheering – steeped in audacious narrowville.
i grew up going to church with my family. i spent 35 years as a minister of music in various christian churches across the country. never would i ever presume to foist christian music or philosophy – as a whole – upon this nation. never would i ever resort to the hateful rhetoric that is pieced – cherry-picked – from religious writings to justify disrespect of others, even ill-intended evil. never would i ever even begin to suggest that god – or any name you might choose to call a divine presence – would sort people into colors or ethnicities or genders or economic castes.
in the many, many years i spent in these buildings of faith – many of which, i learned, were disparately skewed to hypocrisy – i came to understand gandhi’s quote: “i like your christ, i do not like your christians. your christians are so unlike your christ.”
my own takeaway from a lifetime of work – if we allow ourselves to see the world as a tapestry of differences, respectful compassion, tolerances, a generous embracing, then we see in technicolor, our lives are beautiful and full of the possibility of growth and learning from others. if we allow ourselves to only see a one-dimensional homogeneous world, if that is all we tolerate, that is all we believe is worthy, then we are, as well, one-dimensional and our lives are limited in mediocrity.
if life is – truly – only a reflection of what we allow ourselves to see, i would hope for all to open their eyes. i would hope for all to see what they are espousing – or proselytizing – with their words or – complicitly – with their silence. i would hope that the reflection of reality – real truth – unobscured by agenda or any form of bigotry – would be what we all see so that we might deal with the ugliness of mushrooming propaganda and contempt.
this is the best place to think. it’s the best place to ponder, to wonder, to sort, or to just – simply – take one step after another. it’s the best place to be quiet and the best place to have conversation. we link arms. we walk. and walk. and walk. we can see why pct hikers keep on going. it is cleansing and powerful. and your body feels the world, your tactile connection with the universe, your feet on dirt.
in a moment i won’t easily forget, i recently had a chance to be forehead to forehead with a horse. we stood that way together for several minutes and i could feel his breath on my face. with both of us – boots and hooves on dirt – connected by touch, i could feel the rest of the universe gently holding space, woven in tapestry with us, close by. powerful moments.
particularly in these times, for more reasons than you will imagine, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be of comfort. particularly in these times, when there is little to comfort us here in this country, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be bigger than any story of our land – it overarches the evil intention of stories personal and of the populace. particularly in these times, with so little promise of goodness, so little accountability, so little compassion, so little attention to truth-telling, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be steadying.
i will keep my feet on the dusty dirt of the trail. i will take any chance to share forehead space with another living creature. i will remember how connected – interconnected – i am with this universe. i will draw hope from that.
with what seemed a millisecond between seasons, it is – clearly – fall now.
i had a list of places to go, places to show d. but the tropical storm/nor’easter put a crimp in all that. planting fields, millneck manor, blydenburgh park, hecksher park, every beach on both shores, out east – it was all on the list.
but the reality was that both time and good weather were limited. so in tiny bits of time, we went to the most important places. the other places will have to wait.
grateful to be home, we went to our favorite loop trail and immersed in the turn of the season, appreciating all the little and big ways it had changed in the week we had been away – a week that felt infinitely longer.
i readjusted the smart lights and the old-fashioned timers. d pushed the garden lights earlier. we refreshed happy lights and, and just a few days ago, i turned on the heat for the first time this season. i love autumn, but the waning light is a bit challenging.
any store we enter now is decked out in full holiday schmalz. that – i have to say – is too much for me. though i am completely aware this works for some people, it just seems too soon and it seems a bit tone-deaf to me, considering all that is actually happening.
as i think about the holiday season – knowing our adult children will not be celebrating here with us this year – i wonder about our own celebration. i have some seriously mixed feelings about it all. though being surrounded by lights and cheerful reminders of merriment and joy would be helpful, i also know that there is a tipping point – at least for me. too much of that might be like closing my eyes to the painful changes taking place right here, right now. it will be important to balance the hope of a season of light with reality. some of the merriment, the decorations, the glitter and ribbons and wrap might have to wait. just like millneck manor and planting fields, the beaches and parks of the island. sometimes just a bit is also enough for the moment.
in the meanwhile, we touch this season. we take cuttings of our plants to propagate for next year. we miss long, lazy light as it slowly disappears. we start to wear boots.
the time of fallow is coming.
fallow.
and then?
i truly hope that soon we here in this country are able to – driven to – resume the cultivation of kindness and humanitarian goodness, to regenerate respect and care for each person here, to break the toxic infestation of these days, to recover a nation of integrity, equality, generosity and democracy for all.
these stunning plumes rise above the grasses, catching the breezes, the last vestiges of light as the sun sinks, a place for lagging butterflies to linger a moment, catch their breath.
but – the tiny seeds that form these stunning plumes are actually tiny swords that find their way onto clothing and dogga and into every manner of places and stab us time and again. they are inescapable. they are incessant. they seemingly multiply like the needles from a fresh-cut scotch pine in december – and january and february and even march.
it’s a problem.
reluctant to deal with it, we put up with the pointy seedheads for a while, poking fun at their stubborn ability to show up – simply everywhere – even while suffering.
until it just seems silly that we are enduring this pointed attack on our peaceful existence – capitulating to these ornamental grasses – these beautiful, elegantly flowing sculptures around our yard.
but it’s solvable.
and so, we decide to snip off the plumes that bend over, arcing to attach themselves to dogga or our passing-by. we decide to snip off the plumes that block the sidewalk to our front door. we decide that we can have it both ways – gorgeous grasses with upright plumes catching the light, the wind, the creatures but no low-hanging attack plumes. we figure out what to do with our – beloved – grasses.
because that’s what adults do when faced with – even the smallest – problem. we negotiate a solution that will not cause more pain.
the sweet potato plant is answering the call to fall. it keeps on growing, sending new shoots, vining out. it also is starting to change color. its rainbow hues draw our attention. our sweetly-screaming woke sweet potato.
and i don’t know if your sweet potato is as colorful. is it still all a rich green? are its leaves curling at all? is it spreading or is it slowing down? they are the same, you know, despite their differences. growing across the boundaries of towns and states and countries, they are not separate. sweet potato is – after all – sweet potato.
we saw images of our friends’ grandchildren. growing fast, unfurling, getting more colorful by the day. glorious and diverse – beautiful children with possibility in all the air around them.
i look at those pictures and celebrate my own children. grown, but still growing, still unfurling, still getting more colorful by the day, they are also glorious and diverse and beautiful. the tiny-child – the young adult – after all – tiny children and young adults. the same, despite the differences.
my son is your son, my daughter is your daughter. i want – i insist on – nothing less for them than you want for your own son, your own daughter: freedom to be, to love, to fly, to dance, to create, to express, to work, to be healthy, to explore, to embrace goodness. nothing less.
but, i fear, your tightly-held infatuation with this new administration has warped your perception and – now – you no longer see my son as your son, my daughter as your daughter. you have changed and not in any colorful photosynthetic way. your light has changed; it has become dark. your arms that used to fling around the whole world – excited and believing in certain potential-for-all – those arms have crossed in an attitude of cavalier superiority, a righteous and defensive us-not-them, unrecognizable extremism. and suddenly, i no longer know you.
and i realize that sweet potatoes – around the world – in the end – possibly understand connection more than the rest of us.
jeffie used to use the term “grasshopper” a lot. not really understanding any reference, i always took it to be a term of affection.
in the middle of the middle of stuff we are in the middle of, we took a hike. we always see tiny grasshoppers on the dusty trail – hopping in just the last second and flying away – like small moths zipping past us.
but this day – in the middle of the middle of stuff we are in the middle of – there were Grasshoppers – capital G. never had we seen hoppers this big on any part of this lengthy trail. they didn’t just hop away upon feeling the vibrations of our feet on dirt. they stood their ground.
i bent down to share a few moments with this one. after communing with it, i urged it to jump off the beaten path, trying to save its life from zealous bikers also on trail.
for the first time, i looked up what jeffie’s “grasshopper” reference might be. and it all made sense, reading that kung fu (from the 70s tv series i never watched) used it – yes, affectionately – to convey to his students etc “a message of growth and learning”.
this differential grasshopper grinned at me as i bent down, posing for the camera. he turned and looked down the dusty gravel trail. and then he turned back to me for a few moments before i urged him on, away from potential danger.
“you got this,” he whispered. “keep going. you may feel small and it may feel bigger, but we both have abundant power. i can only go forward. you can jump with me.”
i heard him as he took off with a giant hop for the underbrush, “remember! leap!.”
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.
reverse threading 