looking like a new year’s eve party noisemaker waiting to unfurl in celebration, the fern steadily grows. in-between last year’s clipped stalks and in and among dried leaves and the last vestiges of winter’s effect on mulch, it peeks out, pushing up toward the sun. it chooses to thrive, even covered by sandy soil and bits of the past. one day soon i will walk out to the back – where the fern garden is – and this tiny fern will have stretched and straightened and fanned out into a lanky beautiful feather.
it makes me think about blowout noisemakers. all furled up they look relatively innocuous and not particularly capable of being noisy. a little gumption and air blown into them and they can be pretty doggone loud.
the little fern breathes deep and reaches down into where gumption is stored. against the odds, this seemingly fragile, willowy plant rises up, centimeter by centimeter. suddenly it is a powerhouse, standing tall in the rain and a part of the wind in storms.
though it may be all trembly inside as it makes its journey upward and outward, its gumption, air and the sun give it courage and strength. it is tough and resilient and – it is said – has an incredibly strong survival instinct.
how often we are all tiny ferns – over and over – through fallow and rejuvenation, covered in the patina of the past and growing it off. innocuous and silent.
i just heard about darn tough hiking socks. they are known for their comfort, durability and fit. they wick moisture and are anti-blister. these are all important features in a hiking sock. heck, they are important features in living life.
the river rises and falls. we have seen it spilling way across the trail, with trees looking like they are standing in a bayou, water so stretched out it looks less like a river than a lake. we have seen it pulled way back, the level low, the riverbed exposed, turtles with no place to hide. it surprises us to arrive and see it so different from the last time. and it doesn’t surprise us.
everything is in flux. everything. and i suppose i am surprised and i am not surprised.
it all rises and falls. it spills over and recedes. life gives and takes. successes are jubilant, disappointments are despairing. relationships flourish and barely hold on…connection replaced by disconnect replaced by connection. well-being is momentary. we are secure, we are imperiled. we are flush with excitement and trembling with dread. such a dichotomy, this living thing.
it reminds me – once again – of an interview i heard with an elderly woman of 95. she was asked how she managed to stay vital and engaged for so long, to stay robustly healthy and remarkably positive. she just gracefully rode the ebbs and flows, surfing the river-bayou-trickle and its continual changes. she answered, “i take nothing personally.”
they must have modeled the socks after her. comfort, durability, fit, moisture-wicking and anti-blister.
for years he persevered and persevered, through thick and thin, this dear friend of david’s. a consummate actor and dedicated off-off-broadway theatre co-founder and artistic director, he was not hindered by the somewhat invisible but definitely impenetrable wall in new york city’s theatre world. and then…
the front page in the arts section belies the rest of the story. but every artist knows it. the ever-present imperative to create and to succeed, not only from a soul place, but from a place where you just might be able to afford to pay the bills, to have a littlebit extra, to hold the esteem of your colleagues, to be recognized. you hold the towel close, knowing that at any moment it might be the thing you do – you just might throw in the towel.
chris decided to take on mitch albom’s tuesdays with morrie. but it took a long time to land. everything takes longer than you think. a long fermata of longing. every artist knows this. most craftspeople know this. most philosophers know this. poets write of it. composers strew melodies around like patio lights. painters throw paint and prep canvas time and again. dancers pirouette, spinning ever faster. writers wordsmith, deleting and reading and elaborating and deleting. beavers in bogs – singularly focused, ridiculously hard work – and the tree still stands. and then…
the sea dog theatre tells this remarkable story – tuesdays with morrie – through the interwoven magic of len cariou and chris. it is earning high regard and the reviews are outstanding. it has landed.
it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.
in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.
and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.
and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.
so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.
it’s not-this, not-that. neti, neti. a period of duality.
we are not in winter. we are not in spring. though calendars will challenge that, the meteorological fallout of not-this-not-that surrounds us. and we all learn to live in duality. dress in layers. be prepared for anything.
most northern states stake claim to some iteration of the saying, “if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it’ll change.” so littlebabyscion has a backseat laden with vests and jackets; we are always ready for whatever weather shifts our way.
in the meanwhile, we live on the cusp.
we hiked during the eclipse. with the exception of two or three others who passed us, we were completely alone.
though we went to several places to attempt purchasing eclipse glasses, we were too late, and we didn’t have protective eyewear. it was remarkable that so many glasses were sold out at so many places and that meant that so many people were planning on watching this extraordinary event, setting aside portions of their day to view and to celebrate.
so we did not look up. instead, we aimed the camera at the sky and snapped photos. because we didn’t research ahead – which is highly unusual for us – we also didn’t realize we needed these glasses – or a filter – to capture the essence of the eclipse in a photograph with our iphones.
but it doesn’t matter. because we felt it.
the deer must have known. they lingered trailside, aware of our presence, yet not fleeing. we watched each other – in this time of not-this-not-that, not-light-not-dark – they seemed, oddly – for usually they run gracefully away, accepting of us.
at exactly 2:08 – the moment when the eclipse was at peak in our area – the light around us changed. everything took on a surreal, somewhat golden glow, intensifying color around us. we stood still and looked around, certain, even though our photographs were belying the truth, that we were in the moment. the birds were loud, the heron flew above us. the wind changed. and then, it was time, suspended.
we hiked back to the trailhead, knowing that light had been filtered through dark. hopefully, a time of renewal. maybe a time of shedding old energy. i wondered how the world would feel if we lived in that moment at all times. not in the not-this, not-that, but in new light, each and every day.
i suppose we should be as astounded by the sunrise each day. we should be astonished at the play of dark into light. we should be gobsmacked by the new beginning of dawn.
because, really, everywhere around us there are miracles of transformation. and we are always on the cusp of everything beautiful, were we to just stop, were we to just look, to just recognize it. to live in the eclipse.
and soon, the world around us will explode with flowers. and spring ephemerals will rise out of thawing ground. crocus follow on the heels of earliest rising snowdrops. and then daffodils and tulips and maybe even hyacinths sneak into view. skunk cabbage joins the fray of the dance and trilliums send up their periscope stalks. jack-in-the-pulpit stands righteously in the savanna underbrush, sharing energy with jill-in-the-pulpit. and the mayapples…those mayapples wait to burst their canopy umbrellas up, protecting their delicate white blossoms. all together, it is a community of the transitory, sharing space. all thorns are set aside to regale the world with beauty.
george told us on the trail that many, many – most, he ventured to guess – do not look about as they hike. he said that it is rare to see someone stop on the trail to really notice, to pay attention, to ponder. he was pleased to see us – two strangers – standing and photographing.
for us, it is most-of-the-time impossible to hike and not pay notice. but, i can tell you, it is very difficult to hike – and really, truly pay attention – if there is something heavy on our hearts. i would think it impossible to hike – and wander in the fields of flowers – if there are thorns in your heart.
as far as i know, thorns in your heart may preclude your seeing of any beauty at all. they may predispose you, color your view, cloud your eyes to what-really-is, ruin any chance of you experiencing the ephemerally blissful moments of this life.
because – in terms of this world, this universe – we are really more like spring flowers than any other. we emerge and are quickly fading. we are gifted with ever so little time.
and, just like we are like spring flowers, we are also unlike spring flowers. we are not perennials. this moment – now – is our chance…to grow and bud and bloom.
how much better to wander in fields of flowers – of beauty – than to squander time and languish in thorns.
there is never a time i will pass by a caterpillar attempting to make its way across a busy trail without stopping to help it, to aid it across the pathway, to shield it from harm, to literally pick it up and place it on the other side, to protect it.
i have gotten some funny looks doing this.
yet, i will continue to do this. i will continue to protect, to aid, to shield, to carry tiny critters that are in harm’s way, beings that are subjected to elements against which they are not equipped, creatures that are in the way of someone else’s forward movement – by foot, bike tires, four-wheelers, agenda.
because – if one has ever been the caterpillar on the trail, threatened – even debilitated – by someone else’s negligence, someone else’s inaction, someone else’s inconceivable agenda or apathy, someone else’s aggression – then one knows the importance of others, of their care and concern, of their help, of their doing-something, of their protection.
and because we never know when we might be the fuzzy-wuzzy.
“let there be an opening into the quiet that lies beneath the chaos, where you find the peace you did not think possible and see what shimmers within the storm.” (john o’donohue)
i spent a little over a week in ireland. it was lush and magical and filled with a simple richness hard to articulate. we walked along stone walls separating us and sheep. we perched on high cliffs overlooking the atlantic. we cozied in pubs with pick-up music and dark beer. verdant, there was beauty in its countryside and in its people, in its music and its air. clover – just off the side of the trail – in the shade and still polka-dotted with earlier dew – makes me think of this cherished time of years ago.
we’ll have corned beef and cabbage, white potatoes and carrots with 20. and guinness. we’ll sit together around our tiny kitchen table. he’ll tell of his vacation and we’ll tell him of all the stuff he missed back here. and in the sharing, the sipping, the eating, any storms of this time will part – clouds shuffling back, thunder and lightning easing up. and laughter will gurgle up through the cracks, perspective regaining ground. the chaos will stay where it belongs – in the dregs, the dark caves – and quiet peace – in soft voice and raucous laughter – will rise.
and we’ll know that dewy clover and the kitchen table, the shimmering riches of a good meal and good company, untarnished beauty of shared time and simple nature will always lead the way out of chaos.
“99% of people wouldn’t notice that”, he said, “and they’d just keep walking.”
the stranger had stopped where we were. i was off-trail, taking a picture of sun as it glinted off cattails. i was precariously close to the water’s edge, hidden by dried leaves and twigs in the marshy area, but worth it for the photo. d had just given me a hand-up back onto the trail when the stranger stopped.
he asked to see my photographs and i complied. and we all started talking. george spoke from the wisdom of someone close-to-80 as he recounted stories of trails he had recently taken, of people going too fast to SEE anything at all. he told us he was happy we noticed the glowing cattails, happy that we were looking – really looking – as we hiked. he told us that “it” (life) is all about looking and learning, researching, wondering, thinking and looking some more. we agree.
i’m not sure there’s ever been a hike – anywhere – when i haven’t taken at least a few photographs. there’s just so much to see. sometimes, in the middle of our not-knowing, we’ll look things up right away. sometimes, we save that for later.
just a couple days ago – in a truly magical moment – we stopped on the trail, separated from a pond by a bit of woods and grasses.
the red-tailed hawk was still. in the air – suspended on a current, wings curled up – it was absolutely still, hovering in place. though i know hawks are apt to do this as they hunt, this hawk just stayed still as we watched. then it flew a little lower and hovered a little bit more. it never dove down for any prey; it just hovered and then landed in a tree nearby as if to say, “there! that was for you.” it was a gorgeous and spiritual moment. i won’t forget it.
the trail – in both its simplicity and complexity – is a constant reminder for us.
“it’s not about you,” it whispers. “look around. there’s so much to see. it’s all here FOR you.”
