white flowers in the forest. with delicate petals – like the wood anemone – or the three sweeping waxy petals of the great white trillium – these white flowers dotting the underbrush of the woods are stunning, really beautiful. these seemingly fragile white blooms in and amongst a landscape not quite green, a landscape still rummaging around, waiting for spring’s full chorus.
we stop sometimes – just to take it all in – past ourselves, our thoughts, our conversation, our footsteps on the dirt. it gives us pause and slows our breathing.
the landscape design is immaculate – perfection. downed trees, leaves naturally composting, the canopy towns of mayapples bursting up through the ground, enchanting purple phlox, flowering pear trees. it is a slice of heaven.
in these days – when mosteverysinglething we read in the news makes us despondent, it seems that we must balance out our equilibrium a bit. for us, as you already know, that is the trail. the dirt paths in our area help us thrive as we all live in the shade of the current political chaos and the wreckage of our democracy. tiny bits of dappled light get through, but the challenge is to still keep going, despite the vast amount of dark.
white trillium prefers shade. these exquisite blooms find their home to be best in part or full shade. they are slow-growing, but long-lived – a combination that seems to push back against threatening negative influences, that rises out of deep winter, that sustains despite the odds, that shines in beauty. trillium live in colonies, interdependent on all the shrubs, trees, composting soil, insects, bacteria and fungi around it. its brilliant star shines alongside those it shares space with, symbiotically life-sharing companions.
pause for thought. yes. it gives us pause for thought.
we don’t have a tv antenna anymore. this is our westneighbors’. we have the good fortune of being able to see the birds who choose it as a place to land, a place to rest, a place to view all that which is below them. though i understand that the tv antenna is “coming back” (much like paisley bell bottoms – which i, clearly, should have kept through the years…though the idea of those still fitting makes me grimace and roll my eyes and woops…i am off-trail, bushwhacking my way through my brain back to topic…..)
so…my point…tv antennas are coming back – though it is not necessarily in this form but more in the form of a powerful window leaf or indoor device or lower-profile rooftop doohickey, no longer a towering metal structure, more horizontal now than vertical.
nevertheless, there are many tall tv antennas in our neighborhood – simply because they were already there.
when ours fell down we were fortunate it did no harm and we had a tree guy come and clean it all up. at the time we were subscribed to the smallest cable package and, since then, we have considered cutting that as well. it is, after all, a wifi world these days.
when we take walks in our ‘hood we pass a few houses with solar panels. not as many as might be in a neighborhood with newer houses, but i suspect, as people choose to install a new roof, they might also install solar. in these days of high energy cost, it only makes sense. solar power, wind power, hydropower, geothermal power…all amazing, clean, responsible options for a planet struggling to support so many more people,
which clearly brings me – in this dot-to-dot brain of mine – once again – to the abhorrent devastation this administration is making of renewable energy in this country. the unparalleled gluttony of those in power now is absolutely decimating what is good for our planet earth. but they totally don’t care. and neither do those who continue to support this pathetic and backward set of so-called policies. there is no culpability for the environment; there is only money to be made. it’s disgusting. more on that tomorrow.
and so, the mourning dove sits on our westneighbor’s tv antenna, looking around, resting. the dove has no idea of what flies through my brain as i appreciate its perch on the roof. it has no idea of how admiring i am of its ability to be zen-like and coo in all circumstances. it has no idea how much peace it brings me – to just simply watch it sit on an old tv antenna.
“the white trout lily humbly bows on the forest floor. much like people, though on a different scale, their presence is ephemeral, fleeting. on sunny days, their petals will curl back, up, towards the sun; on shady days these small flowers may not even open. their simple beauty a mystery to the passerby, their faces shyly downward, they fill the underbrush on the side of the trail, dotting the landscape with fragile white blooms. i trust they are not concerned with the impact they make on the world nor do they wonder about their footprints once they are gone. they are simply there – love – dressed in white floral.” (from a post on august 26, 2021)
the tiny trout lily forest – as seen from the ground – stretching on and on, dotting through dry underbrush, the accumulation of fall and winter now giving it up to spring.
the day was stunning…warm, sunny, blue skies. a gift of a day, indeed. it was our first time back on our loop since we arrived home. it was time to process it all and that trail is one of our touchstones for processing. we wandered along the dirt path, talking, being silent, noting how this new season was transforming our woods.
when you travel to or through places where you are not known – where you are a stranger – there is a sense of humility. we immerse in little towns on back roads when we can, finding our way through someone else’s place, through a community of ‘others’ – those in the know about local customs, local gems, local folklore. we are just passersby – soon to be on our way somewhere else.
but we have discovered some of our favorite spots this way. we’ve found places to which we must return some day, places with which we have connected, places that seem magically aligned with us.
discovery is like that. our steps take us past the familiar, into the unknown, the mysterious.
as i got down on my knees to photograph the trout lily forest, i imagined being tiny and walking amongst the lilies. like walking in a city of towering buildings, anonymous to most.
this trail – so familiar – each twist and turn, the spots where we know there will be standing water, the spots where the sun bathes the path, the places where the scent of pine is strong. we are lucky to know this place.
it is not likely that hikers after us will wonder about our footprints. they will be intent on the awakening forest and the swollen river, on their own silence, on their own talk–talk.
but we were there.
and – again – i realize we are each just one of the trout lilies in the woods, just as fragile, just as ephemeral, bowing to time.
this place. these shimmers of light. these sounds. this air. this salt. this place. this magic.
in the days we are there, taking it all in. i am reminded – once again – of owning it all – in the days of my growing – in the days when anything felt possible and nothing was necessary.
in the days we are there, reconnecting to plank under my feet, waterfront air in my hair, soft ink falling on the dock, clanking masts.
in the days we are there, the pride of where-i’m-from returning, the tethers of heart, sand in my shoes, salty waves at my horizon.
in the days we are there, revisiting, reclaiming, restoring, recognizing the waters of before and after and – then – in the same way the waves of the inlet and the sound meet, allowing it all to mesh into one.
in the days we are there, standing in the sun, standing in the dark. it is night and it is day. and this is my town and i am wrapped in it.
in the days we are there, i become the wake – following all that has come before, choosing to ride the triangle of waves behind the rest of life. and i discover – it’s all one.
and then.
i am shimmering too.
***
night dock (jan 12, 1977)
clanking of metal-rigged sails / politely interrupt the still evening. /
the water below is soft, shadowed chasms away, yet close and quiet.
orange and pink hues fade from the night / and are enraptured by the hushed harbor.
faint strums of a guitar revolve in the mind / and in the silence of dark.
i recently had a conversation with someone i haven’t seen or spoken to in almost fifty years. we held space together on the phone gently, tenderly. for this wasn’t a social call where we spent time reminiscing about lovely memories and silly anecdotes. instead this was a call that transcends mere words, that was opening doors long-closed, turning metaphoric knobs for access into painful times and angst-filled recollections. i was shaking and weepy when i got off the phone, but grateful to have had the chance to meet together on empathetic ground.
there are some doors – that in the turning of the knob, the opening of the door – are most difficult. i am learning – at this time in my life – that these doors, though they make me shudder, even squeamish – are worthy of opening. these doors will eventually lead to the place that will ease the constant butterfly-like-vibration in my chest. these doors will set free the ramifications of all that happened long ago. these doors promise new. they promise perspective born of process. they promise light – granted to the dark of way-earlier life.
this call – like others in recent times – was somewhat excruciating. it was hard to dial up – to open that slammed door. yet, i was grateful to feel the undeniable comfort – coexisting with deep grief – that came in its aftermath. profound.
not alone, understood, we both knew without saying that we ‘got it’ on its most cellular level, the granular place of shared traumatic experience, the inevitable sisterhood beyond the opened closed-door.
this charming little flower started popping up all over the top part of our yard – between the old brick wall and the garden by the house. striped squill require no special skills, no plant food, no specific watering instructions. it just appears. and it thrives. and every single one of these tiny striped blooms makes me smile. they are incredibly low-maintenance in a high-maintenance world. it’s hard to think of something sweeter to broadcast that spring-in-the-midwest is actually on its way.
because there is wild geranium under barney – the old upright in the backyard – and there are day lilies growing feverishly in every bit of garden and there are the tiniest curlicues of ferns along the back fence over in the corner by the garage and there are sedum’s wee cabbages obstinately ignoring any deep temperature drops – we have to believe that we here in wisconsin are on the docket for spring’s arrival.
years ago i planted hundreds of tulip and daffodil bulbs with the great hope that, well, tulips and daffodils would grow in our yard. but – the squirrels dug them all up and ate ’em all. que sera. it wasn’t to be.
i am not horticulturally derailed by that. i enjoy the bulb flowers in other gardeners’ gardens and appreciate what actually grows easily in ours. striped squill – its delicate flowers – are our gig, it seems. no credit to us.
and i have to say that i really love it that way.
because these tiny flowers – even in what seems their inconsequence – are most meaningful. their presence in our grass signals the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end. it signals the freshness of a new season, a new time. it signals rejuvenation of a place on earth that has rested for some time – in this case, right here, through winter.
i can’t help but linking-thinking it to the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end and the freshness of a new season, a new time and rejuvenation….of me, of us, of each of us.
somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we start to thrash our arms at the darker shadows and invite in the light. somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we begin to cultivate the chance of growth, of healing, of rising up through the debris of whatever had been plowed over. from somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we emerge stronger, more vital, chutzpah leading the way.
the little squill stand firm in the wind and the rain, their skinny little stems steadfast. they keep reaching for the sun, grinning. they know they matter. they have no doubt. they are the harbingers of renewal. and they cheer each of us on our way with them.
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.
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.
instead of taking a shopping bag with us when we shopped, she did the opposite. it seemed to work – we’d find the things we were looking for when we did not have the shopping bag.
instead of taking an umbrella for the impending rain, she’d take an umbrella to quell the rain. that also worked much of the time.
it was sort of like the opposite of preparedness. manifesting what she wished for, staving off the rain, inviting the bargains – all seemingly achieved by opposite actions. even though my sweet momma was a staunch girl scout supporter and volunteer – with the motto “be prepared” – she also exercised her own juju as she went about life.
though i laugh when i think about it – and have told d about these itsy-bitsy quirks of my mom (unlike me – with no quirks at all – teehee) – i tend to take the polar opposite action. i put the umbrella in my backpack. i take the fold-up shopping bag. i put snacks in my purse. i tuck duct tape and tools, extra oil and blankets into our old vehicles. and i bring the phone charger when we leave home for any destination, event or activity over an hour away.
so when we saw the weather report that issued wind warnings – which we and our new electric mast can now certainly attest to – we brought in the windchimes. they are really beautiful and their soulful, resonant sound is of reassurance to us from the backyard, so we did not want them harmed by the coming winds. we often take off the clapper if the weather is too gusty, but this time d brought the whole kit-n-kaboodle inside. we both felt better seeing them safely on the rug in the sunroom. just a small action, but a nod to being prepared for what was on its way, to protecting their value to us.
it’s hard – extremely hard – not to take these little lessons we have all learned along the way and apply them to the present-day in our country. it feels like utter chaos, with no real preparation, no real plan, nothing but self-serving agenda reeling around and running the show. it is utterly exhausting.
we are in the very tiny lull in the middle of the blizzard that started last evening. radar shows that we are in this small white blob in the middle of a gigantic blue blizzard field. soon the snow and the winds will start howling again; it is to go on for several more hours. the gusty sleet pummeled the windows last night as i worried about trees and power lines and electric poles and new electric masts. we take a deep breath, getting ready for the rest.
it temporarily took my mind off of war and mass deportation, healthcare and social safety net programs and exponentially rising costs, extremism and voter disenfranchisement, a justice system and leadership sycophants hiding blatant sex-trafficking, abject cruelty and an absolute lack of regard for fellow humans complete with disdain for any social differentiation.
i don’t know what that all says about preparedness. it certainly raises some outraged emotions. i do feel like “they” have been preparing for years – stoking up hatred and bigotry to the gills – conniving and in cahoots with the richest – and clearly most cavalier – people in the world – with the dedication and commitment to take over everything. they have prepared. and they have not prepared. they have plans and they shoot from the hip. they are the wind blasts and they are surprised by the pushback and the guards against the battering wind.
the wind last night kept me awake. because i know what can happen. and i want to protect us from all that harm.
why is it that so many in this country’s leadership seem to care so little about how battered this country is becoming? where are the checks and balances on this administration? how is complicity so rampant? how is it that there are so many citizens who seem to care less about being in the middle of this storm – the unbelievable corruption, the outrageous grift, the isolation, taunting the rest of the world, the clear attempt of authoritarian takeover? is there no natural tendency within them to protect the country – our cherished country – from all that harm?
what is the value of this country, its democracy, its people, and its laws to all of us?
i glance over at the treasured pipes on the rug. knowing that soon we’ll hang them back in the tree and the chimes will once again float in the air, i’m grateful we took precautions to keep them from being destroyed.
she pointed at the artisan-crafted wooden sconce and said, “did you see the heart?” one of the wooden discs was in the shape of a heart. i hadn’t noticed, which is saying a lot since i always notice hearts. i was thrilled, though, because the thought of her having this heart-infused sconce on the wall of her newly-purchased “dream home” was, well, totally heartwarming. this person was the right person to have these family-handed-down scandinavian birch sconces – and that was the moment i knew it.
each day i am finding something else of which i am ready to let go. it’s not always easy. sometimes the connection is hard to break. but i am trying to make decisions based on the unlikelihood of our actually using a piece versus the chance that someone else might be able to use it, has been searching for it or is just charmed by that very thing. storing something ad nauseum seems completely silly now. despite its charm, the beauty of something hand-crafted, the ancestry strands connected with it, if i haven’t used it in decades, why would i expect to use it now?
it is a tad bit overwhelming – i realize i am redundant-beyond-the-beyond here – to go through everything. the bins, boxes, closets, attic, storage rooms seem neverending. and yet, there are some great stories i am able to tell david, some history of these relics, with mixed emotions that accompany them.
as i move them on, i begin to see that the artifacts of the past – though some laden with positive or negative emotion – are not that which holds the emotion. the curio is merely the vessel of what jolts my memory, pokes at my heart, the physical thing that – when i see it or touch it – brings up whatever the emotion might be.
there are a few things that still don’t pass muster. even if i smudged them with great amounts of sage, they would still be too much for me to hold onto, too much for me to tuck back into a bin or box, a closet or the attic. some things must move on – and there is no reticence whatsoever.
it’s been a big learning. and it has gained momentum for me. as i unearth each bit of relic for release, i see yet another and know it is time.
some of it i send out with bits of my heart and some with a deep exhale. and, either way, i know that – eventually – it all remains anyway. even when the bins and boxes and closets and attic and storage rooms are way less labored with stuff.
i have connected with the memory, acknowledged it, felt it, and stored it back away. i have wrapped my heart around it or dealt with processing it.
and the fragments of memory – now invisible remnants of all the stuff – are now my souvenirs.
reverse threading 