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.
“may you awaken to the mystery of being here.” (a blessing for presence – john o’donohue)
when my big brother died i had trouble wrapping my head around his not-being-here. at the time i was an adult, pregnant with my second child and was personally acquainted with previous loss – i had lost all my grandparents along the way. but there was something i couldn’t put my finger on, something that was so perplexing and mind-warping for me that it sat with me and sat with me and, even now, there are times i ponder it. my big universe query was: wondering how the world could go on if he could no longer feel it.
i still don’t know the answer. i do know that it just does. the universe keeps keeping-on, despite who is present – in any of its dimensions.
in the decades now that have passed since my beloved brother died, i’ve also lost my sweet momma and poppo, other relatives, dear friends. in exquisite moments of reassurance, i have experienced them – from time to time – reaching from the other side. they’re right here, i think, just over there. though i wish i could summon them when i need them, that’s not how it works. and so i just glory in the moments when they happen and try to remember.
in those very moments – and any other, really – i think about what wisdoms they might share with me from that other side, from the Next place, the Next time.
i’m pretty sure they’d agree with john o’odonohue. they might tell me, as i sit in the adirondack chair on the sun-showered patio with my husband and dog, sipping a glass of wine and watching the grass grow, “just being there should be enough.”
they might whisper to me to slow down.
they might remind me of the sacredness of each minute.
they might cajole me from my angsts. in turn, they might admonish me to let go of ludicrous overplanning.
they might point out the new buds on the aspen, the volunteer daylilies in the garden, the black-capped chickadees and house sparrows dancing by the feeder, the shadows playing across our field of vision in this small sanctuary we love.
they might tap me on the shoulder and repeat a few more words of john o’donohue’s, “enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.”
the magic dots showed up. it is a happy day to wake up and see them.
with just the right angle of the sun and just the right angle of the miniblinds across the room on the east side windows of the bedroom, they sometimes – but not all the time – appear.
it is a little bit like fairy dust, the twinkle at the end of a magic wand, floating bubbles, glimpses of angel wings. and what could possibly not be good about all that?!
i have awakened in this room most of the 35 years i have lived here, save for bedroom rebuild/remodeling time and other moments here and there. with five windows, there is no shortage of light. it is bright and, though – like rooms in old houses – not big, it is airy.
it is spirit-lifting to wake up and see them…these magic dots dancing on the wall. and, during a time that is testing my spirit in more ways than i care to think about, i am grateful for the dots.
they poke at me, prodding me with mary oliver urgency – “what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” “eh??” they add. “well?” they insist.
they know – these magic dots – that there is much to be done. they know there is much to work through, to see to the other end, to process.
but seeing them reminds me to carry them with me. to not forget the fairy dust, the magic, the bubbles, wings in the middle of it all. to hold it all more lightly.
for, like, the magic dots, it will all disappear as the sun rises and the rays tilt in a different angle. with one turn of the miniblinds, they will be gone.
but in the meanwhile, they invite me to dance with them.
the trees out front and across the street often filter the sunlight, depending on the angle of the sun. we are on the north side of the street and so, we have a southern exposure. gazing outside at the sun filtering through the limbs doesn’t always give me an accurate picture of what it’s like out. i am given to stepping out on the front step to see what it really feels like out there, to see what it’s really like, to see the real.
she said, “you can’t trust people just because of the mask they are wearing.” and she’s right. the masks – the titles – we make assumptions that don’t really depict the person. we grant pedestals upon which others have placed people wearing the masks, donning the costume, assuming the title, but all the while betraying authenticity. our view of others is filtered through their masks, whatever it is they want us to see. the sun through the limbs.
it all somehow makes me think of the song “return to pooh corner”, the hundred acre wood, the world of pooh and piglet. maybe it’s a yearning for that sort of innocence, that sort of blissful good intention. we didn’t wonder about winnie the pooh’s agenda or piglet’s loyalty. they were – clearly- a bear and a pig and they spoke to truth. winnie the pooh says, “i’m never afraid with you.” no filters.
i suppose that truth – sans filters – is like the hundred acre wood – the forest, though. like the sun, it’s always there – always available. a.a. milne states, “but of course, it isn’t really good-bye, because the forest will always be there…and anybody who is friendly with bears can find it.”
and the deadened stalks of underbrush began to show signs of life. instead of the greys and browns of winter, its lack of light and its deep shadows, the sun has drawn out buds of newness and there is a slight glow of green in the woods.
soon, that green glow will grow and it will push out all the shadows of what had been, of the eradication that had happened in the preserve, of the fires and the heavy equipment’s tearing and grinding of buckthorn and other invasives. soon, the green glow will reflect back the warmth of the sunlight of spring and regrowth and we will walk in places that are not heavy with the press of toxic plants or trees. soon, the green glow on stems of underbrush, on trunked branches of trees will distinguish goodness from that which chokes out life.
walking – in the woods – last summer, last fall, early winter – it was hard to imagine – almost impossible – to really grok – that the beauty of the underbrush and the forest was being overrun by that which would utterly ruin it.
walking now – in the woods – in late winter/early spring – still with its juxtaposition of the echoes of the dark and the light, new vegetation and old chokemonsters, goodness and destruction – it’s ridiculously easy to see the difference.
“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.
i am writing this on the next day. the day after spring. it is now winter again. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter these days. i’m wondering if that is a product of age and stage, as 20 says.
mostly, it convinces us that we need to have a sense of humor. about all things. even the weather.
we sit writing this – snow outside – windows closed – heat on (though not much because i am a curmudgeon about the heat). yesterday we sat writing – birds and sunshine outside – windows open – heat off. it is off again, on again. the tease of time.
tomorrow it is march. and suddenly, i am in the month of my 65th birthday. i am in the month of medicare. i am in the month of the supplement vs the advantage plan. i am in the month of part d. i am in the month of whoa!!
and i wonder – where did the time go? wasn’t it spring yesterday? wasn’t it summer and delicious fall? how is it that i glance in the mirror and an almost-65 stares back?
it truly is the tease of time. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter. and – more and more – my investment in them is getting bigger and bigger – each individual day in each individual week in each individual month in each individual year.
the next day is all well and good. but it’s today that matters right now.
though these are not the “amber waves of grain” from the song, they did bring the song to my mind -“america, the beautiful” (katharine lee bates / samuel ward).
some of the most awe-inspiring-catching-my-breath moments have happened out west. in the mountains, in the canyonlands, in the high desert, it is not hard to encounter beauty that takes your breath away. the vastness, the absolute splendor is hard to deny. i get overwhelmed pretty easily out there and both david and my daughter can attest to the fact that i will literally cry in those places.
but time and budgets and obligations keep us from being in those places as often as we would wish. and so, we must make sure to see the fantastic in places closer-by, in vistas familiar.
we keep our eyes open.
every time we hike our most familiar trail we notice something different. the other day, though, heavy equipment had restoratively decimated much of what we knew. so we decided to hike along the river, watching for wildlife that had been displaced. we looked for signs of an early spring, traipsing on muddy trails and noticing how high the water line had gotten.
and then there was this bald eagle. perched high in a tree, overlooking all the newly mown-down woods, it was waiting. i saw it as i glanced up – noting the height of the trees that remained. and there it was. such a gift – seeing an eagle.
a few times, weeks ago, i watched an eagle soaring there – over the woods, over the bogs. astoundingly, it was mere minutes after i whispered silently for a sign from the universe. the sudden presence of this eagle made me feel like maybe the universe was listening. we wondered aloud what other lessons were there for us out there, what other reassurances we might find in nature.
so we pay attention.
and we pass the waves of grass.
and notice.
and – even in a time that is fraught with division, rife with political mayhem, with people jostling for power, people just wanting to be heard, people suffering from discriminatory inequalities of which there are far too many to list – i can still hear the song:
“o beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. for purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain. america! america!god shed his grace on thee. and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea!”
and i think about these spacious skies, the waves of grain, the purple mountain majesties…brotherhood – personhood – shared values – mutual support – in everything from sea to shining sea. and that grace comes into play, for i agree with the lyrics – we surely need divine wisdom, guidance, mercy, assistance…
and the bald eagle sits perched in its highest tree, looking out over the woods that remained. from there it can see the waves of grass, the tracks of heavy equipment in the dirt. it can’t see the purple mountain majesties or the sea or the other shining sea.
yet, knowing all that was out there – somewhere – it sat. eyes wide open. and took in its world below.
and likely thought about how fantastic it really is.
it is in much the same way that arvo pärt appeals to me that this photograph is a win for me. it’s simple – a stem of queen anne’s lace, fallen on the side of the trail, iced in. i felt lucky to come upon such a shot.
one of these days we are going to take a trip – later than sooner, i suspect. it will be solely for the opportunity to take photographs. we haven’t yet decided on a place, but it doesn’t matter too much – there are photographs everywhere just waiting. like this lace in the snow.
taking photographs reminds us to slow down. it’s impossible to trek fast if i have a camera in my hand. in the rare times i have left it in my bag ahead of time, planning to get a better workout, i inevitably stop and extract it – something has captured my attention, something needs to be on film.
ever since my first 35mm yashica i’ve been the one with the camera. there are big chunks of life where it looks like i wasn’t there. those are the times i was taking the pictures. very much there, just not in the frame. now i wish i had handed off the camera to someone else more – asking for a few more pictures in which i was present.
selfies have taken over today’s social media world. i must say, a selfie at 25 or 35 or even 45 looks waaay different than a selfie at almost-65. i am not a fan. unless of course it can be soft-focus, backlit, and overexposed. in that case, i’m in. otherwise, i want a photo to be taken from a bit further away than the end of my arm.
i continue to wander around with my camera…stopping often on the trail, pulling off to the side of the road in littlebabyscion or big red, grabbing photos of ideas in antique shoppes and boutiques, annoyingly taking candids and posed shots of my grown children when i am near them. i have about 35,000 photos on two iphones, but that doesn’t touch the grand total.
some photos are obvious – all the tourists gather there, every visitor taking a picture of the iconic whatever-it-is. some photos are obvious – we want remembrances of times spent together, celebrations, festive occasions. some photos are obvious – we portrait our families, we feature our growing children, we capture our pets in everything silly or heartstrung. we photograph the beautiful, the magnificent, the moment-in-time.
and some photos…well, some are a bit more subtle. they are the shadows of the tall trees. they are the tiny birdfeet prints. they are the curl of the petal, about to fall. they are the dew on the grass, the horizon lost in fog, the patterns of an old brick wall. they are the nurselog, the feather, the breaking wave, the caterpillar. and they are lace in the snow. all just waiting to be seen.
we’ve seen photographs of other places – not all that far from our house. even 10, 20, 30 miles or so – maybe less – makes a difference. instead of a bit of snow and a lot of ice like we have, there are inches of snow. lake michigan and that ole windy jet stream has been wreaking havoc for every meteorologist around trying to accurately predict what to expect. it’s all situational.
this past saturday was a fun day (notice my pained smirk here). with ladders and buckets and decanters and water boiling on the stove and blow dryers we dealt with the ice damming issues that come with these sudden bursts of arctic air – the negatives. it is never good to open the back door and be dripped upon before exiting the sunroom and going outside. so, we took all our ice-damming know-how and experience and applied it, once again, to our gutters and roofline – particularly near the obstinate newer gutter outside the back door. going back to maybe 2002 or even a bit earlier, i remember clearly being on the ladder out there with a long hose extending to the basement laundry tub, attempting to melt the overlayer of ice to allow the gutter to flow. so it is clearly a tradition at our house and not an unexpected sight; our eastneighbors never even said a word as they passed by. one never knows when this is going to happen and some years are luckier than others. the conditions are specific and, even with heating cables tucked into the gutters, there are unlucky days here and there. it’s all situational.
and so, we have a polka-dotted patio – with slushy-ice making little circles – making us think of the ice circles that form in lake michigan under certain circumstances. a bit of snow has now accumulated on the grass out back and the birds who remain here to winter are occupying the ornamental grasses – eating seeds that remain there, alternating between the grasses and the birdfeeder. i wonder about a way to warm the water in the birdbath so that there is some fresh water for them to drink. they seem happy, flitting about, despite the freezing cold and wind.
it will be another hearty dinner night. something warming, soup or chili. this cold snap is going to last a few more days. i suppose we could go out hiking in snow-covered woods, but the treadmill and the bike call our names from the basement and we wuss out. we plan on adding to our little gym down there – maybe a few mats for stretching exercises as well. there are certainly circumstances during which we’d rather be in our none-too-fancy-but-climate-controlled basement than outside in the frigid air. it’s all situational.
and even though we glance at the temperatures in other corners of the world – and people taunt us with screenshots of weather with 75° and that silly sun icon – we are glad to be here. managing the challenges of the cold weather, soaking up the comfort of a warm home, watching the seasons as they seemingly fly by. it is all situational and we remember to be grateful for this – our situation.
reverse threading 