the sliver of moon was suspended in the sky like an add9 chord. hanging out there, being all gorgeous.
add9s are my thing. extending the chord, a little bit of tension, unresolved.
though i am often astounded by a full moon and i love all the phases tugging at those of us here on earth, it’s the sliver that always charms me. just this wink of a moon out there, inviting me, luring me to stop and stare, making me notice the stars gathered, like a moon fan club, all vying for my attention. like an add9.
we spent most of the weekend at home, save for a bit of celebration time friday evening and an impromptu sun-urged lakefront sunday afternoon. with home our rock, we reveled in it. we worked in and out around the house on this glorious weekend, alternating chores with the adirondack chairs placed strategically on the deck or the patio, depending. it’s only april, so this weekend was unexpected, its weather a winky-moon-add9 gift.
and walking down the driveway under the night sky – a clear night in the ‘hood – heading into the backyard, right by the ghetto fence, right before we turned, i looked up. the moon glanced down, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “it’s all good,” and then it danced back into the galaxy.
and – like a shooting star – the add9 lingered, fading eventually into black.
we ordered fried rice and eggrolls the same day i blogged about joy sprinkles. it doesn’t take much to get us enthused and fried rice and eggrolls do it. because we don’t eat out often, it is always a treat to have something someone else has prepared and this dinner is no different.
we only got one fortune cookie in our brown stapled bag of deliciousness; our order must be considered a small order. we saved it for later.
i got to be the one to crack it open.
“sprinkles of joy will shower upon you in unexpected ways.”
it was one of those stunning moments in the universe when all comes to a screeching halt and you realize it is – indeed – all connected. just when you felt a little bit untethered, a little unsteady, the universe shows up with an anchor.
and here it was. simply the words “sprinkles of joy”.
i texted heidi – forever my keeper of the word “sprinkles” – and we laughed to realize we had juuust spoken these very words, that i had just written them. unexpected, for sure. it was like the universe had its own personal siri listening in – like when you talk about mumbai – never touching your computer or phone or any device – and then it shows up on your facebook feed or in your instagram. here it was – the universe echoing back to me the words “sprinkles” and “joy”.
we walked past the cemetery at the end of our road on the way back from the corner store. it was sunny saturday and, having spent the day doing chores inside and outside around the house, we were going to sit out back on the patio with dogga, sip a glass of wine and eat – yes – chips. we haven’t had chips in a week and thought, “eh…what’s a few chips?!!” it was with chip-guilt in a plastic bag walking home – as we strolled past the cemetery – that d looked over at me.
“i’m glad the cemetery is at the end of our block,” he said. “it reminds me that these people all had lives, too,” going on to talk about perspective, stuff that matters and stuff that doesn’t matter, the passage of time, the not-knowing.
every moment is one in which to create joy. for oneself. for others. together. to be showered by sprinkles of joy. in unexpected ways.
i proudly carried our bag of chips the rest of the way home.
so, we wanted to watch a movie. you know, just a simple movie. it had been recommended to us by a friend and it was on our list-of-things-to-watch-someday.
we cozied up on the couch, ready.
he had the remote and the will.
but no power.
whatsoever.
we must have been through the “siri, find….” at least five times. we knewww it was out there. but, on what service? in what app? through what streaming? on what channel?
through the years we have had chromecast, a firestick and apple tv. our tv – itself – is not technically of this era. it’s from around 2008 and is non-smart. all these remote devices have helped. but a potato is still a potato and our vizio is still non-smart.
we persevered.
surfing through hulu, apple tv plus, netflix, amazon prime, youtube movies, spectrum tv, we finally found our movie on peacock. by then, i was already yawning.
but we still persevered.
we spent about fifteen minutes registering and signing in and purchasing and choosing.
i pined for the days of the tv across the room, connected to the antenna on your roof, maybe with a set of bunny ears on the tv stand to help. those days when you simply walked over, turned the dial and the tv came on. then you’d turn the other dial and three major stations would show up. and you’d pick from the shows on those channels, maybe looking up in the daily newspaper (laying next to the couch) for a description of the show or – if you were in-the-money – look it up in tv guide. then you’d settle in for a fine time with the folks in petticoat junction or with granny and jed and elly may and jethro in beverly hills. or maybe gidget or hogan or all in the family or three’s company or mash or happy days or mork and mindy or laverne and shirley or…. the list is endless. but it was all simple. walk to tv. turn on. turn channel dial. turn volume dial. walk back. sit down.
ultimately, we got there. it was like an everest summit. we watched the movie! the whole thing. without interruption and – miraculously – without falling asleep or having the remote ask us – having sensed no movement, no actions on our end – if we wanted it to “continue” and telling us to push “ok” (assuming we could find “ok” on the remote) to stay powered.
it was a personal triumph for us. a team effort. success!!
the other day we were at the library. we passed by stacks and stacks, rows of dvds. we both laughed, knowing we’d be back to check out some good old-fashioned movies. easy-peasy. put it in the dvd player and push “play”. unless, of course, your remote is switched to hdmi mode. in which case, good luck.
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.
i cannot tell you how excited we are about this. for, as in most things, the beginning of something is almost always glorious, full of anticipation and expectation. and the-season-of-the-adirondack-chair is no different.
even with thermals and down vests, even with warm and fuzzy boots, there is no distracting us from the advent of this time, there is no disconcert about temperature or our sedimentary layers of clothing. the possibility just seems limitless.
we easily turn our perfectly lightweight chairs to the sun. we look at each other and smile. and deep inside, we hear bob marley singing, “every little thing is gonna be alright”.
we have waltzed on this patio, sipped wine on this patio, eaten delicious dinners on this patio, played ukuleles on this patio, had band rehearsal on this patio, entertained family and friends and scores of people who are or had been a part of our community on this patio, planned our wedding on this patio, watched our dogga on this patio, had hard and hopeful and healing conversations on this patio, planted tiny farms on this patio, laughed till our bellies hurt on this patio, cried till our bellies hurt on this patio, wished on the moon and the stars on this patio, watched the flame of our firepit dance with abandon on this patio, contemplated on this patio, grieved on this patio, napped on this patio and felt finally-awake on this patio.
and now, a new time will start, overlapping all the other times, weaving in and out of all the rest, a foliated-metamorphic-conglomerate-sedimentary rock life.
and the patio greets the adirondack chairs with glee. they all face the sun. and they smile.
you remember…when we were kids, we played it in a circle. sitting cross-legged. on the floor. like right after duck-duck-goose.
it started with one little girl or boy leaning over to the next and whispering something in that child’s ear. that child whispered in the next ear and that next ear whispered in the next ear and the next and so on…until it came around to the end of the circle.
the child at the end of the circle would then state what he or she heard – whispered to them.
and it was inevitably always completely different from how it started. and everyone would giggle and giggle about how funny it was that this tiny message would be so misconstrued – so distorted – by the end of the circle game. it became a tiny beehive of misinformation.
i recently learned that adults play this too. only it is not with the innocence of children in a cross-legged circle. it is not a game of giggles. it is, however, played in a beehive.
and instead of lighthearted buzzy laughter, it is an effort with meanness and agenda at its core. it takes information that hasn’t been fact-checked or questioned or even properly considered and passes it on. and one person passes it to thirteen people who pass it to thirteen people who pass it to thirteen people and voila! the real-real has been warped beyond repair and the telephone “game” has taken on an air of righteous targeting, the spirit of nasty, baseless and malicious. this now-swiss-cheese-story is punctuated with lies and innuendo and is passed on and on and on – with no thought or respect to truth, no thought or respect for the target.
it’s a far cry from cross-legged giggling children on the floor.
“neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.” (desiderata – max ehrmann)
we wander down roads peppered with aridity and disenchantment. the impact is exhausting. the fallout can be long-lasting. they – aridity and disenchantment – wind around our fragile hearts, pressing, making us short of breath.
we are disappointed. we believed that others were different. we believed we were cared about, appreciated, that we were held in grace.
we are shaken. for some things take us by surprise, some people take us by surprise. we flail and stumble over these rugged rocks slyly hiding just beneath the road’s surface.
we are hurting. for we feel betrayed. aridity and disenchantment pale; they are dim heartbeats of betrayal.
and we find we must take a moment, a respite on the side of the road. our hearts are floundering.
and – somehow, somewhere – we are reminded. just as we were about to pick up the cynicism white flag, we can see it: love.
and we can feel the river flowing through us and we can feel hope rising. for under the snow the grass is greening.
and we turn away from that which causes us profound thirst, that which prevents growth. and we discard that which has been a rude awakening, that which has elicited utter disillusionment.
i’ve reeeally not been a nap person. napping in the daytime makes me feel kind of out-of-it, like i have to start the day all over again. but in these new days of insomnia…sleeplessness…big swaths of night wide-awake…well, the circumstances are a little different.
it is much easier for – him – to take a nap.
fact of the matter is, it’s much easier for him to sleep. any time. any where. sleep. sleep. sleep.
i’m not sure how he does it, but he lays his head down and he’s gone. meanwhile, i am tossing and turning and trying to figure out why his even breathing is so utterly annoying. yes, i know – i am simply jealous of his sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
and so, i thought i’d give it a chance – a daytime nap. i knew it would never work. i knew i’d lay down and be wide awake, despite being utterly exhausted. i knew the daylight would prevent me from sleeping. i knew he’d sleep in a second and i would be yearning to just get-up and do-something.
and in her waking-up, in the tease of spring, in the liminal space between seasons, mother earth offers up her flowers. it’s a tiny posy of possibility, an olive branch extended to stave off impatience as we pine for warmer days, for everything to green up. and, in this waiting zone, these dried flowers spur our imagination, carry us forward.
it’s the interim times – the periods in-between – the time spent in the hallway before the next door opens – these are the reluctant times. we are reluctant to sit in the hall. we are reluctant to wait and see. we are reluctant to accept a zone of time sans shape. we think it all – the minutes and seconds, hours and years – needs definition. we are reluctant to be still. we don’t understand what feels like a screeching halt. we yearn to move, yet we are frozen in fallow.
but we are morphing. we are beautiful winter nosegays tucked into mason jars. we are march and april. we are stoking up. we are no less beautiful than verdant june and july. we are just different.
and for this time – we are somewhat rustic, somewhat fragile. we are color-muted now to be opulent later. we are the quiet before the fortissimo, meek before rackety. we are simply waiting.
we read the same paragraph over and over again, listen to the same strains of music time and again, sit and pace and sit and pace. we are the dried wildflowers, the straining buds, the transitional space, the interlude. we are the hallway.
reverse threading 