i don’t have track one on repeat – yet – but soon.
george winston’s thanksgiving from his december album…exquisite. a meandering of thought, a creek of familiarity. listening to that piece float around me is the same as hiking this trail – so well-known, so beautiful, so close i can feel it when i shut my eyes.
it is snowing as i write this. i am under a quilt and can see outside – the squirrel on the birdfeeder, the grasses bending from the weight of snowfall, barney’s keys covered. everything is quiet. there is peace – for a few moments at least – while i listen inside to the trail and the reverb of george’s piano.
she said, “it’s time for you to rest. find a way. a sabbath.”
sometimes shabbat is easy to find – when all is lining up in the world. sometimes, this rest is harder to find. we are embroiled in all life’s angsts, all life’s slights, all the uphills, the sudden falls. to take the time seems self-indulgent. we are wary of the judgement of others.
but tired is tired and it is neither needy nor indulgent nor irresponsible to – metaphorically – lay one’s head down.
the trail – particularly in its known-ness – grants rest. it teases with ever-so-slight changes – the turtles which were once sunning are burrowed, the meadow-flowers which were once bloomed are dried, the trees which were once leafed are devoid.
george’s thanksgiving – in its known-ness – grants rest. it teases with a pause here, the lingering of a harmonic there, melodic gestures of lift.
both – individually and in repetition – grant shabbat shalom. sabbath. and i am grateful.
it was the color that stopped us. we have walked this route for years. the other day – wind blowing off the lake, waves crashing over the rocks, rain falling intermittently – we noticed the color.
the east side of the trees was iridescent. cobalt blue and teal green mixed in with the rich color of its bark. we stood in front of the trees, studying the mix of color, the tooth, the randomness. later, it took some research to discover what might – just might – be the reason for these colors: amaurodon viridis – a fungus. if that is true, we don’t know what that means for these trees. both are stricken on the side that faces the lake – the side that takes the pummeling of the wind in lake-effect storms. we’d imagine that side of the tree is decidedly moister than the side facing the afternoon sun. but – at best – even with a bit of research – we are making it all up. we aren’t tree experts or even tree knowledgers. we are, however, tree lovers. and we are tree noticers.
it did make me think of october days we spent in breckenridge, colorado. days where the town took tree-safe paint and designed an art installation on the aspens. with biodegradable water soluble colorant, social and environmental artist konstantin dimopoulos inspired the painting of the trunks of aspens blue-blue-blue drawing attention to them – stunning yellow leaves in fall against this blue – impossible to not notice – an effort to point to the importance of trees to the planet and the devastation of global deforestation. it was breathtaking.
the work of an artist is to ask questions, to prompt thought, to nudge and cause both comfort and discomfort, perhaps to elicit change. the work of an artist is not to take the easy pre-cut path. the work of an artist is to linger in not-knowing, in seeking. the work of an artist is to notice, to pay attention, to educe the notice of others, to stir up paying attention. to encourage stillness and wild interaction, both.
the trees got us to stop. and as we stood and noticed and wondered, they stood tall, knowing they had done their job.
toooo hot. i am waaaay toooo hot waaaay toooo often. this peri/meno/post thing just goes on and on and on.
i have friends – they know who they are – who have had “i-think-i-had-a-hot-flash-once” experiences. how – exactly – is this equitable?? perhaps – in some involuntary way – i have taken on their burdensome backpack full of hotflashes…i have – involuntarily – embraced hotflashes for the whole gender. it would seem so. speaking of gender – what – exactlyyy – is the yang-for-men of this – our yin?
hot flashes are “damnedable” as my sweet momma would say – pretty much the harshest of her language save for a few choice times. they wreak havoc. they turn the best of intentions into sweaty messes. good grief. even writing that gives me a hot flash. let’s just say they are … not attractive.
regardless of my distaste for these hormonal ridiculousnesses, they often happen at night – in the middle of my insomnia or, if i’m particularly unlucky, in the middle of a snippet of sleep.
so i try to plan ahead.
i open the window next to my side of the bed. i figure if i can feel the breeze coming in, i will feel better – refreshed and relaxed, ready for sleepynightnight.
it doesn’t matter what the temperature is outside. it’s still … necessary.
d doesn’t always agree. there he is – all zen-like, snugged into the flannel sheets, under the comforter and the quilt, his 32 degrees long underwear at the ready. reticent.
i mean, he always relents. thank goodness!
but i guess he’s imagining he is out there with agnes and chip hailstone, ricko dewilde, andy and denise, jesse, sue aikens – living life below zero – in the overnight.
i wonder if they breathe a sigh of relief when they come upon a trail. do they huff and puff, trying to slow their heartbeat having bushwhacked their way to this place? do they glance around – tentatively – looking both ways before stepping out? are they exhausted from finding their way? is a bit of clear-path welcome in their wilderness? do they wonder how long they should stay on this which is not a game trail?
the wilderness is a big place.
as we hike – in places mostly not as wild as we would wish – it is a gift of our time-on-trail to cross paths with the spoor of other creatures. we go slow, quietly – peering into the forest – far back in the meadows – to catch a glimpse of these elegant deer, busy-gathering squirrels and playful chipmunks, birds of many calls. we count ourselves fortunate they share the space with us.
it is possible they are deep in the woods – camouflaged – peering back at us. i wonder if they ponder our hiking on the trail. i wonder if they wonder why we are not bushwhacking through underbrush, running when flight is the answer. i wonder what they wonder.
they don’t know if or what we have bushwhacked, how we have arrived at the path on which they see us. they don’t know where we have been, what we have seen, where we have come from. they don’t know what desire path we have created in the woods for ourselves, what watershed at which we stand.
it is all a mystery – back and forth – what we do, what they do. yet, we share the same options for arriving at a destination. we can take a well-beaten path, a planned laid-down trail. we can go the way that is prepared ahead. or we can bushwhack our way free.
it becomes clear looking down the trailmarker. the clearest place – with the most clarity in focus – is the very middle. it blurs on the edges, in the foreground and that section which is furthest away. but the middle. clear enough to see the drying grain of the wood. clear enough to see the tiny spores of lichen. lichen in the foreground. lichen furthest away. all blurry. but clear – there – in the middle.
lichen is a symbiotic partnership – it is a mutualistic relationship of fungus and algae, living together. lichen are not parasitic – they thrive, but do not feed on others. instead, they depend intimately on each other for survival, getting nutrients from the air, trapping particulates, absorbing small pollutants – their very presence an indicator of air quality.
lichen are tolerant of extremes and resilient in growth. they are considered a biomonitor in assessing the health of the environment in which they dwell.
we approach the trailmarker. it’s a sunny day, beautiful really. we are on our way back to the trailhead. it’s been miles of hiking.
we are refreshed and tired, both. we are happy to be together on this path. it is familiar and, this time, we don’t need the marker to know where we are or how far we have to go.
but the markers are there – in most of the trails we hike. some are less obvious, like cairns in the high mountains. they help us find the way, help us know – more clearly – where we are. even if what was before is fading and what is ahead is blurry and unknown, the trailmarker gives us a bit of certainty in the moment – the only certain thing.
the lichen draws my attention – soft greens and mustard yellows. i wander over to the marker to photograph it. i don’t know a lot about lichen so i google it later.
their place in the world – these tiny organisms – is astounding. their ability to co-exist, their thriving together, how integral they are in giving back – all inspiring.
apparently, they are a little more pure, higher up on the love-one-another chain than humans.
the orange sherbet sky is a stunning backdrop to most anything but the milkweed’s wisp is anything but most-anything.
we pass by and notice. we pay attention. texture and color and movement from the gentlest breeze – it is a photograph before it was a photograph. my job was simply to snap it.
our days are slower. we linger in not-knowing. we acknowledge time as it sneaks by. and the next week comes before any of us are ready, before it seems possible. even the milkweed is surprised.
we are learning lesson after lesson. that this is life: the things our fingertips touch, the scent on the wind, the view before us, the call of the black-capped chickadee, the ground under our feet. we are caught up by the impermanence of it all. we are realizing the folly in the gathering of stuff. we immerse in the river where there is no stratum. we feel the moment, without knowing the edges of next.
the orange sherbet sky doesn’t dawdle. color has another place to be. and as the sun drops below the horizon, the shadow-gaps fill in.
we stand with the milkweed in dusk, close, loitering in early night and, with gratitude and rest, ready for next.
we passed the bench in the park. i couldn’t read the rest; it’s possible that the spraypaint was -somewhat- erased for a reason. nevertheless, what remained: i with.
in these days fraught with division, they were words of prompt, words that made me think, words that made me wince. because they hold in the air other words: i against.
it seems somewhat closed to just ponder the “i-withs” when one can see the “i-againsts” just as clearly. and, in this polarizing world, it’s generally the i-againsts that carry a charge. we read the news, we watch the world teeter and it becomes alarmingly clear how against we are against the againsts. our blood boils watching the mockery of governing; our hearts break watching the taking of lives in violent disagreement. we shudder at inequity; we are disgusted with closemindedness. we grit our teeth – nauseated – as we watch progress regress. close-in and further out, we are capable of listing our i-againsts.
and we are also capable of listing our i-withs. the place we stand – holding humanity, peace, fairness, equity, kindness, generosity. the tenets we stand with, the people who – actually – hold to those tenets. we ferret out those who pontificate, those who are righteous, those who are sanctimonious. instead, we clear the spaces next to us for the transparently authentic, who really do stand in the intention of goodness, who really do walk with us. the i-withs.
and we have gratitude for the i-withs. for we know, we are capable of days on this good earth because of our i-withs. we have gratitude for the i-withs for we know we could not be without them. we have gratitude for the i-withs and, in our mind, we spraypaint our list on the park bench.
i think it was $250. that is the number that sticks in my mind. the amount of money my sweet poppo spent on the family’s very first calculator. way back when.
now, $250 was a lot back then. it still is. but my dad wanted us to have this newfangled device with which we could add, subtract, multiply and divide to our heart’s content, sans paper and pencil. it was a pretty exciting time and we all felt inordinately lucky to be living in such a technological world. wow.
my big brother was the one who made an abacus for me. in searching through bins in the basement and the attic i was hoping to stumble upon it. but no abacus to be found. amazingly enough, i even knew how to use the abacus.
and then, it was, again, my brother who showed me how to use a slide-rule. he was a surveyor for a time, so it was a tool of his trade. and anything my brother used, i wanted to use. he was that kind of idolized big brother. i’ve come across several slide rules in boxes and pencil cases. i’d have to refresh to figure out how to use them. i’m just certain that my treasured high school math teacher would be proud were he to know how attached i still am to these pre-calculator devices.
the stick on the trail somehow brought all of this to mind. linking-thinking, my dear friend heidi calls it. as we approached it, it just simply screamed “number line” to me. it appeared that each little branch nub was placed exactly the same distance apart. it immediately brought me back to number lines i’ve created in the past…for history classes or for math or for one of those “describe your life” timeline projects that have you looking back and then looking ahead. plotting on the line the ponderous things that have happened in your life that have in turn impacted your life.
i stopped to take photographs of the stick and got lost in plot-my-life-on-the-number-line thoughts. i’ve been doing a lot of looking-back and this stick would come in handy as a visual.
somewhere on that stick it would show our first calculator. somewhere before that it would show the abacus and the slide-rules. somewhere later it would show a first computer. and then, subsequent computers, laptops, ipads, cellphones. it’s easy to place stuff on the number line.
what’s much harder to place is the impact of moments in your life. but for one decision, one meeting, one event, the rest of the number line would be entirely different. it’s profound.
in the way that – in elementary school – you would draw a curved line – to the right – under the number line to show addition or a curved line – to the left – under the number line to show subtraction, it is much harder to reflect – with a simple curved line – the entire impact one nub on the stick might have had on you. though one might try to reflect the way one nub informed the rest, it is nearly impossible to wrap all impact into a few curved lines.
in fact, the number line, the abacus, the slide-rule, the early-bird calculator – none of them can calculate all that.
standing on the trail, mid-photo-shoot with the stick, i realize that it is likely we cannot actually portray ourselves – our lives – on a number line. it occurs to me that – because life and heart and soul are like this – we are living many nubs concurrently – backward and forward – all at the same time. no nub stands alone. each is altered and informed by all the others.
i procrastinate putting away the wrought iron table and chairs. i just want to leave a couple pillows out, a place to sit, the possibility of a meal – one more time – at the table on the deck.
all the other things-of-summer are put away. we’ve cleared the potting stand. we’ve transplanted the lavender. we’ve put the tiki torches and the fire column in the garage. the old door and the black and white prayer flags are taken down and the rugs are rolled up. it’s not easy – this nod to impending winter. and so, we keep out the wrought iron table and chairs and just a couple pillows.
and this week – it has been possible – because this week has been a gift of sun and warmth. and this week we have been able to stretch it out a bit longer, pulling on the taffy of early-autumn just a little bit more.
it’s like a gear-up moment. a chance to sit – for no other purpose but sitting – in the sun. a chance to ponder the coming holiday season. a chance to daydream a bit. a chance to let go – even momentarily – of worry.
and when bellaruth – in my guided imagery meditation – asks me to imagine a place, to see it, to feel it all around me – i would guess that one of those places might be sitting at this outside table, pillow behind me, feet on another chair, eyes closed in the sun. or maybe, sitting on the edge of the deck in the taffy-pull of glorious fall days.
parsley and rosemary. in what would seem their prime, it was time to harvest, for another frost might damage them and a freeze most certainly would. we covered them – along with the basil and the mint and the lavender – but it’s november and it’s wisconsin, so it was time to make some other choices. because it’s what we do, i researched. and then, with snippers, went out and snipped off stems, laying them gently on a cookie sheet so that i might freeze them and pull them out mid-winter to use: fresh herbs in the winter from our own potting stand will remind me that spring will, yes, arrive again.
and yes, i know it’s simple to run to the grocery store and pick up a fresh bundle of parsley and one of those little plastic containers of rosemary. but there is something to be said for these herbs that we grew, that gave us so much joy to watch as they flourished this summer. we simply bought them at lowe’s, planted them in good soil in good old clay pots, placed them in the sun, watered them as needed. and we celebrated them as they grew. mighty and strong.
it’s a little like children. you try your best to plant them in good soil, in solid but permeable pots, expose them to the sun and nutrients as they need them. and they flourish. and one day you are watching your daughter fly down the biggest mountain run in summit county – one of the highest inbound ski terrains in north america – on a snowboard, her skills generously coaching and instructing others. and another day you are watching your son’s hands fly across the mixer board, spinning electronic dance music, bringing elation – even rapture – to beautiful people expressing the freedom and joy of living. and then another day and another and another…mighty and strong.
it’s good dirt, a good pot, sun, nutrients. celebration.
and a whole lot of love.
maybe next year we’ll also plant sage and thyme – to complete the old folk song that goes through my mind every time i think of parsley and rosemary.
reverse threading 