as sunflowers age, their woody stems lose the ability to turn back and forth – east and west – in their track of the sun. instead, their older, more mature stalks keep them more planted, most often facing east – to capture the rising sun and warmth from early morning’s rays, to stoke up.
now, i’m guessing that it would be easier for the sunflower if it were able to continually use their magical heliotropism superpower their whole life, but – much like humans – some of their flexibility fades as they get older and they deal with life differently as an aged sunflower.
in the storylines of our own lives, it would be much easier if we were able to constantly pivot to goodness – the sun, easy answers, fixes, healing solutions, the fair solving of problems, any evil affecting us succumbing to accountability.
to think that all might go our way – the first time – or, heck, any time at all – sounds mighty fine.
but life as a sunflower isn’t like that. and neither is life as a human.
instead, lots of times we must set down our expectations and take a breath. a deep breath.
we allow a bit of time to readjust: to maybe grieve, to pine for a different result, to rail over outcomes dashed.
we reassess. we sort. we brainstorm.
we strategize. we plan.
we gear up.
and then – we rise up – with strong and straight spine – and face the next day, ready for what comes next. whatever it is.
the sweet potato is growing by leaps and bounds – it’s almost mind-boggling how quickly it has become so large. more accustomed to plants that grow slower, we wonder how it is possible. it’s only been two weeks since we planted the entire potato in this planter, its tiny pink tendril sprouts sticking out of the dirt.
now – merely two weeks later – this sweet potato is vining everywhere. this photo, taken a few days ago, is already outdated; the vine now reaches up onto the deck and is twirling around the pot that holds one of the basil plants. it reaches out to the lavender, over to the tomato, and forward onto the patio. it – seemingly – has no bounds, and these amazing heart-shaped leaves are multiplying, multiplying, multiplying.
in the hope of emotional diversion, we have taken to watching videos and video research about bigfoot. yep. sasquatch. yedi. call it what you may.
when we stayed in a mountain town in north carolina – in the pisgah national forest and close to the edges of the nantahala forest – there was a house near us that had large metal sculptures and paintings (or decals) of bigfoot proliferating their house and yard. i now wish we had spoken to these people, to inquire about their experiences and why they were so enthusiastic about this mysterious being. people are either immediately discarding of this “creature” or they are rabidly zealous about it. there’s not a lot of in-between, though i’d say we are somewhere in the in-between space, trying to sort the scientific possibility of reality.
my thought? why not? why wouldn’t there be a creature about which we are not very knowledgeable, of which many have not seen? why wouldn’t there be a creature that has evaded most people, has been able to live in the wild, has telepathic abilities and even some dimensional-change tricks up its sleeve?
and, i would expect that the universe is congratulating these creatures on their ability to live – and thrive – outdoors – as a part of the environment – without destroying it for their own gain.
in expedition bigfoot, scientists and explorers join together to seek out this elusive animal. with intricate technology and boots-on-the-ground investigator skills, they follow the tracks of these beings, evidence mounting in each episode.
i glance down as we walk along the lakefront talking about our latest video indulgence. the bricks under our feet here are ordered, grass growing in most every crack. we wonder aloud how we might feel if we were hiking somewhere and came across a very-very-large naked footprint – not unlike what we are seeing with this deep-diving research team.
i imagine that seeing something like this in-real-life might be somewhat disconcerting. but i don’t imagine that it’s not possible.
i don’t think that we – as humans – should be so arrogant as to think that we know all about every living thing. instead, i believe we should be open to that which is enigmatic or even inexplicable, to that which we need to learn more about. on every continent there is an equivalent to bigfoot in the narrative of the indigenous, there are stories told by real people; there is evidence for these stories.
though – to this point – i have never seen anything resembling bigfoot – in my own life i have gratefully experienced firsthand the absolute mysteries of others reaching across dimension, the grace of life in parallel planes of existence. i remind myself that there is much that is baffling about life, much that is hard to comprehend in a galaxy full of wonder.
and so, i would not be so quick to discard the possibility of bigfoot. after all, i have been surprised over and over again by the souls and the actions of REAL people – so why the heck not?
“if you remain generous, time will come good; and you will find your feet again on fresh pastures of promise, where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.” (john o’donohue – to bless the space between us)
the licorice plant, in a pot on top of the little chest on the deck, was clearly stressed. actually, beyond stressed. something had invaded it; webs were forming inbetween its branches and most of the leaves were turning yellow.
after having no luck combating this invader and worrying that whatever it was would spread to the herbs and vegetables we had planted right nearby, we made the decision to empty the pot and put the licorice plant into the sort-of compost pile next to the garage. we felt bad but thought it was best for the rest – eliminate that which is harmful, minimize the potential of further harm. we decided to go back to milaegers at some point and purchase another licorice plant. we just love the muted, soft shade of green of this plant with its somewhat wild, trailing branches.
when we brought home the new licorice plant, we ended up bringing it inside – placing it on an old stool in front of the living room window, enjoying it inside this time. in its place on top of the chest outside is now a new mint plant, which seems to love the spot in the limelight.
the other day, d was bringing a handful of weeds over to the “compost pile” and spotted our licorice plant. there it was, glory restored, its branches clear of webs, all silvery green leafing, its root ball firm and seemingly undamaged. without a word, he replanted it into a bigger pot and placed it on our babycat chair next to the driveway. the next time we went out to go for a walk, he drew it to my attention.
i was shocked to see this stunning licorice plant – revitalized. it seemed perfect in our now-outdoor wicker, next to the old fence that sports a beautiful green vine wall every summer. a new beginning for this plant – nourished, i guess, by the tumble of compost, the rain and fresh air, the shedding of a pot that might have been too small for its roots.
to say we are thrilled at the rejuvenation of our licorice is an understatement. every single time we are out back or we pass by it is a reminder of the chance of a second chance.
and in these times – so fraught – when we get lost: in the travails of discord in daily life and relationships, in the failure of making headway in our work, in any ability to let go of wounds – when we wonder if we dare hope for a new start – when we fight to give voice: to move from stagnation or a past that needs air, that needs releasing – when we recognize and eliminate that which harms us – when we work to actually create that new start – in these times, we need that reminder.
time will come goodand you will find your feet again…where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.
and suddenly, we are witnessing a generational family branch of our aspen tree.
breck has sent out roots and has established a tiny clone just next to our pond. this baby seedling has tentatively sprouted – with its pink stems and littlest aspen leaves – merely feet away from breck, growing in the shade that breck provides when afternoon sun is filtering through its branches.
seeing pando is on my bucket list…the ancient, interconnected organism that is more than forty-thousand aspen trees – all sharing the same root, the same dna. it is in utah and i can only imagine the profound hush that is – standing in thousands of quaking leaves, one of the largest single living organisms on earth.
what would it take for people to have this kind of awe about the interconnectedness of real live humans? what would it take for a hush to descend upon us as we stand in the midst of others, gathered together? what would it take to recognize the utter importance of preserving such a connection, of honoring it, of absolutely cherishing it? what would it take for humankind to acknowledge its ancient roots, its depth of wisdom, its trembling resilience, its soul?
what would it take for the family tree of humans – people all across the globe – to understand what family – all-inclusive-family – means, what family can accomplish together, how being truly connected – despite any differences – could perpetuate goodness…in a world that desperately needs goodness?
we will watch baby breck closely, tend to its safety, listen to the softest vibrations of its tiny leaves quaking, always aware of its quiet wisdom.
“after all those years as a woman hearing ‘not thin enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not this enough, not that enough,’ almost overnight i woke up one morning and thought, ‘i’m enough.'” (anna quindlen)
i’m pretty certain that the hibiscus does not stop to ponder if it is ‘enough’. it just buds and blooms and shows up in the world in a big, big way.
i’m also pretty certain that – were the hibiscus to offer advice to women everywhere – it would advise us all to – likewise – just bud and bloom and show up in the world in a big, big way. it would encourage us to not ponder anything – particularly whether or not we were ‘enough’, likely whether-or-not anything at all.
i had a dream last night – the part that i remember is that i had something to say…and in my dream i contacted a younger woman to ask her to say it – because somehow, in my dream, i had passed the point of being heard – my age had made my words irrelevant, no longer of value, my voice weightless.
even in my dream i knew this was wrong and when i woke I wondered why i was dreaming this – though there are so many dots connecting this i am foolish to even wonder.
i watched a video where the interviewer asked the interviewee about when this country was great. the man – exquisitely dressed in gq magazine garb – replied with a year in the early 1900s, before world war one, in 1913. the year of the women’s suffrage parade – among many other things – the interviewer pressed, “oh, so before women could vote?” to which the fabulously-dressed-interviewee replied, “right!”
what the ever-lovin’ hell is that?
watching the dismantling of women’s rights in this country is exhausting. listening to pompous suit-wearing gluttonous testosterone-focused men tout the value of men and the devaluing of women is utterly disgusting. witnessing men strip women of the right to make decisions about their own health and well-being sickens me. sexually exploiting girls and women, stonewalling all manner of culpability, and perpetuating undeniably dishonest and disrespectful silence is grotesque. and the whole twisted trad-wife kitchen-lizard-birth-control-less-pregnant-my-husband-can-vote-for-me-i’m-good-with-that-and-goodness-let’s-make-sure-we-address-his-erectile-dysfunction-and-bow-to-his-needing-a-sandwich movement makes purple stuff wanna burst out of my head.
i mean – truly – what in the hell is going on?
if this is where this country is full-steam-ahead heading, we are most definitely regressing, backsliding into a retrograde sans stopgaps. this is primitive thinking of the highest nature.
and even the hibiscus knows it.
i woke up a little bit crabby after dreaming that i turned over what i had to say to a younger, thinner, less wrinkly, more ‘relevant’ woman.
and, like anna quindlen, i thought to myself, “the hell with that. i’m enough.”
i have a few things to say here and i’m in full bloom.
sweet potato black bean chili was on the menu, so we went to the hanging basket in the stairwell to get a couple sweet potatoes.
lo and behold, one of our sweet potatoes had sweet pink tendrils growing, growing. we giggled as we recalled last year’s pink-tendril-adorned sweet potatoes and how we planted them in big planters and they took over the world.
because the world could use a good takeover, we decided to plant our little catalyst and watch goodness grow and spread and blanket every single everything.
it didn’t take but a few short days and, already, this sweet sweet has leaves.
i have to say – it gives me hope.
nature – despite all the contrarians out there who don’t care about it – will prevail. and deep down – underneath all the evil intent and the scripted corruption and the yuck that is distressing those of us with moral centers – there will be goodness.
the sweet potato will vine. the tomatoes will ripen. the trees will turn in autumn. the hummingbirds will migrate. stars will explode with light and galaxy dust will scatter. there will be symphonies of sound in the woods and by the shore. love and compassion, empathy and altruism will roll in on the tide.
sometimes – in the stats of this blog – i can see older posts someone has read but which i have forgotten. today one of those came up.
it is a blogpost from the very beginning of january 2024 called the place by the big trees. it is as relevant today – maybe even more so – than it was back a couple years ago:
i spent much of last year looking back. way back. way past up-close. way way back – way way past the smallest of trees on the horizon. it was necessary and painful and shocking and mighty tedious.
“… the mind clings to the road it knows / rushing through crossroads / sticking like lint to the familiar…” (mary oliver)
…
and there it all is. raw.
and you can see it. and your brain tries to stop you from seeing it. both. so you sit with it – laden – burdened – in the retrospect of it all – connecting the dots, sometimes nodding your head in sudden understanding, sometimes eyes wide, horrified at it all.
it is surreal. you are back there. you can feel it. but you know – that in merely a blink – you can be where you are right now…where you are really.
and suddenly, you are at a crossroads. you must choose between replacing the lint – tamping it back down and turning your face away from it – or recognizing it as a shield, pulling it all out – this ancient insulation – discarding it and then staring at what’s left – what is now feeling air and space and attention.
“trauma creates change you don’t choose. healing is about creating change you do choose.” (michelle rosenthal)
and then, after some time – some processing, some sorting, some meaning-making, some swearing, much courage, sheer survival – you glance at all the baggage laying next to you – and you pick up only that which you wish to carry.”
we hadn’t been on our loop in the woods lately. we haven’t been on it since. but that day we took some much-needed time to go to that place, to hike and be silent, to talk it all through, to go sort, to ground.
these two black-eyed susans weren’t the only black-eyed susans in the brush trailside. but these two were separate, they were not in a stand of flowers. instead, they were standing – in all their glory – alone, faces to the sun.
and they made me think of us – me and d – standing – as we all do, as we all find ourselves – alone together – faces to the sun – in the middle of the middle of all the stuff.
and again, in the middle of the middle, maybe like you in the middle of some middle, we once again process, we make meaning, we swear and cry and drum up a bit more courage and we choose.
and we once again dispense of any lint that clings to what-would-be-safe, what would be mute – soundless, what would insulate us from looking at it all, recognizing the burden of it all, honoring the gravitas.
and we turn our faces to the sun – our choice the crossroad – feeling the air and the space and the raw.
the sowthistle can’t help but stand in all the phases of its life at the same time.
and i wonder what wisdom it can impart by doing just that – standing simultaneously in bud through flower through feathery seed into senescence.
being able to see the stage that is next, the stage that was before, the stage that was the beginning, the stage that will be the end – perhaps this is perspective-arranging, perhaps it zeros one in – on what is right now.
i wonder if the sowthistle thinks about any of this. does it base any of its thistling decisions on this omnipresent view of the arc of life, on the conglomerate-rock plant approach – or does it just live, detached from stressing, disconnected from the mindset of striding through stages upon which it has little impact?
and what about us? what if we could see our whole life right in front of us? what if we knew – from beginning to end – how it would all shake out?
don’t we, though? sort of?
don’t we know that we will somehow travel through these stages – the beginning, the middle, the end – that we will somehow grow and change and celebrate and grieve and jump and hang back and be active and sedentary, brilliantly productive and passively idle, bowled over and resilient, profoundly angst-filled and radically happy, loving and beloved, young and – hopefully – old.
is the sowthistle consistently sanguine, glass-half-full, amazed at simply living?
as we hiked by this bit of meadow, sowthistle wild on the side of the trail, i was struck by the all-in-one-frame of thistle – all its life cycle – a life arc in one tiny space of dirt.
and in the way that nature reminds us – all the time – i was immediately aware of my own life arc, my own mysterious timeline.
and mary oliver whispered – once again – this time from the tangle of buds and flowers and seeds – because she can never ask this enough – “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
the clouds parted for a tiny bit of sun, the tiniest bit.
it seemed well-deserved after a week punctuated with heavy. it seemed well-deserved after the torrential rains that were the bookends of the last six days.
and there, in the middle of grey skies and uncertainty, was the smidgiest smidge of blue – a bit of an inhale, a few moments to catch our breath, to recover – before setting off to continue on the route.
there. there was the chance to stoke up, to firmly plant our feet, to focus our attention on what we need, to rest – before we look onward, before we discern what is ahead, before we take another step.
