when we sit on the deck – which we so often do – we look out onto our backyard. it is serene most of the time, a sanctuary for us – like a cozy private courtyard.
breck is growing by leaps and bounds. once again, we are surprised by this aspen tree’s response to spring. it is the happiest little aspen, filling out and getting taller. it practices quaking every day in the breezes that come off the lake or come in from the south or west. but sometimes, there are winds that are coming out of the plains states with much more power. and this young resilient aspen bends in its path. it worries us as we watch, wondering if we need to somehow stake this sapling, to help support it. we will likely go ask the good people at schwartz nursery – because they know. in the meanwhile, breck bends to the east when the gales come. we sit on the deck and, from that vantage, see it point to the right, nodding its trunk – “ahead, ahead,” it seems to say.
the almost-monochromatic of this photo appeals to me. there is more than meets the eye – these tones, movement in the background. i stopped to take a picture off-trail. i found the small green meadow strikingly beautiful. and there it was again – the response to the wind – bending, listing. “ahead, ahead.”
the messages come whether or not we notice them. they are all around us, tiny universe sticky-notes that flutter and attempt to attract our attention. we can ignore them if we wish. we can be too busy, too distracted, too engrossed, too stubborn, too riddled with our own schtuff.
or we can look at all the ways we are offered wisdoms. we can listen carefully as the sun rises or sets. we can see the greens in the green, the movement in the steady. we can rustle around in the world – aware of the air we breathe, the sun on the top of our heads, the cottonwood as it passes on the draft.
we can nod our heads in response to the wind – whatever the wind is for us – and whisper, “yes. ahead, ahead.”
in aspen, colorado, it is one of our favorite trails…alongside the ridgeline, through the aspen forest, ducking under fragrant pine, climbing. the vistas are stunning, the scent is rejuvenating, the air fresh and cool.
this time there was snow on the trail. the combination of the warm sun and the snow beneath our feet was exquisite. new trekking poles in hand, we were in our glory.
if you don’t take the bridge over the more swollen section of the stream and climb higher, than you can take a divergent path and step rock to rock upstream to an old log that lays there just waiting for people to sit on it. we have sat on that very log every single time we have hiked this trail.
there is something magical about that spot. right in the middle of the stream, mountains behind us, dappled sun on our faces. it is as if every single thing becomes clear. we sit in that very space and all the life-whirling stops, the dots connect, the primary is primary. love.
we dropped our hands into the cold mountain stream, water running swiftly over them and on to the rocks below us.
we talked. we were silent. we touched cold fingertips to cold fingertips.
“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.”
“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.
it is full of seeds, full of possibility, full of tomorrows.
and it will all spin and float and whirligig – just like these maple seedpods.
though wrinklier now than in last spring or last summer – and, really, ever more wrinkly – these samaras are ever viable and will coax saplings from the ground once they disperse. with big breezes at their backs, the winds of change, the tug of relevance, in fields of gold and forests of native plants. though they have been dormant, though they haven’t germinated for months or even years, they remain alive.
alive.
resilient.
for placing samaras in a bowl of water, it is the seedpods that sink that have seeds likely to germinate. the others – the ones floating – are less likely, though sometimes it simply takes a little soak in warm water, a little good soil and a continued cold blast of air for some time – a bit of fallow – that will draw out the remaining life.
it’s funny. you’d think that the test for a maple seed would be it if floats in water – floating – the ability to rise above that which wishes to drown you. but the real test – for the likely viability of a maple seed – is to hope that it sinks. clearly, maple seeds hold their breath.
and then, the seeds breathe. out of the bottom of the bowl in which they have sunk. and the seeds sprout. even from the trauma they have endured, the inertia they have tolerated. and the seeds grow big strong maple trees, even though buckthorn and other toxic invasives would prefer them stifled. the maples withstand, persist, ride it all out.
so – for those of you out there who are thinking 65 is run-roughshod-over, washed-up, put-out-to-pasture, tested by toxins, no-longer-relevant, done – i have some news.
some good news.
it is the steadfastness of a drowned seedpod.
or, in the case of a wrinkled-up-old-floater, just a little warm water, a little good soil, a little cold fallow and then, a little sun.
the magic wand – infused by the sun – stood tall in the reeds. if only i could pluck it out and take it with, still full of its magic, still glowing, i thought.
it was a brilliant day. the sky blue-blue, the air crisp, the trail ready for us, quiet, winding. we pass by marshes and bogs and woods – the hoofprints of deer preceding us, crossing the way from safe-place to water source.
and then the magic wand glimmered and reached out, tapping me on the head, bestowing glimmer magic, begging the question: and what will you do with this?
i carried the glimmer as we hiked. it was quite like carrying a toddler – full of energy and zeal, ready to get down out of my arms and run, run, run. the glimmer knew that it had work to do and there is no time to spare. for the power to light dark places is not to be underestimated, the ability to drop a spark into ash is not to be underplayed. the glimmer was anxious and excited, both.
and yet, the magic wand knows this: that relighting the dark and touching the grief of flame doused by others, the pain of trauma caused by others is not easy. dark cannot be readily relit if there are only shadows and no room for light. grief cannot be easily eased if there is no corner of the heart untouched by it. pain cannot be addressed without balm to the wound.
the glimmerwand was trembling at the end of the trail, still held in my arms. i wanted to hold onto it, to believe it would be that simple.
but the wand knew better. like the extended finger of ET the extra-terrestrial, it touched the center of my chest, through down vest and thick thermal and baselayer shirt, directly to my heart.
and it told me it would always be there – this light from the sun. it would wait and wait. and it would be with me – with me – diffusing fear, enlivening exhaustion. and i could reach down and touch it any time, this glimmer, and it would warm me up from inside out.
i guess it’s true. you don’t know what you don’t know.
the only thing certain is change and, i suppose, the most important thing about that is being able to remain an amorphous blob, malleable enough that you can bend and wriggle and twist and turn and do somersaults and cartwheels in all paths heading forward.
because there will always be a curve ahead. because nothing is guaranteed. because life is kind of like some sort of mash-up cross between the cupid shuffle, the disco hustle, the electric slide…no dull straight lines. you can’t return to before, so you might as well allow lift in your wings to carry you on, to embrace the turns. because we are constantly reminded: “welcome to the present moment. here. now. the only moment there ever is.”(eckhart tolle)
and because – well, yes – you really don’t know what you don’t know.
so in this moment, i will clap my hands, put on my sunglasses, have another sip of my coffee and face forward, flap my wings, and get ready to cartwheel.
the tracks tell the story. they came in and mowed down underbrush and trees, grasses and cattails. all in the name of habitat restoration. apparently, there are buckthorn and cottonwood and boxelder and various other invasive species that are suffocating the growth of young native tree seedlings. it looked absolutely devastated. as did the back half of the woods earlier this year after they attended to that section. but there was space for the sun to get through, for air and a bit of new growth. it was necessary.
now, admittedly, the back half doesn’t look as raw as it did right after that earlier eradication. but – it does look different. just as – i suppose – this section of the woods will look…eventually. it’s the meanwhile that is a bit tough to take. it’s stunning to see such emptiness where there was lush. it’s bracing to recognize how long it might take for this area to grow back – to fulfill the potential the ecologists plan for.
but devastation is like that.
in devastation-light we have the basement/attic project. this will all look decidedly worse before it looks better. the categories – keep, donate, sell – are staged all over the basement and have spilled into other rooms in the house. eventually, this will get better. it will look different. right now, though, it is a ruckus of stuff.
all this review of the past, though…it’s good for my heart. tiny salvageable moments derived from these seeming willy-nilly piles…i am wrapped in the after-devastation feels. for this is chosen devastation – choosing to touch all that is in the house and decide about its fate. and maybe devastation isn’t a good word for that kind of parsing out. just because it looks like devastation doesn’t mean it is devastation.
but there will be more culling before there is something that looks and feels good: the cleared out, organized space that honors the before-stuff and makes way for the next. the same way it is for emotional clearing-out. it will all get much messier before it gets air.
the tracks from the backhoes and heavy equipment punctuate the trail. we may wait awhile – maybe a few rains – before we take that loop again. in the meanwhile, we’ll go along the river where the trail is longer and quiet and the trees and underbrush are untouched – at least for now.
we’ll continue our quest in the basement and the attic and every other nook and cranny. we’ll make messes and piles and categorize each thing we unearth.
and the emotional stuff, well, it will surface and it will recede – both. it will be like a tide – just like the basement, it is a choice to pull things out of their previous compartmentalization. just like the basement, it has the potential to be really messy. and, just like the basement, it will be tedious and time-consuming and it is possible for a bit of anxiety to creep into the spaces previously left wide open by keeping it all in boxes and on shelves. suddenly, it’s all free-floating and there are fragments of emotions and tangible pieces of the past right there in front of us.
so we climb aboard our front loaders and excavators and bulldozers. and we start plowing down all the invasives.
and we just may feel restored after it all. we will have relived many memories, touched – really touched - the evidence of time passing.
and we just may be rejuvenated. the new saplings will be free to grow.
and we will look forward to lush, breathing easier and feeling the sun on our faces.
at the moment i am writing this, i am not in possession of this.
but.
sometime between then and now, i suppose we may go back so that i might get it. for even in the paring-down, giving-away, selling and disposing of artifacts-of-life accumulated along-the-way, i find myself drawn to things here and there…like this counter bell.
maybe there will be a shoppe of some sort some day. maybe that big old barn. maybe a foodtruck called “AND SAUCE” where we will drive all over the countryside and serve up sauce with other stuff – like on a baked potato or roasted veggies or oven-baked sweet potato slices or in a pita or, yes, even on pasta. it’s a fun fantasy – our AND SAUCE foodtruck from sea to shining sea. or maybe & SAUCE – with the ampersand. some things are important to suss out ahead of time, like font and logogram characters. nevermind the business plan and budget. pshaw! regardless of all that, people may need to ding us, using this very bell on the window counter of the truck. i mean, who really knows what can happen?!
in the meanwhile, i’m not sure why we would need a counter bell, though – frankly – i can think of a few purely indulgent reasons. it just appeals to me.
there are brand new bells at staples for merely $3. and there are victorian-like bells on etsy for $30. this bell – though – it has some history. there are stories here. there is no indication where this bell – to get attention – lived. was it in a bakery? in a small market or general store? was it at a used bookstore or a boutique of some sort? was it at the front desk of a hotel or tiny country inn? whatever its story, you can tell it was well-used. there are dings on its old plain galvanized metal. it got some attention.
so, i wonder if purchasing it – having it here – on some counter in our home – might propel forward some of the other things i dream of…projects and products that may have a place in the world, music and books to birth, closely-held ideas to design. new ventures. or old ventures revisited. would the bell help? i don’t know.
i do know this: that just seeing this counter bell at the antique shoppe, just ringing it and giggling at its loud attention-getting ding, just picking it up and holding it, placing it back down on the shelf to ding once again…this has all gotten me to thinking.
“you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. and whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should…” (desiderata – max ehrmann)
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reverse threading 