the daisy might have thought no one would notice it. that it was past being noticed.
but i was drawn to it as we passed by. nestled in the grasses on the side of the trail, it spoke to me.
“i am not done, though look past my prime.
i am still in the sun, still standing in time.
though shrivelly and dried,
i don’t need to hide;
i know i am beauty and am very alive.”
i was surprised to hear a daisy speaking in rhyme, but not surprised at its expression of beauty, its yearning to be poetic.
i’m finding more and more – in my time in the sun now – that it is the poetry that makes me linger. it is the waning moment in the sun, the flower post-bloom, the cracked plaster, the weathered peel of paint. it is the imperfection that is attractive, the slowing gait, the putting-down of ladders, the simplicity of less.
like the daisy – i don’t know what’s next. i am steeped in the here. biding in the meadow.
but right now daisy’s yellow disc florets are in symphony – in a song to the sun and everyone else under the sky – whether or not anyone chooses to listen. it will continue on and on, weaving through the underbrush and the woods, past the river and up, up floating in clouds. it won’t cease…it is not done.
my song to the sun is gathering up energy. it, too, is not done. though nebulous, i can sense it wakening. though slightly beaten and weathered, i can feel it rising. though slower, i am aware of its resilience. though tentative, i recognize its imperative. the downbeat waits patiently.
it doesn’t take a lot of hoopla or rigamarole or pomp-and-circumstance or hullabaloo for us. though it works for others, we are not pinky-out-martini-sipping-country-club-types or fancy-car-driving-cruisers or retail-zealots.
we sat yesterday – for the longest time – on our deck – in a perfect-temperature-world-morning with my sweet poppo’s old binoculars, watching the crows tend to their young in the high nest a couple yards over. we were enchanted with this sweet fledgling moving about, hopping on its nest and pushing the envelope of independence.
the day before, there were three turtles on our path. we hiked the long out-and-back trail, not intending to finish it. but the day was glorious and we were alive and we kept going. we stopped at each turtle to photo-shoot and have a little conversation. the message seemed clear…over and over. “patience and endurance”…from the bob marleys of the reptile world. “every little thing is gonna be alright,” they snap when we question them. “ok, ok,” we retort hesitantly. and then they line up another turtle further on down the path to try it again…“eventually,” the turtles think, “these dense people will get it.”
and mostly, we do.
about time – the movie – has an inordinate number of tenderly-wise moments. it is a mash-up of the-best-enjoy-life-lessons. it culminates with a quote from leading character tim who has the ability to travel back in time, “the truth is i now don’t travel back at all, not even for the day. i just try to live every day as if i’ve deliberately come back to this one day, to enjoy it, as if it was the full final day of my extraordinary, ordinary life.”
every time it makes me weep. really, both of us.
because dark chocolate chips (which morph into strawberry bark), turtles, bob marley and tim in about time don’t get it wrong. they clearly all get it right.
friends of ours asked if we had cicadas yet. they live a short distance away in illinois and their friends – in another close-by illinois town – have so many cicadas that they cannot sleep at night. we haven’t heard a one. at least not yet.
instead, our nights are quiet. we can hear the gurgle of our pond, maybe a little wind. seems about right for the sweet phase.
dogga wakes us early – this morning his first attempt was at 5 – jumping on the bed for pets and snuggles, he encourages us to get up and put the coffee on. but in those exquisite minutes between slumber and plugging in the cuisinart we can hear the birds greeting the morning, the spoon stirring in a mug through our dear west neighbors’ kitchen window, the quiet strains of symphony as the sun streams in through the window and spills onto our quilt. it’s a tender beginning to a day.
last night was warm – we sat out late after we ate dinner on the deck. sans air conditioning it was warm when we went to sleep. i woke up numerous times through the night…always trying hard not to start thinking – because once i go down that road – the thinking road – i have no real chance at going back to sleep. nevertheless, i went there.
it seems – most times – when you end up on the thinking road it is on autopilot, as if you have no ability to steer. last night, though, i tried to stay in control of the steering wheel. and each time my mind wanted to veer off and ruminate over something else, something of concern, i tried to gently bring it back to my breathing, to the sounds of quiet night, to the feeling of d laying next to me, to the gentle snores of dogga.
i’m pretty sure the cicadas will arrive. i hope so. i don’t know if they will be so loud that i cannot sleep. i’m not too worried. there are plenty of other reasons i don’t sleep. and i have actually been a cicada fan my whole life – i love the summer night sounds of crickets and cicadas and miss those when they disappear in the fall. i try to memorize the sound – until the next season of them. i find both reassuring and pointedly centering – “you are in summer,” they seem to say, “relish it.”
the sweet phase. it’s begun. every day. every night. we are fortunate, no matter what. because we are here. period. this is the time to remember that.
we will be there as long as the sun is at our backs. and then we won’t.
and the we-there – on that bridge – will first get longer and longer and we will appear taller and taller – more long-legged and spindly – and then we will flatten and distort and eventually disappear into the lack of distinction of color and shadow and water.
it will be over the course of a short time – not a long time. and if we stand there, we can watch the whole process, intrigued by the morphing of presence to absence.
i suppose – in an over-simplified way – life is like that. here as long as the sun is at our backs.
which means we have some stuff to do.
as daylight wanes – for it is none too obvious now that we are more waning than waxing – we each peel back layers of comparison, false imperatives, losses – and we expose the vulnerable – and exquisite – more-of-who-we-are. we pay attention to the tenderest of touches – literal and figurative, to the tiniest of blessings, to the most evanescent moments. we look back – with more forgiveness than we could ever muster before. we look ahead – with more optimism than we allowed before.
we begin to sort and see more clearly – even in our shadows in the water.
the sun is at our back. and we have some stuff to do.
and soon, the world around us will explode with flowers. and spring ephemerals will rise out of thawing ground. crocus follow on the heels of earliest rising snowdrops. and then daffodils and tulips and maybe even hyacinths sneak into view. skunk cabbage joins the fray of the dance and trilliums send up their periscope stalks. jack-in-the-pulpit stands righteously in the savanna underbrush, sharing energy with jill-in-the-pulpit. and the mayapples…those mayapples wait to burst their canopy umbrellas up, protecting their delicate white blossoms. all together, it is a community of the transitory, sharing space. all thorns are set aside to regale the world with beauty.
george told us on the trail that many, many – most, he ventured to guess – do not look about as they hike. he said that it is rare to see someone stop on the trail to really notice, to pay attention, to ponder. he was pleased to see us – two strangers – standing and photographing.
for us, it is most-of-the-time impossible to hike and not pay notice. but, i can tell you, it is very difficult to hike – and really, truly pay attention – if there is something heavy on our hearts. i would think it impossible to hike – and wander in the fields of flowers – if there are thorns in your heart.
as far as i know, thorns in your heart may preclude your seeing of any beauty at all. they may predispose you, color your view, cloud your eyes to what-really-is, ruin any chance of you experiencing the ephemerally blissful moments of this life.
because – in terms of this world, this universe – we are really more like spring flowers than any other. we emerge and are quickly fading. we are gifted with ever so little time.
and, just like we are like spring flowers, we are also unlike spring flowers. we are not perennials. this moment – now – is our chance…to grow and bud and bloom.
how much better to wander in fields of flowers – of beauty – than to squander time and languish in thorns.
we wake up early anyway. there’s no alarm clock on saturday morning. yet, before the sun is barely above the horizon we are awake. we both lay and listen quietly to the quiet. birds, chipmunks, the pond out back, maybe the waves on the lakeshore if it’s windy. for just a little while, before the lawnmowers start or cars drive by or people empty their recyclables into the new big blue waste containers, if we close our eyes we can picture being wherever we want to be.
my big brother has now been on a different plane of existence for thirty years. 30. as of yesterday. it is shocking that so much time has passed by. for the longest time i had a hard time understanding how the world could go on, when he could no longer feel it. and yet, it did. those of us left behind had broken hearts and missed the sound of his laughter, the details of his stories, his giant bowls of coffee ice cream. we are left wondering how he is present with us, what he can see, what, if anything, he feels. it was a friday.
“this life is not a dress rehearsal.”
the magic of friday night seems ubiquitous. for those in a traditional workweek, the weekend stretches out in front of you, friday night’s yawns delicious and lingered in. there are two glorious days to follow, days of errands or adventures or catch-up or sleep or just simply nothing. two of them. days to declutter your brain a little and sink into a little less routine.
and then, suddenly, sunday.
and, too fast, monday.
and we find ourselves wishing for friday.
yet, there is something about mondays that we should probably lean into. another day. here.
i stand here, in the kitchen in the world in all its complexities and all its flaws, and the dog gives me a kiss before he starts his breakfast and i bring david freshly-brewed coffee in a favorite mug. he smiles as i approach his pillow and the dog pounces on the bed. the sounds of early-early monday morning are like the sounds of saturday, like the sounds of friday. the certainty of monday is no less or more certain than the certainty of saturday or friday.
i imagine my brother took with him the sounds of morning, the sounds of his beloveds, the sweet taste of first java and ice cream in a late-night bowl. i don’t imagine he reached out to grab things as he floated; there were certainly no trappings as dear as the party he had on thursday-the-day-before just being near those he loved. his hologram remains with each of us, his humor and brilliant mind within our grasp as we speak of him. he made – and makes – a difference in this world for us.
we can choose to shut down the party on sunday. last call before midnight, enough time to sleep for the new week. or i guess we can recognize it can keep going. to be standing here, now, in this spot – with all its chaos and all its bounty – is party enough.
the day starts in quiet. the sun is barely over the horizon. the birds are singing, chipmunks chirp. i can smell the coffee brewing. i am here. i don’t know how the world goes on once i can’t feel it anymore. but for now, i can.
“whenever you see a successful woman, look out for three men who are going out of their way to try to block her.” (yulia tymoshenko)
i read this quote on instagram. i hesitated to use it and then wondered why. it stated truth. it is a fact of life. i have lived it – exactly it – just as many other women have. so why hesitate?
the answer seems obvious. because that kind of blocking still exists, that kind of dominance is still valued, that kind of discrimination still squelches lives and careers, that kind of smothering effort – particularly with leading roles by older white men – is still not – really – questioned, nonetheless challenged in a big, broad way. it’s asphyxiating and it’s way past its time. way, way past time.
“it’s 2021 and we are talking about THIS!” they rolled their eyes and so did i. it is beyond the scope of reasonableness that we are – still – dealing with the devastating blows that those who lean into … or out-and-out embrace … the prejudice of white supremacy, suffocating gender bias, ruinous economic inequity, insufficient healthcare, deficient educational options, the loss of multitudes of innocent lives at the barrel of unnecessary weapons, exclusive immigration…
but here we are. 2021.
we came upon the hot-pink lighted ball of yarn in the garden and laughed. then we followed the string, the yarn that was unrolled over the tree branches, under the bushes, along the sidewalk edge, up the fence, down off the fence, and ultimately, to the end of it, the frayed edges.
it occurs to me we can trace the strings back and back. we can see the frayed edges of injustices, the repeating pattern of silencing, of stifling, of deliberate lack, of unacceptable levels of violence, of obstructive intention.
what now?
we need be stewards of worth, of mending, of healing, of forward-movement, of equal opportunity. we need to find ways – now – to weave an inclusive, equitable, generous, safe, egalitarian story for all. ungrudgingly and with abundant kindness and good will. it is indeed way, way past time.
“when she transformed into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. they wanted her to change back into what she always had been. but she had wings.” (dean jackson)
“trust the wait. embrace the uncertainty. enjoy the beauty of becoming. when nothing is certain, anything is possible.” (mandy hale)
i had an IME on tuesday. an IME is an independent medical exam. it is a brief exam ordered by an insurance company and the physician is both chosen and paid for by that insurance company. it is defined as an independent assessment of an injury or illness, in my case, my wrist, and the determination by the doctor-chosen-and-paid-for-by-the-insurance-company-paying-for-treatment will be placed next to the reports of the medical hand specialist and the occupational therapist who have been treating me consistently for the last five months. a basic review of articles about IME reveals that the insurance-company-paying-for-treatment will pick the report they wish to concur with and that will decide if there is to be future, in this case, my future, treatment. so be it.
there is nothing to do now but wait.
my OT is wonderful. she has encouraged me, pushed me, held me accountable and she has brought me from twenty degrees of forward right wrist movement to fifty-five. this is big news, since, at first, six degrees was all i could muster. brutus and my OT have caused me much pain, but what’s that saying? no pain, no gain. we have worked hard. and, in the way of hard work and healing, there are things i can do now that i wasn’t able to do a few months ago. and there are things i fear i will never be able to do again. uncertainty.
there is nothing to do but wait.
sometimes i wonder what life will look like in a year or two years. i wonder what i will be doing. if i looked back a year i would never have guessed back then what this year would have looked like. no, last july looked very different than right now. it just suggests that truly everything is uncertain, that everything is in the act of becoming, in the middle of the fire, maybe everything is ashes transitioning to riches over and over again. possibility, evidenced in tomato plants bearing fruit on an old barnwood potting stand, evidenced in a nest-home created in a birdhouse hanging empty for years, evidenced in the smell of the rain bringing cool on a summer morning.
there are times, when you are simply going about your business, going about life, that you don’t expect change. you don’t expect to be thrust into ‘different’. times when you find out the caterpillars were talking about you all along. after reeling from the surprise, after trying to grab the wheel to stabilize, after railing about the unfairness of it all – for life does not seem to be fair, you find yourself out of the deep, dark water – in the shallows.
and in the shallows there is abundant life, abundant food, abundant shelter. in the shallows we can rest and nourish and breathe. we can sit in uncertainty and the unknown. we can imagine new. because anything IS possible.
there is nothing to wait for and everything to wait for. it’s now.
time away from home always grants moments for reflection. out of the norm, away from routines and the familiar, it is time to think, to ponder, to wonder, to both anguish and be overwhelmed with gratitude. roadtrips are moments suspended and quiet time in the truck on the highway can take you deeper inside. they are chances to examine the emotional flow-chart, a ping-pong of mapping that is our lives.
yesterday we drove through a snowstorm coming up through the passes. i was driving big red and didn’t want to relinquish the wheel. i wanted to know that i was not too nervous to drive through the snow, the icier road conditions, past runaway truck ramps in high elevation descents. we drove past a semi that had jack-knifed backwards on the highway, literally perched on the edge of the road, hanging over a cliff. we were thankful arriving safely back into spring and onto dry roads. under soaring pines bowing with fresh powder and on slushy lanes, i thought about our past recent days and the bit to come in the mountains. i drove, hands tightly on the wheel, the rhythmic sound of wipers and the wet road the only accompaniment. in the middle of all of it, i pondered my role in these days, the way i fit into each of these stories.
sending out new shoots, seeking to divide and grow, this sprouted red onion looks like i feel inside. peeling back the outer paper, the onion sections itself off so that multiple bulbs may be planted. wanting to hold on to what i’ve known, wanting to learn, new ways of being, of accepting change, of middle-aging gracefully, of holding on and releasing, of sorting, i search the inside layers for answers to questions i ask myself and questions i haven’t yet given words to.
i guess each of us sedimentary-humans must take on these onion-questions when we aren’t too busy denying listening to them. like this red onion, there are mushy parts that are no longer good, that reveal a raw flawedness, that beg letting go. and there are layers of goodness, sweet and refreshing to remember. and, in highway-rolling moments and staring-at-ceiling-deep-in-the-night moments, there are also new sprouts to acknowledge. all are there, bearing fruit, a gentle and prodding reminder that time – years – and life – keep going and stopping either is trying to catch rays of the sun in our hands.
the gift of pulsing-time, the fluidity of planting-harvesting-planting-harvesting of ideas and artistry and work, relationships and love…these remind us to grow anywhere we are planted and, despite the challenge, not to be afraid of peeling back the layers. for there are many germinating bulbs to be found.
reverse threading 