my sweet poppo died three years before my sweet momma. when she died, the tilt that my world had already felt dove down into a deeper angle, the axis of the earth struggling to keep it in balance. the loss of both parents is profound, no matter your age.
it had been years since i had heard or seen a blue jay. they were common where i grew up, the screeches of jays in the woods or the trees surrounding our home. they have husky voices, always a little bit raspy. but they make me think of home.
i still remember the first day i saw one – after. it’s a few years ago now.
we were hiking on one of our favorite trails and suddenly i could hear them. they flew across the path and i stood still, reveling in the moment, taking it in. since that day, there have been more sightings and i have heard their birdcalls, even out our bedroom window from time to time.
since they are a common bird in wisconsin, i wonder how it is i missed them.
and i realize that sometimes the way home – the sound of a blue jay – is something we just don’t pay attention to, something that falls down on the list of priorities. until one day.
the day comes that all the really important stuff comes into focus. and we realize that we have – maybe – taken for granted the stuff that really is a part of who we are. we slough off paying attention to those things, those places, those people because we believe that there is plenty of time – later. or perhaps there are reasons we cannot grant grace to those things, those places, those people and we somewhat haughtily, in some selfish kind of righteous amnesia of our own actions, put them to the side, the corners of our hearts. or maybe we are just too busy and we have gotten lost, overwhelmed in our very real and partly contrived busy-ness.
any way you look at it, i am surprised i didn’t see the blue jays. until after.
now i hear them, see them, find their feathers in the usualness of our days. each time it is like a tiny nod to home, to all the moments of goodness, to the realness of unconditional love in the midst of the ridiculous hardness of life.
we were sitting on our infamous adirondack chairs on the patio. the sky was brilliant blue – much like in this photograph. so much was going on. we were taking a few-minutes-breather.
and suddenly, it was like tiny sparkles were landing on us – the tiniest raindrops we’d ever seen. one by one we’d sense them landing on bare arms. you could barely see them, barely feel them. but as they floated down they glittered like the eensiest dew drops in a sunrise ray, iridescent shimmers falling from the sky. it is hard to wrap words around this. but it was like being blessed by the universe, like minute stars touching us. grace. light. magic dust.
it’s not like we aren’t surrounded by these. glimmers. moments that radiate. moments that make you feel amazed to be alive. moments of joy or peace. they are – truly – everywhere. gentle touches of reassurance or comfort, reminders of bliss – out there. not magnificently large summits but micro moments in real living, real time, lingering in the air waiting for us to notice.
and when you notice…as a deliberate practice or an unanticipated surprise…the energy of your stardust quivers in goodness.
i stood in the surf to take pictures of it. i could feel the sand sinking beneath my feet and the water pulling me out. the breaking waves were glorious and the cool water was rejuvenating. i stood there a long time, snapping photos. later, my feet – from sandwalking and wavecleansing – felt like i had taken an expensive exfoliation scrub and lavishly basked in its luxury. the magic of these two – elements of the tide, in time, of forces playing together.
we sat – in quiet – on the patio, over adirondack chairs facing the backyard. all summer we have had a hummingbird feeder out back. we have felt fortunate to see a hummer a time or two, maybe at day’s end, sipping and zipping away. but after the deluge of rain, after i refilled the feeder, the word seemed to have spread in hummingbirdland. and suddenly, our yard became a destination. and so we sat, quietly watching, transfixed by these tiniest birds, binoculars at the ready. and they came and went. they ate at the feeder and sat perched on the wires and on the garden fencing. they chased each other, zooming past our chairs and up and over the house. it was the first show and it was enchanting. we relaxed into its magic.
the trail was hot and we were on mile nine. at that point – in the feels-like high nineties – we were talking about getting to littlebabyscion in the parking lot. but then there was this butterfly who captured my attention. on a stand of tall yellow wildflowers, the viceroy butterfly shared the edge of the trail with me. i was close to it and took photographs as it sunned, seeking nectar. it didn’t fly away, instead allowing me to snap pictures as it stayed on the bright blossom. i forgot about how much i wanted to sit down, the weary disappearing into the magic of this creature’s presence.
when we were little, there was little that was not magical. and then we grew – taller, older, supposedly wiser. and some of the magic dissipated into clouds.
but, we are lucky beings. because from time to time, we are reminded. they need not be big moments of grandeur, though they could be. they need not be big moments of contrived entertainment, though they could be. they need not be stunning vistas or neverending horizons, though they could be.
instead, they are tiny bubbles and droplets of water, tiny grains of sand, gathered together in a restoring wave. they are tiny birds sanctuarying the backyard. they are a butterfly on a flower, almost unnoticed.
and we remember. we remember to remember, to not forget that the magic is right there waiting.
and in the wisdom of the littles, we realize – again – there is little that is not magical.
we did not birth a baby together. until all these bunnies. our new-parent-juju is rising. together, we watch over them, noticing how they are growing, changing, their different puff-ball tails, their different markings. truth be told, we are not sure how many bunnies we actually have. we suspect that the number is rapidly increasing – as different sizes are showing up – all in the same day. so we are likely parenting multiples – twins, triplets and beyond.
my sweet momma used to tell me that when she discovered she was expecting – a decade after having my sister and brother – she wanted to have twins. she wanted me to be twins. she didn’t get all regretful or anything, but she just wanted me to know that she wanted me to have a sibling close to my age.
i wasn’t a twin. and my sister and brother grew, lightyears ahead of me, leaving home and marrying while i was just reaching double-digits. i, ever the little-sister, had special relationships with both of them and treasured time and sleepovers at their homes. but i can see the wisdom of my mom’s wish for twins. she called me their “dividend”.
and so i grew up – post-just-turning-double-digits – with older parents. they were already in their mid-fifties when i was a mid-teenager. and they were from a generation a little bit more old-fashioned. so, i s’pose i was a little bit more old-fashioned too.
they were already at the stage where suddenly they had a little bit more time to pay attention to the birds, the animals around our growing-up house, their garden. while i always appreciated their zeal, i didn’t stop in the zooming-around of a teenager to partake in much bird or wildlife watching or spend a lot of time in the gardens. after they moved to florida, in their last home together, they would sit for hours gazing out at the lake behind their home, watching for waterfowl, tiny lizards and traces of lurking alligators. witnesses of nature. it always brought them peace.
and now i get it.
last night we sat on the deck as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. the night air was cooler and the birds, chippies, squirrels, bunnies were busy. we marveled at the hummingbird flitting in to the feeder and we laughed at the antics of a gleeful dogdog, who was outsmarted every time by whichever bunbun was in the yard. we both sighed. the day was coming to an end and our yard-family was getting ready to tuck in.
the joys of dividends are numerous we see. old-fashioned goodness.
my sweet momma and my poppo – over in the next dimension – smiled knowing smiles and clapped their hands as they watched me, as they watched us.
“still, what i want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled— to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world. i want to believe I am looking
into the white fire of a great mystery. i want to believe that the imperfections are nothing— that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and falling. and i do.” (mary oliver – house of light)
truth be told, i am pretty easily dazzled.
diamonds on the lake, owl feathers on the trail, first fireflies, an unsolicited kiss from dogdog, the rising moon, constellations pinpricking the sky, tightly-wound buds, wide-open-blossom fragrance. catching my beloved’s eye, the gesture of hand to his heart, the ninth in harmony, the sinking sun through a forest of trees, birds gathering at 4am, sunrise, surprise texts from my grown children, squishy pillows, the first coffee, a bold red, a new thermal shirt, snowfall, the first glimpse of the mountains.
as everything changes – my body, my work, my impact, my voice – it is easier to float above the difficult when dazzled a dazzling number of times a day.
i don’t know who to credit with my easy-dazzability. i suspect it’s my sweet momma. she did not have a high bar for ecstatic. she cheered on the tiniest event, she buoyed even those she did not know. her gaze took it all in…it became fodder for extraordinary within the ordinary.
but, oh, the practice of being astounded, of having your breath taken away, of being startled by that which you’ve seen many times, of holding the horizon loosely like the reins of a horse – without restraint, your knees signaling “gallop”. full-fledged immersion in possibility, unabashed glee, awed.
when the lake glitters, it feels as if the day itself has reason to shimmer.
i realize now – already – and at long last – the shimmer – of light – is always there. no matter.
i used to know someone who really despised redundancy. this person would interrupt and say, “you already told me that” or “i heard that already”. ask them about their day and they would reply, “same-old-same-old.” it was hard for me – a new yorker – born into repetition and long-story-telling.
d and i sat on that iowa porch only four days, but it doesn’t take long to grow fond of something beautiful.
in front of us – facing east – were two trees. beyond the trees were fields. before they were mowed down, the fields were wildgrasses green with sunny yellow flowers. in the distance – quite a ways off – was the road. a country highway, it was populated by many pickup trucks, an occasional sedan, rarely a semi and, at one point, more booming harleys than we could count.
the light changed during the day. no surprise there. the sun rose to the left of the trees and burned its way into the sky. the trees glimmered and reappeared through the early morning thin layer of smoke from wildfires in canada, jetstreaming its way into the heartland. it was bright in midday and then the sky took on the echo of the western sunset. at night, the trees were still a presence, silent, rooted strength.
i took many photographs of these two trees. they were somehow very comforting and reassuring; it was a time of memorial for columbus and emotions were all over the place. and the trees stood there, steadfast.
they watched us all gather and eat and talk and reminisce and play bags and run with oversized bubble wands. they watched us hula-hoop and dance in the grass and drag chairs following the sun and escaping the wind. they watched us wander and take pictures, play with gracie-cat, pour wine. they watched – as trees do – and we watched them back.
i love each of the photos of the two trees on the east side.
barney’s nails are popping, its layers are peeling back even more, rust is gathering on surfaces subjected to air and moisture. this is not a surprise. barney has been outside in the sun and the rain and the snow and ice and wind and humidity and drought for almost ten years now. a decade has a way of peeling things back. i wonder what barney might look like in another decade or maybe two. its soul will be intact; its boxy exterior will be falling away, opening strings, hammers, soundboard to the world. and always, its soul, present, true.
barney is no less beautiful now than the day it arrived in our yard. in fact, as it changes, its transformation is a metamorphosis into an aged piece of art sans any expectations. it stands as a stalwart symbol of constancy in our backyard. it reminds me that soul is resilient, fluid. no matter the weathering, the chippies and bunnies nesting, the birds stopping off to rest, the squirrels sitting and taunting the dog. no matter only eleven white endpieces of keys are left. no matter the line of popped nails in a row along its upright top. its soul – exposed – carries on, aged and stronger than before.
“this is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing i know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.” (mary oliver)
if barney needed to express itself, tell stories of its past, the narrative of a life of a hundred years, it would merely stand and speak – firmly planted. time and nails have loosened its jointed wood and the container of a million tales, and have – figuratively – unlidded the top of the shoebox under the bed or on the top shelf of the closet. every story counts and, as we sit in the backyard, we pay attention. we listen to barney, giving credence to its voice, glad that even in its aged appearance – and its agedness – it is not silent.
in ways i can’t explain, i can feel the nails popping.
i haven’t stopped. since march 2020 when my son – at the beginning of the pandemic – in an effort to help me feel connected to him and my daughter – suggested we have a shared text with photos taken in our day. a picture-of-the-day. and every day, not-failing, i have sent one since. i am in absolute delight when they now share a photograph on this thread; i know busy-ness and work and life have picked back up some time ago and picture-of-the-day is no longer on their radar. but, because i am a mom – and i know moms everywhere can relate – it’s still on mine. i look for something that somehow represents my day, every single day.
i have to say – this has been a good thing, this intention to seek and snap the picture-of-the-day. i take lots of photos, so some days this is easy. but there are others when my photo is of mashed potatoes or chicken soup or the accuweather tornado watch or glasses of wine at the end of the day. some days are just life. normal, regular, not supersized, life.
the trillium placed itself in front of the fallen log, clearly, on purpose. ready for its photo shoot, its bud profile at this stage resembling a mighty tulip, the toadshade waited for someone to come along and take its picture. and there i was.
that very day i ended up using a graceful fern in our backyard as my picture-of-the-day. the composition was just a little better, the curve of the fern beautiful. but the trillium knew it would end up featured. i had whispered thank you to it after my baker’s dozen shoot. it stood proudly as we hiked away, knowing.
paying attention – to the littlest details of a day – requires intention. i know i could get lost in the other details of our life, the more pressing, the more complex, the minutiae and nuances of moment-to-moment adulting.
but one text from my son changed that and offered me a continuing reminder to find something – any thing – big or little, positive or disconcerting, dreamy or a little bit scary – that was a real piece of my day. it also offered me a chance to physically let them know i was – at that very moment of sending – thinking of them.
i know there are days – i don’t want to think about how many – that my grown children look at their phones and – in unison from 1400 miles apart – roll their eyes as my picture-of-the-day drops in.
it is likely the heron’s. we have seen a couple together out there – gliding through the marshland, standing regally by the side of the pond, walking sedately. we hiked past the downy feather, that had likely fallen from where down is hidden beneath the heron’s outer feathers, and i went back, the talcum powder white capturing my attention on the trail. sometimes i pick up feathers – to keep them, beautiful signs of divine and freedom and flight. i left this one on the trail, tucked between the pine and the cone, its texture begging notice.
under the outer layer of my straight hair is an unruly curly layer. the days i do not blow-dry my hair, i am banana-curled, little-orphan-annie-curled, a combo-platter-no-real-sense curled. i personally have found it annoying. most women desire hair which they do not have – a different kind of hair – a different color – a different texture, thickness, bounce, volume. it is the way of this society.
instyle magazine did an entire month of articles on women and their hair. i read the initial article from 2018 and, frankly, found it somewhat entertaining. the most common uniting hair complaint is frizz, which, i must say, i have complained about a time or two. d has trouble understanding frizz as he is a non-frizz-haired guy (incidentally, with better hair than me – which doesn’t seem quite hair-fair). regardless, hair has become a tool of empowering for women, especially in this nation.
according to what i read, we can be flushed with excitement or nervous as all get-out, challenged beyond our perceived limits or drudging our way through the day – but, if our hair looks good, we feel good, no matter.
i wonder if the heron – in its elegant wisdom and intuition – has concerned itself with its feathers. or has it just simply concerned itself with its basic needs, its instinctual movements and rituals, its patterns and place in nature. is it thinking about its frizzy down feathers? i suspect not. compare that with the reported 81% of human women who feel more confident if their hair looks great.
according to the majority of human women – none of the hair products out there reeeeally work. everything promises to de-frizz, de-curl, celebrate the curl, straighten, give volume, grant sheen, untangle, combat thinning, retain moisture, eliminate split ends, make it bounce, make it stay still, give a hairstyle hold. but nope, none of it really works.
if you add perimenopause, menopause and post-menopause to the hair equation, you are faced with a variety pack of even more hair concerns. for me, that means that – despite all my deliberate blowdrying intentions for straightening my hair, the instant a hotter-than-hot hot flash swings by, i am frizzed. drippy hot, frizzed and curled – definitely not a jennifer aniston hair look.
“in order to cool their body temperature, great blue herons will partially extend and droop their wings and open their mouths while fluttering their throat muscles. much like dogs panting, this helps cool their body through evaporation. this behavior is called gular fluttering.”(nps.gov) the innate wisdom of the heron – gular fluttering. who knew?
so…if you see me – curly hair askew sneaking out from under a few straightened hairs trying to hold on to their straight – fluttering my throat muscles (is this synonymous with talking too much in humans???) – you will know i am post-yet-another-hot-flash and am channeling my internal great blue heron. please don’t comment on my hair.
there is a plethora of information about contrails. and when i say a plethora, i mean a lot. you can glean all kinds of knowledge – the kinds of planes that emit contrails, the weather necessary, specific atmospheric conditions, the altitude likely for formation, the effect on climate, additives to the engine that preclude the emission of a contrail. three kinds: short-lived, persistent non-spreading, persistent spreading. tons of information about something to which we pay scant attention.
sitting on the adirondack chairs on our back patio sipping wine early in the evening, we both leaned back against last year’s pillows. the sun streamed at us through the gap between our house and the garage and we gazed at the blue blue sky at this end of an unusually warm early spring day.
contrails.
it’s not unusual for us to see planes – our home is located between two major airports. milwaukee’s mitchell airport is to our north and chicago’s o’hare is to our south. the only times i truly remember the skies being quiet were right after september 11th (2001) and in the earliest days of the pandemic (2020). otherwise, we regularly have planes on final, planes circling, planes practicing aerobatics, helicopters big and small, air ambulance helicopters, helicopters transporting dignitaries, helicopters doing rescue maneuvers over the lake, news helicopters. add in drones and it’s busy airspace. because we are who we are, we always ponder who might be flying over, where they are going, what they are thinking as they look down, where home is for them.
there was this one day – years ago – when we were walking along the lakefront. we looked up to see a fiery flying object moving at a fast rate of speed over the lake. very high in altitude it made an abrupt turn to the east and disappeared into the distant sky. to this day we talk about that, wondering. we have absolutely no idea what it was; it seemed propelled with this fiery exhaust. we googled, but to no avail. who were they? where were they going? what were they thinking? where was home?
in 1986 i was living in florida. if we stood on our driveway and looked up in to the eastern sky we could witness the space shuttles as they were launched into the atmosphere. the contrails were fiery, smoky vapor, and the anticipation always left us marveling. it’s astounding to think about taking off into space. the day of the challenger space shuttle dawned just as thrilling. we planned around the launch so that we might again bear witness to this scientific achievement, these explorers. but, as we stood on the driveway and peered at the sky, it was obvious – even to us 130 miles across the state – that something was amiss. the contrails were wrong. and, in those moments, breaking down into tears, the contrails told a different story.
there isn’t a contrail that goes by now that i don’t have a throwback to that profound day late in january in 1986.
we are all explorers. we have varying tasks of courage, summits that require us to trust ourselves, to trust others. i can’t help but think of this every time i board an airplane, every time i drive a car on a road with rules for all drivers, every time i partake in a community, every time i try something unknown-to-me or dream a new dream.
we all leave contrails behind us, though the vapor trail itself is not necessarily visible. what will the answers be when people wonder who we were, where we were going, what we were thinking, where our home was. were our contrails fiery or short-lived, thin-lined or ever-spreading? were they full of hot air and blather? were they generous, kind-hearted, remembered with a softness?
i think i would choose to be a persistent spreading contrail, eventually a lacy cirrus cloud. floating out-out-out.
