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Tag Archives: presence


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peaches. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

in the category of fruit, you can kind of draw a dividing line. there are the people who love peaches and the people who love nectarines. it’s a more distinct line than you might think.

for many years, i solely bought nectarines. the smooth skin of this sweet fruit was preferred in our house back then and so, respectful of the tactile-lips-to-fruit-skin-touch-aversion, i skipped over the fuzzy peaches and went directly to nectarines.

it’s taken many, many years of nectarines, but – just the other day – i bought my first peaches in a very long time.

it did not go unrewarded.

sweet peach juice, the perfect ripeness. it was an exquisite peach. it reminded me of the scene in city of angels where meg ryan is trying to describe – in words – what a pear tastes like to nicholas cage. maybe, were i to describe the peach if would be too intimate, too descriptive. instead, i’ll say it was glorious. it was a reawakening. the next time, i walked past the nectarines.

in a time of feeling a little bit fragile, a little untethered, somewhat insignificant, the peach brought me instantly to the moment. with no guarantee of next and with the dissipating condensation of the bursting bubble from before, it was – a moment of standing in gravity on a spinning-spinning globe – an arrow pointing to right now.

nectarines provide more vitamin a, vitamin c and potassium than peaches. but the up-and-up present sweetness of a peach will stop you in your tracks. savoring. it will make you think of every sweet thing in your life. it will possibly drip down your chin while you reach for a napkin, willing the drip to stop before it hits your shirt. it will astound you.

and i wonder what could be better than being astounded on an ordinary day.

*****

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and wings. [two artists tuesday]

his legs wrapped tightly around the garden fence, the cicada gave in to his time of transformation.

i found him when i was watering. i bent down to pull a weed by the low fencing and there he was, clinging with all his might to the thin metal frame, following his call of nature, nymph to adult. the transition is recognizable. the two creatures look remarkably different, so it is easy to tell which is the mature cicada.

it’s the second time we have been witness to part of the cicada’s metamorphosis. the first time the cicada was clinging to the deck and we watched the whole fascinating process. this time, we came upon the cicada after it had shed its old skin, the outer exoskeleton having molted off into the dirt. both were profound for us. the giving over, the trusting of transformation, gaining wings, going on into next as something quite different.

“life is not so much about beginnings and endings as it is about going on and on and on. it is about muddling through the middle.” (anna quindlen)

and in the middle, the holding on. legs – and arms – wrapped around the garden fence of our lives, clutching for dear life. to be in the middle – sorting and pondering, full of wonder and angst – we can only trust that each next will arrive, that the on and on will not betray us, that we will not betray the on and on. the cicada surrenders, relinquishes any worry of what is to come.

and then, it wakes soon after, having pushed its way through the deadened shell. with wings. wings! exuberant noise fills the summer air. i know i will listen for our garden-fence-cicada on hot nights when the sun is setting and dusk is on the sky.

and we – in our metamorphosis from one day to another – sorting and pondering on our fence – begin to know that wings are possible. we learn that we have had them all along. we untuck them, test them out, flex a little, grow stronger. and we are astounded to learn – like the cicada – that we can fly.

“i want to be light and frolicsome. i want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though i had wings.” (mary oliver)

*****

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both exist. [two artists tuesday]

the owl feather lay on our trail. soft down curled at its base, it was striking against the dirt of our path. we stopped.

the trail has different rules. the point is never to hurry. it is never to walk without open eyes. it is never to pass by that which draws or beckons. instead, it is to take the time, to go slower, to see what is there – in all its mysterious beauty. and, though this is the most familiar of our trails, there is not a time we have hiked it that we have not seen something new, something informative, something so beautiful – even in its simplicity – that we had to stop and photograph it.

it IS how the world is, she said. it exists just the same way as the dark exists. we were talking about goodness, the presence of goodness, the pay-it-forward of goodness. i was wistfully talking about a world that valued goodness, that lingered in kindness, that held beauty in gratitude, that was full of light and hope and the love of one another. her words stopped me.

it does exist. and, yes, it exists the same way as all the dark in the world exists. it’s a profound thought.

we were walking out to big red to go take a hike. a beautiful black crow feather lay waiting on the driveway.

next to littlebabyscion was a smaller feather, perhaps one from a robin that sang the sun up earlier in the day.

to read about owl feathers and crow feathers and robin feathers, one finds a plethora of information, some seemingly opposite in meaning. but the one thing that all feathers seem to represent across the board is that there are angels with you, there is a connection to the spiritual world.

whatever you perceive that to be, it would seem that a connection to the comfort and love of those who passed before or the eternal wisdom, the resilience, the goodness of the universe would be a good thing.

all the light exists just as all the dark.

*****

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what matters. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

one of my favorite memories of time spent with columbus was fishing with him up at the mountain lake. gently he handed me a fishing pole and explained the fish thereabouts and we made our way down to the shoreline. i could have stood there all day, my line in the water, casting again and again and dreaming. surrounded by mountains and aspen trees and tall pine, i was standing in heaven. the fish didn’t really matter.

the times i spent fishing on long island were generally from a boat. crunch and i would mosey out into the sound – at all times of day or night – and drop in a line. we’d talk quietly and ponder life and watch the stars and drift a bit. it, too, was a bit of heaven. and it never really mattered if there was anything on the stringer at the end of the day.

up in ely, 20 took us out on the vast lakes. the boundary waters were absolutely quiet. we dropped in lines with no real expectation. trolling around, we were surprised when we ended the day with a few fish. i can’t remember that i caught any of them.

i haven’t ever fished in wisconsin. no real reason. we prefer the pontoon boat up north or getting a little lost in time in the canoe.

and it is true – i’m not really good at fishing. though i relish the time in the boat or, better yet, on that mountain shoreline, it’s not really the fish that matter.

what matters is the serenity found in the waiting, the time spent outside being quiet together, the being there.

*****

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wild giraffe flower. [two artists tuesday]

and it grew and grew. up from the forest floor, where it was surrounded by decaying leaves and bits of branch. next to the big meadow and not far off the beaten trail, it pushed its way past the low grasses next to it.

this wildflower – a somewhat historically unloved taproot – with an abundance of early spring juju, kept sprouting up, up. it looked around to see many just like it. suddenly, it was surrounded by a village of yellow flowers – each maybe a bit hard to discern from the other.

but the flower still knew it had a place in the world.

and so, it held its bloom until it was time to close and then it grayed. it stoked up seeds and waited for the right time to release them, a puff of magic.

and then it bent its head to the sun, content in its cycle on earth, knowing it would be back and that – for a time – it had been a wild giraffe.

*****

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magical time-lapse by neil bromhall

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no same-old. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

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.

because there is no same-old same-old.

*****

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the ellipses at nightfall. [merely-a-thought monday]

it was the last night. we stood out on the porch and then out in the east field, the farmhouse behind us. the dark of iowa-night rained down on us as we peered into the sky to see the constellations. we could feel the “last” of the last night. but out there, on the horizon – in the way an ellipsis works – the ellipses had a reminder: it’s never really over. the horizon lights suggested the story would be trailing on and on – up till now and then dot-dot-dot…

the story dot-dot-dot – without definition, without a distinct end, unrestrained – keeps on…

last week’s time in iowa and return home gave us grounding…reminders…learnings. feet firmly planted…spine tall…solid and trusting, we intentionally rearranged our thoughts – trying (because it’s not easy and it always takes the work of trying) to put aside worry and angst, instead centering on being steady and calm. the decision to not panic. the ellipsis of keeping on…

the impermanence sticks with us.

and we know it doesn’t matter that there is rust on our hubcaps or that our countertops are chalkboard/food-safe-wax-painted-wood. we know it has no bearing on real life that we don’t wear trendy name-brand clothing or that we actually like $2.50 old navy flipflops. we know that leftovers nourish us just like restaurant fare and we are not worried if we never get to sit at the table of a three-star-michelin. we know that there are wines of great robust but we continue to sip apothic and splurge on the new broadside (paso robles) we found. the ellipsis of keeping on…

the transitory taps us on the shoulder.

gathered, we listened to stories of the past, suddenly way long ago. we went to the pioneer cemetery high on a hill overlooking planted cropfields. the 1800s were just a moment ago there. and, just as the years fly by, we know that the incandescent kite we each fly has fragile filmy threads. our hands – holding the moment – age before our eyes. the ellipsis of keeping on…

the ephemeral sounds harmonic overtones we can hear.

we gaze at the peony buds in the backyard. they will soon bloom – in their sweet time – and they will stun all who walk by. their beauty will not be forgotten. each one has opened to the sun and told its own story. each one. and then dot-dot-dot…

the ellipses remind us.

*****

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flower power. [merely-a-thought monday]

the flower-power stickers adhering to my growing-up wall and my sister’s volkswagen beetle were these colors. hot pink and orange daisies, yellows, greens, vibrant and happy. and you think that some pantone or pms chart somewhere was the place they originated. but it’s not so.

this is where they came from.

and the tulips stand – proudly but not arrogantly – in their color, in their field. completely present and at ease, they open to the world, giving it all they’ve got. stand in nature and try not to be humbled…it’s impossible.

her meditations end with “and so you are”. each one.

belleruth naparstek guides you – inside and outside – to quiet. a place of presence, of ease. not trying to push out thoughts or streams of consciousness passing by, but allowing it all to flow. with practice, you can feel the roots growing under your feet, the steady breathing of awareness, calmness.

and, if you are fortunate, you are held gently, right in the middle of tulip petals, and you are reminded, once again, you are alive. “knowing in a deep place that this place is inside of you…that you are better for this…“

“and so you are.”

*****

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hummingbird reminders. [k.s. friday]

we have been tracking them. like really good private investigators – ok, not so brilliant but quietly watching – we watch the map that shows when they might get here. the map plots everywhere a hummingbird has been sighted and so we are anticipating seeing one anydaynow. we are waiting. with no promise at all.

“waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the…” (dr. seuss – oh, the places you’ll go)

it seems that waiting is a thing. “i can’t wait till….” we find ourselves saying. impatient for time to slip by and for the anticipated moment to arrive.

yet, exquisite it is to sometimes simply linger, to stretch out minutes, to wade in the shallows of right now. waiting need not be passive. instead, it is filled with arrows-forward-arrows-back present-time. it is the only thing we can really feel, the only air we can breathe, the only. it is all that we have at the moment.

i’m sitting against the headboard, my pillows falling into the abyss between the iron bars. i can feel wrought iron against my back as i think about readjusting my stack of fluffy polyester and down alternative. i can hear the taptaptap of david typing next to me. i can hear the gentle easy breathing of dogdog at my feet, dozing and dreaming. if i stop typing i can hear birds outside, the pond gurgling, wind in the trees, every now and then chimes. if i close my eyes i can taste the last sip of coffee and see the maypole i thought about on monday’s mayday.

there are many things i cannot wait for. to see my daughter, hug her, hear her voice in the same room. to watch my son perform at pride festival in chicago. to take a roadtrip. to finish a long chapter that has had challenges.

but i am reminded – every day – that to rush would be to miss it all along the way. i am reminded to stroll or, at most, skip.

our trail has signs that designate a trot as the terminal gait. were i on horseback i would be tempted to canter – for the thrill of it. but i would go back and do it all again – walking and, maybe but not likely, trotting. i would stroke the mane of my horse and talk quietly about all we were seeing. i wouldn’t worry about the end nor would i gallop cause i couldn’t wait to get there.

i’d go slow. and try to relish the now, pushing back impatience so as to wait to feel the restlessness of waiting.

the hummingbirds remind me.

it’s all we have at the moment.

*****

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a good day for some cake. [merely-a-thought monday]

“stay young by continuing to grow. you do not grow old, you become old by not growing.” (wilferd a. peterson – the art of living)

we would like to be like frank. he will be 90 this month and his busy life could make many people feel like couch potatoes. he is interested and curious and makes himself available to volunteer for a wide variety of organizations. he is our go-to excuse for sipping apothic – “it’s such a drinkable wine,” he says. he’s not afraid to try new things. the art of staying young – he has this down pat.

today is eileen’s birthday. she is 100. one hundred. it’s quite the life you’ve lived when you were born in 1923 and it is now 2023. always interested, she loves the chicago tribune. her desk has stacks of issues, piles of stories she has read or, at this stage of health, it counts to even just simply touch the newsprint. 20 talks to her about current events, encourages her to think, to discern, to learn – even at 100.

we celebrated her birthday with butter-creme-heavily-frosted layered chocolate birthday cake, hyacinth and tulips, catered sliders and quesadillas and apothic. frank would have approved. we studied boards with photographs of a little girl named eileen, eileen and duke as young marrieds, the sassy and spirited and fashionista eileen, a mother named eileen, a grandmother. i’m certain it seems to her now that the 100 years have flown by, for indeed that’s how time is. as she was wheeled into the party room her words were boisterous, “i made it!”

my own sweet momma would be 102 this year and my dad 103. my dad always said he was going to be 100. he did not make it. he died when he was 91. my mom never stated those aspirations but she, as well, was not a centenarian, crossing planes at almost-94. my dad, never one to turn down any dessert would have devoured a big slice of eileen’s cake. and my mom would have sat at the table with eileen asking questions and telling stories. i wish we were also having their cakes, most definitely chocolate ganache, but soon now those crossing-over anniversaries will come again and i will burn candles and blow kisses into the universe.

it’s all a mystery, this life. how long we get to live it, how many desserts, how many sips of toasting wine. seems like – once again – there’s no time to waste.

maybe today is a good day for some cake.

“tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (mary oliver)

*****

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