sometimes at the end of the day we can hear the bagpiper playing on the lakefront. it’s a bit haunting. and it makes me think of buglers who trumpet taps: “day is done. gone the sun, from the lake, from the hills, from the sky. all is well, safely rest, god is nigh.”
we often hike in the afternoon – after all our tasks are finished. so it is not unusual that we run into the sun setting as we begin to return toward the trailhead. and now, in these late autumn days, that is happening earlier and earlier.
it was particularly beautiful to see the sun on the day i took this photograph. it had been cloudy and we didn’t expect the sun to pop through above the bank of clouds just over the horizon. we were grateful.
i’m guessing that this is the way to move into these uncertain times. to note the clouds and to be grateful for the sun. we are troubled, much like you might be as well. we can’t pretend that everything is coming up roses or that this future will be smooth sailing. but it is doing our hearts and souls harm to linger constantly in the toxicity that was voted in. i certainly have spoken my piece about all that.
i also can’t simply play taps to our country. because all is not well, because i don’t feel like i can safely rest and because I’m thinking god may not be being all peaceful-nigh-like watching hypocritical thuggish people steeped in bigotry, revenge, cruelty being all righteous in his name. so taps is on hold.
i will, however, lean on the day, the sun, the lake, the hills and the sky to remind me of what is really, truly real, what is really, truly beautiful. i will be mindful of the importance of the each-others in our lives. i will draw strength from any and all light around me, around us – including the unexpected elusive sun setting in cloudy dusk.
we know these trees. we have walked this trail amid these trees for years now, processing life as we go. they are familiar to us; they feel like chosen family – waiting for us, to hear our voices, our laughter, the crunch of our boots on dirt, pebbles, leaves. they are curious – to hear snippets of challenges, of joys, of sorting – bits and snatches of our conversation as we hike.
these trees – all of them – the sculptural, the leafless, the verdant, the not-yet-shed-their-leaves, the evergreen – hold us, help us feel secure in this place, in this world. the curve of the trail – how we know it well – gives us pause in worry, recognizing the reassurance of the known.
there are three or four trails like that here. memorized, well-loved, never surprising and always full of stunning surprises. there is a specific trail – through stands of aspen trees – on a ridge in aspen. there is a specific trail – with the pungent scent of pine trees – along a mountain stream in breck. if we could teleport there – to either of those trails – we would. for they both speak to our very souls.
“and into the forest i go, to lose my mind and find my soul.”(john muir)
we return home – to this place on earth that can both travel with us and be acutely found in our cozy old house – with less-burdened hearts. though sometimes momentary – in a world leaning into insanity – the trail tucks wisdom-bits into us and we bring home space that reminds us to breathe in the very minute we are in, grounding us.
and so, we try to go here – to the close-by – often. especially now.
we are aware of beauty. we both notice it and look for it.
we walk and talk. we walk in silence.
and the trees tap us on the shoulder as we pass and whisper sweet nothings to us.
it was this morning – while i was nibbling on gluten-free cinnamon toast. it was while i was dishing out dogga’s dinner. it was while we sat at the kitchen table, darkness quickly falling outside. it was while i was sending a picture-of-the-day to my children, while i was texting with my dear friend. it was while i listened to george winston’s thanksgiving. it was on the trail. it was at the matinee of the movie here. it was leaving the theatre, tears in our eyes, grateful it was still a little light out.
it is right now. and this is where we are.
there are boundaries to be drawn, plans to be made, worries to be worried, griefs to be grieved.
there is shock and outrage. there is absolute horror.
there is no humor in what will come – and there is disgust at those who laugh with the sadistic glee of getting their way.
there is knowing and not-knowing. there is lostness.
there is uncertainty in the insanity of these moments.
but it is right now. and this is where we are. still.
so i will take stock wherever i find goodness, wherever i find community, wherever i find even a bit of joy, wherever i find love.
and i will dance in the kitchen, make homemade tomato soup, grow parsley in the winter. i will hold tighter to his hand and hug on our dogga. i will be frugal and i will be frivolous.
and i will sit on the wire with the other birds, watching the sky turn from night to day and night again. grateful for the tiniest things – that sky, the birds who love me and who i love, the wire and the still of still being here.
standing under the desert night sky – zillions of stars and the milky way just lingering out there above me. stunning. it was like an umbrella of humility. we are so very tiny, after all.
yet, on this clear night, on the border of arizona and utah, i stood holding hands with my husband on this stargazing deck, merely feet from dear friends. i thought about recent photos our son had posted of the starry sky in utah while exploring with our daughter. i could feel the love i had for each of them – it felt enormous – and yet, i am so tiny, after all.
last week i was taken by ambulance to the emergency room. i have never been treated by 911 paramedics and firemen before, nor have i ever been in an ambulance. but the situation seemed pretty dire and david needed back-up from people who had medical and emergency knowledge.
in the emergency room, i was struck both by how many people were present for me and how many people needed care. each person treating me was empathetic and caring; each one made me feel like they had true concern for what was happening.
and no one asked me about my political stance before they treated me.
instead, i was one star in the sky and they were each nearby stars. no one was greater than the other. we were all in it together, working with each other to a common goal.
in the period of time i was at the emergency room, two dedicated nurses, a doctor, an x-ray tech, other aides all assisted in attempting to figure out what was happening. hours later, i was grateful for each of them, for their expertise, their comprehensive care, their kindness.
this is the world i wish to live in…where we are all equal stars in a vast sky full of different stars. where we are all working together. where we have compassion and concern for each other, where we strive for everyone to be well.
this is the world i wish to live in…where rage doesn’t exist, where no one makes excuses for bigotry, where people bring their best and do the best they can for each other, no one belittles others, no one dehumanizes any one else – regardless of their gender, their race, their ethnicity, their sexual orientation or identification, their religion, their socioeconomic status.
it was no joke going to the hospital in an ambulance. everything most important to me was needlenose-pointedly front and center in my mind. i was scared and i was counting completely on others.
and i carried this from my experience – now, as i heal from all of it – reinforcing we need live this way. like we are stars in the sky – indiscernibly no bigger or brighter than the rest – all part of the enormous galaxy – all in it together.
we need hold each other up, lift each other up, live present to the moment, hold joy as our north star.
the opposite is toxic.
a punitive, uncaring, narcissistic, demeaning, rights-stripping, rage-filled, hateful, vengeful, limited world is a waste of time.
our daughter wrote, “it’s a hidden gem!” and i agree. we were grateful for her encouraging us to adventure here.
one of my favorite places, goblin valley state park in utah was a playground like no other. two artists – with active imaginations – we could have stayed there all day. this place – full of hoodoos and really interesting sandstone/siltstone formations engaged us, made us giggle, invited us to run about in delight, insisted we play.
we were invigorated – even in intense heat and unforgiving sun. even as we were there – even before we had to leave – we talked about coming back, to be with these sprites, enchanting stone babies.
we traveled to many national parks in our nine days all together. though we would hike to take photographs and explore sites a bit, our inclination to hike the narrows at zion remains a wish for another day, trails at bryce remain unseen. the hike right up to delicate arch at arches will have to wait and an attempt at crossing the grand canyon – rim to rim – or even riding down into the canyon didn’t make the cut – this time.
but goblin valley was another story. and the absolute charm of these goblins tugged at us – taunting us and enchanting us.
i sat down on one of these sandstone sculptures, tucked into its graceful shape – mystified by the sheer beauty of the valley. once again, i was but a tiny being, part of a much bigger whole.
this time – this time – i was touching the past, the present and the future…a sandstone deposit from 170 million years ago…this very day…and these magical hoodoos which would prevail long after i am gone.
if it were possible to feel like a pine tree, this would have been the day.
in the vastness of this bryce canyonland, we stood on the edge – like this pine tree – and gazed over an incredible expanse. it was not merely beautiful. it was beyond words.
and, once again, i felt it in my heart – that wobbly feeling you get when you realize – truly realize – how utterly small you are in all of thissssss.
we celebrate our anniversary today. there is so much more to explore. there are many more adventures to be had. there are more uphills and downhills. there are more learnings and experiences and times to hold.
and there are more moments like this – where we are reminded of the tiny morsels of being that we are and the sheer gratitude for the chance to be here, to share this.
years ago now. it was almost inky night, clear, a bit brisk but not windy. as i moved from the bank into the middle of the flow i noticed it. the moonlinefollowed me…everywhere i went. despite all the time i had already spent at water’s edge and on the water, it was the first time – in my memory – that it became apparent to me – this moonbeam shadow of mine.
and i think of you – my love, my children, my family, dear friends – next to me or somewhere else in this world – looking at the night sky as well. this same moon. with your own personal moonbeam shadow. and i am heartened by our sharing of this. for if we are looking at the same moon, then certainly we are not too far from each other. under the same sky, the same stars, the same blanket of galaxy.
so as i stand on rocks next to lake michigan i am reassured by this season of the full moon. and as i think of you, i whisper along the beam, hoping that the moon will deliver you my words.
“…when the moon dances in your hair, i will be there…for all the days of your life, for all your life …” (kerri sherwood – for all your life)
“burning sundown, colored autumn trees, mountain rivers, country livers put my mind at ease. and to realize such perfect harmonies, i’m standing in the dawn of a new day coming on and i’m looking for no tomorrow.” (john denver – in the grand way)
breck is turning. little by little we can see it. if it isn’t too stressed in a week or two, this aspen will be golden and its leaves will shimmer in the sun. breck is standing in the moment…tall, steadfast, perfect…in the dawn of a new day coming on.
i get that. after everything, every big and little thing that has happened over the last few years, i feel like i am – at last and finally – standing in the dawn – here, now – and looking for no tomorrow.
we are – in this sweet phase – doing right now. to be present in your present is, i think, a gift you give yourself. we sprint the rest of the time – striding, striding, sprinting, sprinting – to something we can’t necessarily qualify. we’ve all taken our turn doing this.
and, sitting in the mountain stream, we laid it all down. it floated off with the leaf bits floating past our old brown boots perched on slippery rocks in the middle of the flow. looking for no tomorrow.
“as we walk in fields of gold…” (gordon matthew sumner (sting) – fields of gold)
it is the grasses that thrive in our yard. the hostas have mostly yielded to the daylilies and the ferns have volunteered into a bigger garden out in the corner under the trees. the peonies hold their own – their blooms ever the sweetest. but the grasses – planted in our sandy soil near the lake – multiply and thrive.
were we to be dropped out of the galaxy into our yard, we would at least be able to identify the season – based on the ornamental grasses that grace our gardens. they are stalwart and enduring, coming back despite whatever is happening in our own universe, in the world. they are tuned to the sun and the moon and they set a high bar of appreciation for their renewal, their robust, their willowy feathered plumage, their verdant green in summer and this golden glow in fall.
we sit and gaze at these gardens of gold, particularly as dusk’s setting sun plays over them. we are smitten.
i am planting two new roots of peony, a generous gift from my sister-in-law. carefully we have decided where to place these tiny plant souls. they will flower in white blossoms, different blooms from each other. i will cluster them with one of our hot pink peonies – the one that hasn’t yet budded. and, hopefully, the grasses adjacent in the garden will keep an eye on these newcomers. we can gently plant, water and feed, be mindful of recommendations, but the garden will also tend itself and my sister-in-law has reassured me that peonies are so tough and hardy that they don’t necessarily need anything special. welcome words, as we are really neophytes at this.
there are many gardens with much more variety, that are more exquisite, more elegant, lavish, even opulent. yet, each time we come home – or finish our day on the deck or the patio – now that we have passed by the equinox and autumn is sweeping in on the departing wings of summer – i am grateful for these fields of gold in our yard. the steadfast spirit of these golden grasses aligns with us.
our sweet dogga is getting older. we don’t want to see it, but the grey on his muzzle is telling. though more recently – with his new homemade-in-our-kitchen chicken/rice/peas-and-carrots dinners – he seems more energetic, his needs are ever-present in our thoughts and the consideration we have when we are deciding on what our day or days will involve. he is a happy errand-goer and we try to incorporate an errand or two on which he might go along; on days it’s too hot outside, one of us stays in littlebabyscion with the a/c on to accommodate him and keep him safe.
in this reflection of our front door, doggle is waiting for his unkajohn to arrive, filled with excited anticipation. though this happens twice a week – 20 and the two of us share dinners regularly – dogga is as just excited each time.
i took this photograph almost a week ago from our front stoop. i showed it to d and he commented that it was a cool photo. it was only a few moments ago – as we uploaded the image to wordpress – that he realized that dogdog was in the picture.
it reminded me of that ink blot from back in the day where you are supposed to see jesus and all i could see was a dark blot that sort of resembled the shape of the united states – until just now – truly, just now – when i googled the blot and jesus became obvious.
some things are just hard to see at first. i guess you see stuff when you are ready to see it. that sounds more profound than i meant it – particularly about photographs and ink blots – but i would guess that it is true about other enlightenments. suddenly – seemingly out of the blue or with the generous help of a treasured therapist – we understand something, have clarity of sight, thought or emotion. suddenly, we connect the dots. suddenly, things fall into place and there is the inimitable “ahhh” moment. and the flow starts.
i recently had an event that sent me to the emergency room. it felt like a heart event – and had all the warning signs – and it was scary. after numerous ER tests, i followed up with my own physician – a doctor of osteopathy who i had only met with a couple times. her diagnosis was positive as she read the results of the tests i had; for reassurance she recommended that i follow through with a local cardiologist. but here’s the most important thing…she recommended myofascial massage.
i’m from the east coast – and david spent most of his adult life on the west coast – but here in the midwest, natural solutions to physical ailments or concerns are not all that commonplace. even the ones that make sense.
“trauma and stress,” my pcp said, “get stuck in the fascia of your body.” myofascial massage releases the restriction in the connective tissue of your body. this restriction manifests in a variety of ways, causing pain or inflammation. and so, she recommended i try it.
i’ve been to one appointment with my myofascial massage therapist. it had inordinately profound moments. it nearly brought me to weep when – using the gentlest of touch on my shoulders – i could feel myself breathe. reeeally breathe. deeply breathe. safely breathe.
the dots connected.
i couldn’t see this tension that was existing – thriving – in the fascia of my own body from trauma much earlier in my life – just like david couldn’t see dogga in the photo and i couldn’t see jesus in the ink blot. but it was all there – tension, dogga, jesus. but it must have been time. time for me to see it. i was more than ready.
and i can feel the flow – albeit a trickle – starting.
and now, as i wait for my next appointment with this obviously gifted myofascial massage therapist, i am filled with excited anticipation – like dogdog waiting at the door for his unkajohn.
reverse threading 