“symbolizes wisdom, intuition, and the ability to see beyond deception or hidden truths.” (google)
it was on our way back on an out-and-back trail. we had already had the good fortune of hiking in the sun, our shadows falling on reedy marshes and fallowed underbrush of the forest, deer crossing our path.
the trail was muddy. i was watching where i was stepping.
and there it was.
a solitary feather.
a search told us it was an owl feather.
though there are resemblances to hawk feathers, i’m not minding the idea of going with owl – particularly since the symbolism is timely.
so, let’s go with that. (of course, i do welcome any birder’s opinions on this.)
we left it there, on the trail.
but we carried with us the good news of its symbolism, the wisdom, intuition and ability to discern truth. heaven knows we all sure need that right now.
in these times of unbelievable chaos, unbridled deception and grift, rank, depraved cruelty, a country being unconscionably deceived by its appallingly incompetent leaders, we are certain to need to stand in earnest wisdom with clear-eyed views of what is real versus what is propagandized or outright lying. we need to move with grace through all these challenges, protected against vast negative energy, step by step toward transformation and renewal in our country.
maybe we should all carry a virtual owl feather in our back pockets as we walk through these days.
the outside world got really quiet. the snow fell most of the afternoon and into early evening. we decided to go nowhere, immersed in the horrific news of the day. it was saturday, the last day of february.
i suppose we could have gone out – there were errands to be done. i suppose we could have gone somewhere to entertain ourselves or be entertained. i suppose we could have tipped a glass at some bistro or bar, shared a meal together, people-watched.
but this morning had brought us the overnight news of a new war conflict and – as we tried to process this new insanity – while others posted patriotic country songs clearly in favor of this pedo-files-distraction/this follow-the-corrupt-money-trail/this what-the-hell-is-this-anyway – we just weren’t up to leaving our home.
i suppose that (at least some) of mother nature will go on after we humans have utterly destroyed this planet, after we have made it impossible to live with each other, after every safety has been discarded and the world has become literally toxic in every single way.
i suppose that it may still snow. there may still be quiet days, when there is a hush outside. there may still be sun. there may still be stars. all that is likely. it will be our loss.
this morning – as i write this – the sun is in my eyes. it is bathing the quilt in light and i can’t look out the window – it is full of bright.
i can hear the birds outside. they are at the birdfeeder, on barney, feasting on birdseed and sunflower seeds. they are at the birdbath, cleaned and filled with water. everything else is still quiet, as it is early.
i’m thinking it doesn’t hurt to stoke up on these things – these sights, these sounds. it doesn’t hurt to hold them close or store them away.
because right now the future seems utterly uncertain.
i suppose there will be a day when i look out the front door – to the west and the setting sun – and not see these branches. i suppose wind or ice or age – or even a city crew – might take them down. in the meanwhile, though, they are a statement of the familiar and their graceful shape gives me comfort.
we have been more insular lately. there are many reasons for this, some too close-in to list. the world has felt inordinately harsh – the world IS inordinately harsh – and so, in the name of balance, there has been time simply spent here, at home.
and at the end of a day, when we realize that we had not gone anywhere in that day, i am sometimes surprised.
but engagement is not just getting-out-of-the-house. there are – i suspect – particularly evidenced by the vast numbers of people who still support the cruel, unhealthy, marginalizing agenda of this administration – plenty of people who get out of the house but who never actually engage in the reality of what is happening, never seek the truth, never question their proclivity to pompom this depravity, never utter that they might have been wrong.
they go to the mall or the department store and shop, they go to some supersized – or tiny – evangelical church that proclaims their modified version of jesus, they go out to dinner and feast, they are at soccer games and gymnasiums and gated community parks. they follow the social media of extremism and sanctify voices and leaders without compassion, without empathy, without conscience.
no, engagement – participation – involvement – in this world requires asking questions and participating in discussions, learning, parsing out complex ideas, critical thinking, curiosity, connection, the recognition of one’s impact in the world.
engagement does not suggest utter complicit passivity nor does it suggest giving over of one’s morality; it does not suggest sycophancy nor adulation of horrific ideology. it doesn’t suggest – or not suggest – any of that.
we each get to choose our own engagement.
personally, i will stick to seeking the ideals of kindness, compassion, humanitarianism, equality, truth. i will stick to looking to the constitution and its amendments of this country as the guiding discipline of its laws.
and, even if i’m not engaged with the mall or the church or out-and-about dining or shopping or playing a day here or a day there, i will continue to hold to the kind of engagement that does not ignore reality.
and that kind of engagement requires some counter-balance these days.
which takes me to these ever-familiar front-yard branches drawing grace in the sky.
there is a spot in our backyard – a pretty specific spot – where we can sit and watch the sun as it gets lower and lower in the sky. it filters through clouds or the trees to our west. it lingers over the familiar rooflines of houses nearby. it is a spot on the patio that is ridiculously reassuring as we adirondack-chair sit, sunglasses on, witnessing the beginnings of the end of the day.
because we are not given to dinners out – and they aren’t really in our budget anyway – we tend to spend the waning hours of daylight on our deck or on this patio. maybe with a little happy hour, maybe just quietly – either way, it is a magical way to be a part of sundown, to begin evening, particularly when the ‘hood around us is silent but for the sparrows, chickadees, cardinals getting in last licks at the birdfeeder, dustbathing in the dirtspots dogga has generously dug, sipping water from the birdbath or the pond. it can be so quiet as to hear the hummingbird’s tiny chirps as it buzzes over our heads after devouring at its feeder. these are good days, the days that decrescendo like this.
and so, i try and capture these ends-of-day – for other days when the time comes for sunset and the horizon is full of clouds or rain, for other days when our hearts need the reminder, the universe hug that there is a night of rest coming and a new day to follow.
i glance over at d – whose hand is holding mine – and watch dogga run his backyard circle of joy.
for this moment, i feel a sense of peace. I breathe it all in – soaking in the energy that we need to be in these moments of history. i lean back against the throw pillow and exhale.
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.
most of the time i can feel this. though sometimes, i am too busy or rushed. and though sometimes, i am frazzled with thoughts. and though sometimes, i am worried or distracted. and though sometimes, i have forgotten the simplicities in the midst of complexities.
i felt it though. and it was palpable.
the driveway greeted us as we pulled in – familiar cracks along its way. the wires overhead tugged and dipped in the wind. the leaves leftover from fall and winter blew in front of us. the house whispered, “welcome home.”
and this time – this time – i heard it. clear as day, as they say.
the whisper of a home – this place i have gone to for rest and nourishment, for creative work and rejuvenation, for the growing of beloveds and the gathering of friends, for belly-laughter and sob-filled tears, for refuge and solitude. this sanctuary. this place.
as we drove – on our way home – i could think of nothing better than to enter our home, hug on dogga, throw on my sweats and comfy boots, prepare a small meal. in this place.
my nest.
“this morning, in the fresh field,
i came upon a hidden nest.
it held four warm, speckled eggs.
i touched them.
then went away softly,
having felt something more wonderful
than all the electricity of new york city.”(mary oliver)
and this week will drop down into the 20s and 30s. i suppose it is time to turn on the heat.
it’s also time for us to start breaking out all our favorite recipes for soups and stews, slow cooker or stockpot or tagine meals. time to try some new ones.
we’ve made joan’s tomato soup several times now. we make special trips to tenuta’s, an italian grocery in town for specific tomatoes. simple, healthy ingredients, it is nourishing and wildly comforting. with a baguette on the side – or a grilled wisconsin-5-year-cheddar cheese sandwich – it speaks to the need for reassurance and warmth.
we were in costco when we stumbled upon san marzano tomatoes – in a 106 ounce can. such a deal – a third of the cost had we bought 28 ounce cans – we didn’t pass it up. instead, we will make a giant vat of tomato soup, sharing some with 20 and freezing some – sans the fresh basil. since this week will really drop in temperature, i’ll put it on the calendar.
we are starting to pull out warmer vests, more clothes, our 32 degree baselayers, socks and – drumroll – our favorite furry boots. i can’t quite wear the furry boots until the first of november merely two days away, but all the other layers already apply. we are solidly in fall. the weather app doesn’t show any temp above 45, save for three days – anomalies – in the 50s. and we’ll see if those stick.
i suppose it’s time to put away the jean shorts and the capris, the tank tops and the flipflops. it’s time to pull out the 180° earmuffs and david’s favorite hat and have gloves at-the-ready. there’s no going back.
and then, there it was. in our pond. the first frog in a couple years.
it was helen, who is steeped in her gift of faith, who told us the significance of having a frog appear. “f-r-o-g,” she said, “fully-rely-on-God.”
it is astounding how very much the appearance of this frog means to us. in the middle of the middle, a nod (or hop) of reassurance is unbelievably gratifying.
not every frog likes a photo shoot, but “hope” participated nonetheless. she was shier than most of our other frogs, but maybe that’s because she’s just getting to know us. one of our frogs – 2020 maybe? named “pando” – actually let me pet it, stroke its head and speak to it up close.
regardless, we’re a tad bit worried because it is so late in the year. she arrived on the equinox and the fall weather will race past the starting gate, sprinting to winter.
because we hike these trails often, we notice subtle changes. new sprouts, thicker vegetation, fallen trees, vole-holes on the path.
this day we noticed this large limb – suspended. it had fallen. because we’ve had large limbs fall in our yard, we know that their size – particularly from far away – belies their weight. this broken branch, even dead wood, had to be mighty heavy.
and yet – the next tree over caught it and was holding on. merely three points of contact, like one hand and two feet on a ladder, these three little v’s where significantly smaller branches met. three points. and so, we will watch it. we wonder how – nestled into the other tree – it happened to fall just right. we wonder how long it will be there – high up in the other trees that show no sign of leafing, of life.
support doesn’t take much. it’s astounding to walk in forests and see evidence of mighty holding up mighty, mighty holding up small, small holding up mighty. nature caring for nature.
i stood staring at the tree from the trail. i looked at david, also staring. we know that the physics of how this branch fell into these three points, how it distributed the weight, must play into why it was held there. but as i stood there i could only think about how that could work in the people-world.
points of contact. support. extending branches of encouragement, reassurance, compassion – these could make all the difference for others. how often i have seen a plato-esque meme on social media reminding us to be kind – for everyone we meet is fighting a battle we know nothing about.
big limbs holding tiny branches. tiny branches holding big limbs.
points of contact.
they will hold a fallen tree in the woods. they will hold you stable on a ladder. they will hold your heart steady.
and – in this forest of humankind – at any given moment, you might find you are one of someone else’s branches, the bridge between falling and held, the difference between holding on and letting go.
you are surrounded by the forest – dense, unyielding, a bit dark. though there are paths, they are still shadowed by big trees, overgrowth that doesn’t seem to allow in the light. and then – as you are plodding on and on, making an effort to maintain your equilibrium, to stay in center, you come to the tiniest clearing. and, looking up, there is sky. clear blue sky.
a periscope to the universe.
and suddenly, your worries and angsts, your doubts, your lost road are scaled down, lessened to tiny pinpricks of stars, unseen in the day-sky, though ever-there, allayed in the bluest-blue, soothing hope in the periscope, a reminder of perspective and time and expanse and right now.
and you stand, with all the creatures in the forest, and look up – for minutes and minutes unblinking until you are slightly dizzy from your stillness. and you lower your head, stretching your neck, your gaze-to-the-heavens broken.
but you are moved. you are reminded of your tiny-ness in the vastness. you remember you are part of this universe and, that just as you are not alone in the light that the leaf-periscope offers, you are not alone in the dark either.
you breathe. a deep breath. a prayer. a gratitude.
and you walk on in the forest, knowing, for certain, that you will find natural clearings with big spaces of light. knowing, too, that curling your hand into itself and peering through – like a hand-periscope – you can focus on smaller bits of the forest and within it, find the bits of light between the leaves.
reverse threading 