in the rare moments d texts me, my phone ringtone is john denver’s annie’s song.
“you fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like a mountain in springtime, like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean, you fill up my senses, come fill me again.
come let me love you, let me give my life to you. let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms. let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you. come let me love you, come love me again…”
and in those moments – daisy moments – i am reminded, once again, of the improbability of two tiny starflecks in the universe noticing each other, of the utter impossibility of our meeting, the sheer unlikeliness of our marrying, the astounding unimaginable gift of our time together.
even in the moments when my senses are overburdened, impatient, saturated, senseless.
daisies in any form, every stage – this wildflower fleabane – are just like hearing annie’s song. because i am me, they bring tears to my eyes.
“remember,” they whisper from the meadow on the side of the trail, “just remember.”
a long, long time ago my big brother penned a calligraphy print. it says, “may there be such a oneness between you that when one weeps the other will taste salt.”
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.
the blue cornflower corningware baked ziti casserole in the middle of the table, a tall yago sangria bottle perched next to it, blue cornflower plated place settings, a loaf of italian bread – it’s 1977.
tiny cut-up bites of grilled cheese sandwiches – the crust cut-off – it’s 1992, it’s 1994.
chicken-cutlet-on-a-roll-with-gravy from the hewitt square deli…or even suzy q’s and michelob – it’s 1977 again.
heaping bowls of coffee ice cream – it’s 1974 and my big brother is there.
kraft macaroni and cheese – it’s 1996.
burgers and fries and champagne – it’s 2013.
baked clams and lobster bisque – back at 1977.
it’s uncanny and an immense joy to time-travel through taste. we have spent hours laughing with our dearest friends talking about the candies and snacks of way-back, the adult beverages along the way, the meals and desserts of growing-up.
and in those moments of reminiscing, we are powerfully struck by the ability to taste-it, to remember, to hold onto something really precious for a few moments again.
because it was supposed to be blizzarding out right now, we are blogging ahead. it is not blizzarding out, however. it is raining and slushing and windy and is completely nasty out, but definitely not blizzarding. now, since you will be reading this on thursday and this is only tuesday, i am wondering will happen between now and then. the weather app says that it will all turn into snow at 3pm. and, as i look out the window right this second, a little snow is mixed in with the rain…so it is starting…maybe.
dogdog loves the snow more than anything. he is definitely voting “yes” for snowstorms and blizzards this winter. on the day i took this photo he walked outside and laid down on the deck, languishing in his bliss. he has been a snow-dog ever since we brought him home as a little puppy.
when we lost babycat to the other dimension i spent hours looking through my photos of him. i hoped i had all of his little quirks captured, all the things that made him the cat he was – on film. but we never really do get it all though. i wasn’t video-ing constantly or taking photos of his every move. and so, many of his funny quirks and the things we adored about him – this cat that saved me – are simply tucked in, in my memory.
and so, i am trying to capture a bit more with dogga. even his sweet pawprint in the snow. he is getting older now – an australian shepherd, he’ll be 11 this year – and he has some older-dog behaviors. like you, we are in love with our dog – just as we were with our cat. and, i suspect, like you, we don’t have any idea how this time has flown by so quickly. they capture our hearts immediately and time just doesn’t stretch out long enough.
the years of covid pandemic isolation/social distancing/loss of jobs/staying at home have given us concentrated time with dogga. and he just wants to be with us. it’s mutual. the look on his face when we leave for the grocery store is heart-breaking and the greeting when we arrive back home is magical and full-body, every part of him wagging – especially the infamous aussie butt-wiggle.
so this pawprint – in the snow and indelibly in our hearts forever and ever – and his tiny old-dog groans and a little slow-down – not to mention that look on his face anytime we leave – are tugging at us. he has been with us every day we have lived together, except for the first two.
it was during those first two that we debated dog-nodog-dog-nodog nonstop after meeting him across the state at a farm on the river road in pepin. driving the budget truck across the country to move d in, we stopped at the sign that said “aussie puppies” just to see. d assured me – though we had talked about a puppy ‘some day’ – that aussies are usually merle or tricolor and not black, which was our intended puppy-color-of-choice. thus we thought were driving up the long drive not likely to fall in instant love. and then, farmer don told us that he only had one puppy left and that he had no takers because he was black. one look, one puppy hug and it was all over. we left a deposit – which we told farmer don he could keep either way – and drove away with a decision to make.
and that’s when the debate started. it didn’t stop until two days later when we drove back up that long drive and this little black puppy came running directly to us, sitting down at the side of littlebabyscion. right then, we knew it was undeniable.
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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.
after coffee, after breakfast, after hugging on dogga snuffling in our faces, after the weather app, after a littabittanews…my sturdy old laptop and our quilt.
i know that not everyone wants to read all these words. i know that many will do much to avoid it. i know that – in the grand scheme of things – my blahblah doesn’t really matter much. sometimes there are responses, comments from people, questions, validations, pushbacks. sometimes people ask if we have a patreon account or a way to donate a cup of coffee. that there is someone out there who takes time to write a few words back at all is pretty gigantic. because in today’s world, there are an inordinate number of things – out there – one could choose to read, to watch, to listen to.
but i guess it all doesn’t matter.
because i have found – now – that i write for me.
writing each morning – this practice – makes me think and ponder and rehash and sort. it is a caffeinated burst in the day, a jump-start to everything that will follow.
sometimes it is a walk into a bank of memories, complete with tears or laughter.
sometimes it is a wondering for the future, attempting to connect the dots of constellations i have yet to see.
sometimes it is a rant about the world, the country, the community, things i perceive as wrongdoings.
sometimes it lifts others up, those who levitate our spirits and souls with generosity.
sometimes it is with amazement for what we see and hear and taste and smell – out there – in nature and on this good earth.
always it is with a sense of impermanence.
these words will stay on the page, so to speak, for as long as wordpress allows them to. they will eventually fade as more words will enter the big melting pot of written thoughts.
our writings will lift off someday into the atmosphere. they will float around, bouncing off stars and planets – like the silver balls in a pinball machine. maybe they will leave a little something behind, a touch of evanescent dust that someone will see and remember.
the other night – around 2:30am – we heard the owl. outside our window, the great horned owl spoke into the night. it didn’t know if anyone was listening. but we did. we listened. we heard it call. and for its unspoken spoken words, we were grateful. we will remember.
vincent was there. right off the side of our canoe he swirled his paintbrush and the water canvas became starry-night dreamy. charles schulz was there too and i could see snoopy dancing atop the surface. it kept evolving, even without the help of our paddles. ever-changing.
jaxon was two yesterday. his curiosity, his energy are unmatched. he is fearless. everything is possible and the whole world stretches in front of him. his boundless zeal, like a fast paddle in the water, arranges and rearranges utterly everything-in-life continually. he is not considering how to approach life. he is simply living it. no expectations. just embracing it all – the whole kaleidoscope.
being on the road takes you away from the norm. it takes you out of the bills, the projects, day to day worries or concerns, dealing with health issues. you are suddenly on the surface of the lake – so to speak – skimming along in littlebabyscion, watching the world go by. we get to the city-we’ve-never-visited-before, a city trying to keep up with immense growth. the districts are working on revitalization. we take walks in historic neighborhoods and fall in love with bungalows and big porches. and we wonder.
we sit in a stadium – the first time in many years – surrounded by 60,000 people – the first time in many years – to see a concert – the first time in many years. we marvel at the changes we have felt in those years.
we hug her goodbye. parenthood is dynamic, never static, and motherhood is no easy trail. missing is just plain hard. i try to adjust, to readjust and readjust again, to hold it all lightly. the paddle on the surface of my heart teaches me lesson after lesson.
we wonder about all of them as we drive on – the people out there also driving, the people whose homes we are passing by, the people in the rest area, the people in the local grocery store. what is their life? who are they? what are their worries? what are their joys? sometimes you can feel it, even from the road. we both nearly wept as we passed by a very-rusty-beige-identical-trailers trailer park with maybe fifty bereft homes in an arid dirt expanse of land; treeless, shadeless, plantless, playgroundless, it felt hopeless. every shade on every trailer we could see was pulled shut. we saw no people, though each trailer had a vehicle parked nearby. it was south carolina, not at its best. no pastel-colored historic homes, wrap-around porches or coastal beaches, no palmettos, no golf courses or rolling grassy knolls. just nothing. dirt. except these trailer homes – and we had to try to wrap our heads around the fact that at least there were homes with roofs, perhaps air conditioning to ease the hot muggy heat. the empath cloud followed us for miles until we could shake it loose, putting our paddles into the water and stirring things up as we drove.
we arrive in the mountains, zigging, zagging, climbing. tall trees block the sun and suddenly we are cooler and everything takes on the color green. it keeps changing, this expanse, these days of life.
we’ll hike. every turn in the trail will be different, every view different. the elevation will give us a view of the mountains – out there – and we’ll photograph them to remember. we’ll dip bandanas in streams to cool off and stand by waterfalls taking pictures to remember.
and when we get home, it will all swirl around us – the moments. vincent and snoopy will laugh a little at our attempts to hold onto it. and jaxon will remind us of how gently to hold the kaleidoscope.
just like when i take a photograph of a person i try to avoid having extraneous people in the picture, when i take photographs outside i try to avoid any messy unnecessities.
this time i did it on purpose.
on july 29th i will have lived in this house for 33 years. i have sat out back watching the sky turn orange over the garage for 33 years. i have watched the trees grow up over the rooftops in my view. i have watched squirrels on their highways-of-highwire for 33 years.
it suddenly occurred to me that there might come a day when i can’t simply walk out the old screen door onto the deck, stepping onto the patio to watch the sky in the west. there might come a day when i live somewhere else and i won’t have access to this view.
and so the messiness of wires sectioning off the sky became important. important enough to photograph. important enough to remember.
we’re surrounded by things – and views – we have taken for granted. we see them every day – though we don’t really see them.
they seem unimportant.
yet, these familiar sights are the very things that help ground us. in a world that is politically volatile, climate that is destroying mother earth, bombastic leaders itching to reduce freedoms, disrespect and aggression out of control, it would seem that we need grab onto that which grounds us, centers us, slows down our breathing.
because i’m thready, i notice – and try to memorize – things like how the old wood floor creaks in the hallway, what it sounds like when the glass doorknob falls off, the feel of the small chain on the basement door and the decades-rubbed indent it has made, the sound of a double-hung window with ropes and weights opening, the deck cracking in cold weather, the cool painted-cement floor under bare feet in the basement, the places where the plaster has cracked. they all spell home.
and, with a world in turmoil, everything in flux, so much anxiety and grief and worry, things that are solidly familiar help.
to the casual observer, i’m sure it looked clandestine: gas station parking lot. man pulls up in newer vehicle. woman pulls up in older-model vehicle to newer vehicle’s driver’s side. woman stays in vehicle and opens passenger window. man gets out and goes to passenger window with envelope. man extends envelope into vehicle. woman extends package toward man. yikes!
the woman in the very-nice-car next to me was watching. i could feel her eyes on the back of my head. i turned toward her and she raised her eyebrows and frowned at me. i made sure to hold the binax-now-covid-self-rapid-test box up high so that she could see it. from the look on her face, i’m guessing she thought that i had disguised the real stuff with this box. 20 and i exchanged envelope and box and, although the envelope had nothing to do with the box at all, and this was just me bringing 20 a rapid test since he couldn’t find any, it appeared – to this woman drawing conclusions – that we had done a deal. ewww.
the last time i felt that way i was in the kansas city airport. i flew in and, with a sizeable bank check in hand, met a complete stranger in the baggage claim area. i was purchasing littlebabyscion and driving it home that same day, but it sure looked kind of suspect.
back-in-the-day, decades ago now, when i worked for the state attorney’s office in florida, my husband was a detective with the sheriff’s department. there are many stories of stings and deals and situations to which i have been privy. some stories are funnier than others. like the time he landed the department helicopter in the field having watched a guy pull marijuana out of a neighboring field and run into the nearby house. from my recollection, when he went to the door a small child answered. he asked if he could speak to his daddy and the innocent little boy said, “right now he’s in the bathroom flushing plants down the toilet.” yes. a different situation.
these are indeed strange times. and we are all trying to do the best we can. we keep track of where we’ve been, who we’ve seen. we are cautious to be vaccinated and boosted and wear masks and sanitize and avoid crowds and obvious circumstances that might be more dangerous from a contagion point of view. we sacrifice some now in order to have a better (and sooner) future without covid. we make soup for others, call on people to check in, deliver groceries, share masks and rapid tests and information.
saturday night we watched a documentary: the first wave. our daughter sent us the link; one of her friends with nat-geo was involved in its production.
if you have forgotten why you are being vigilant, why you are vaccinated, why you are boosted, wearing a mask, isolating, keeping distance, not gathering, not eating in crowded restaurants or going to crowded indoor events, you should watch this movie.
if you have been wondering why you are emotionally and physically exhausted, why you are sometimes edgy, why you have been pining for normal, you should watch this movie.
if you have somehow lost the vision in your mind’s eye of the absolute terror and fear in people’s eyes who have been stricken with covid, you should watch this movie.
if you have forgotten about courage and science and the miracle of others sustaining each other, you should watch this movie.
if you have lost perspective and are just d-o-n-e with it all, you should watch this movie.
our daughter wrote that she had never seen anything like people on respirators, ventilators or in the devastating state this pandemic slammed upon them. i wrote back, still crying from watching, even a half hour after this movie, that neither had i. and the thing i had to keep reminding myself during the movie? that it was real. that it was true. that it still is.
we all know we’d do just about anything for the people we love. it is important – in these times – for us all to be honest and forthcoming. to let each other know if we are at risk, if we might be putting the other at risk, if we are ailing, if we think we are ‘positive’, if we need help or, simply, if we need the emotional support of the people who love us back – standing with us in the middle of it all, even if that is virtual.
our hearts are all connected together. and i would, once again, risk the unfair judgement of a bystander to stay that way.
reverse threading 