it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.
in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.
and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.
and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.
so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.
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)
my tree. i found a photograph of my tree. the one i sat in for the years i was growing up on long island. i wrote poetry and tinkered with lyrics and sorted out the pinings of teenagehood. in that tree.
things are never as big as what you remember. the maple tree wasn’t huge – but it provided solace and a quiet, private place for me. i’d climb up and sit on one of the limbs, my back against the sturdy trunk, sun filtered through the leaves, my bedroom window within view. it wasn’t in a thick forest. and it wasn’t a giant old tree. it was a younger maple, just old enough to wisely offer me space, fill the place in me that needed it.
we walked into the silo. it was silent and tall. like a tiny round cathedral, it hit us both as a place you could sit, meditate, think, pray. a place to go to when you need to get centered again, when all else is spinning, when blustering winds or words are pummeling you, when you feel you cannot stop.
as we stepped in, damp cool gentle air wrapped around us. everything slowed down – hushed slow motion in a cave. had we had a chance to sit, we would have folded our legs beneath us, closed our eyes. leaned back against the trunk … oh, wait, it was cement…
quiet spaces are like that. inordinately remarkable, uncannily ordinary. but they share something. serenity.
guided imagery meditation ushers you to a quiet place. in belleruth naparstek’s meditations she invites that space to be anywhere – the forest, the shore, the desert, the canyon. places that have brought you peace. places you hold in your mind’s eye. places that are sacred to you.
even without guided imagery we find our own corners and crannies. they are the porches of our hearts – a spot to rest and rock.
i suppose the gift of these places is the unexpectedness. the silo was unexpected. the log on the side of the mountain stream, the jetty jutting into the sound, the edge of the canyon. i guess the first time so was my tree.
it’s all in recognizing it when you feel it. and you’re forever changed as you carry that place with you.
it was by itself. high on the wire that’s included in the squirrel highway system, it perched, alone.
mourning doves are usually together, in pairs. cooing in our backyard, pondside, they are cleaning up under the birdfeeder, welcoming the day or bringing an enchanting beginning to the evening. we have a particular fondness for them.
but it has been rare to see one by itself.
if i had to imagine what it was doing, i would say it was talking to the universe. way high like that, it would seem to be a little bit closer to infinity, to whatever it perceives as divine. it sat there, quiet.
i don’t require an intermediary either. my prayers are whispered on the trail, on the pillow, blowdrying my hair, chopping onions. in my own life, i have now found – after repeated learnings – that grace is all around and the divine is not in some building somewhere.
on the contrary, i wonder about those buildings now. for i, personally, have experienced the worst hypocrisy there – in communities that are waxing poetic in mission statements and disappearing in actually participating in those sentiments.
and so, i sit on the wire with the mourning dove. we both find this universe beautiful. we both find it challenging. we both lift longings up and we both ask for mercy in our living. we both live in the mystery and immensity of faith. i would imagine that sole bird does not wrestle with religious underpinnings, historical narrative stories or philosophical questions. that bird-on-the-wire is not concerned with the begats nor the maps of supposeds. i’m guessing we are kind of in alignment with the basic tenets – goodness, kindness, love, peace, generosity, fairness, grace. just like me, like, well, all of us, it has a direct-connect with its deity and the universe.
it is not likely – though i have learned never to say “never” – that i will ever be in a church again. i gave my entire heart to working at one at 19. they did not warn me of any danger, protect me or aid me. i gave my entire heart to working at one in latest life. they did not warn me of any danger, protect me or aid me.
i don’t blame god. for my god isn’t stuffed into nooks and crannies of the church. my god isn’t clinging to any specific denomination. and my god isn’t justifying any wrongful behavior because of some building.
to be in a sanctuary, one must feel in a place of refuge or safety. stone walls, brick, wooden altars, pews, organ pipes, artifacts, relics with touted significance – these are not naturally-occurring as safe or as refuge. the leadership and the community must bring that. and, in bookended experiences – on either end of my three-plus-decades of such work – though i brought every ounce of heart in, i walked out with my heart destroyed.
and so, the mourning dove and i sit on the high wire sanctuary together. we gaze at the sky and the divine tethers us in gently-held gossamer threads, tied to all the rest. i’m not sure what my dove friend is thinking, but i know that i am in prayer. that the universe yearns to hear each of us. that, even though i may feel alone on the wire, i am now more in the community of truth than in those fraught buildings.
i and the mourning dove are in the “church of nones” and the universe of all.
pages 63-74 should be required reading. “don’t make assumptions.”
don’t get me started.
“it is always better to ask questions than to make an assumption…”
don’t get me started.
“if we hear something and we don’t understand, we make assumptions about what it means and then believe the assumptions. we make all sorts of assumptions because we don’t have the courage to ask questions.”
please don’t get me started.
“make sure the communication is clear.”
oh, yes.
i’m guessing the reason we love trails so much is that there is nothing on a trail that isn’t transparent. there is no agenda. there is no discrimination. the forest is not riddled with malfeasance. it just is. it’s quiet, a sanctuary of truth, the sanctity of nature.
i suppose most of us have been the target of miscommunicated or misrepresented or mischaracterized assumptions at one time or another. there is not much one can do about this, shy of broad announcements of clarification or the slow dissemination of true information. damage control is never as successful as creating damage. and that kind of damage can be damning.
we need not ingest information that is untrue – we need not immerse in gossip, spread words that skew clear understanding, speak words that are not impeccable. because we have – likely – each experienced the fallout of some sort of assumption, it would seem just as likely that we would be suspect of anything we hear that appears odd, out-of-character, unsolicited, a complete surprise. it would seem that we would approach anything like that with caution, weighing the possibility of bad intention. it would seem that – in light of the hell we might have experienced in our own time-as-target – we would go directly to the source, ask questions, try to find clarity.
but there are people who have not read pages 63-74 or, perhaps, found any other resource with this same basic human lesson. their lack creates needless suffering in others.
bunbun et al seem to love the new hosta. we added them to the back garden – along the new fence – last summer. and then bunbun’s momma added her family to the backyard.
it’s not that we don’t love hardy purple-flowered hosta. they are the hosta of my youth, the stalwart souls of shady gardens everywhere. they come back, despite pretty much anything.
but those white-flowered hosta – big solid-colored blue-green leaves – and the waterfall of white flowers bent under the weight of their blooms. i’d see them in nestled in mulch on our walks. i’d see them in peaceful garden center strolls. ahh, i was in hosta-desire.
most of our yard – prior to last summer – has come from others. plantings, cuttings, full transplants from people dear to us. so it has been less about landscape-planning and more about gratefully accepting gestures of friendship and generosity.
and then, when it was time for a fence, it became about planning.
our fern garden is tucked into the back left, over by the garage, under a canopy of many big old trees. we dug up and transplanted all the hosta from along the back fenceline to over by barney – kind of a vintage garden, old-fashioned flowers tucked in next to each other, next to our almost-100-year-old piano. it’s where our sweet peonies are and all the daylilies.
along the back fence, though, we now have various-sized ornamental grasses. switchgrass and zebra grass, blue sedge and a big piece of driftwood that tiny birds seem to love. they perch and linger, eyes on the birdfeeder, waiting their turn for the birdbath. we added three of the darker-leafed hosta. these are the ones bunbun loves. tiny bites of leaf – evidence of bunny snacktime.
each day – with the coolest watering wand and hose gifted to me by my niece – i wander slowly around the backyard, taking note of new growth in each of our plants – the gifted ones, the carefully-researched, chosen ones. it’s simplicity at its best – a slow walk nurturing all the living things back there. we fill the birdfeeders, knowing the chippies and the squirrels love them too. we clean and refill the hummingbird feeder and late dusk watch the hummer fly in to do its feeding circuit. we scrub out the birdbath daily, refilling it – just as the woman walking through the parking lot told us to do when she enthused about our purchase on the rolling flatcart and i asked her about things we should know.
it’s a slower summer. because of circumstances, we don’t know if we will be able to travel much. but that makes dogdog happy. and, in my imagination, i can hear the house wrens and the cardinals and the robins and chickadees and sparrows clapping. and bunbun’s ears perk up too.
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.
we went back to the beach. it was only our third time there but it’s beginning to feel familiar. we know the driftwood to lean back against, the curve in the shoreline where the waves break. the sand is warm, the breeze off the lake is cool; it’s a perfect combination and we’ve brought sandwiches along. we walk with our heads down, searching for hagstones and beach glass. it’s a sanctuary minus the trappings – physical and emotional – one often finds in buildings with sanctuaries.
each rock is intriguing. there are infinite shapes and sizes, rocks of all imagination. i pick up more than i tuck away, but i appreciate the spectrum of diversity and i wonder where they have been before they arrived on this lake michigan shoreline. what’s the story behind each stone, behind the tiny bits of glass, behind the wave-beaten-smooth pieces of brick. each narrative counts.
we brought a book but we didn’t read it. we hadn’t started it yet. we do that later in the day. rebecca makkai’s “the great believers” – a good read for pride month, a profound novel highlighting the aids crisis starting early to mid 1980s. there are places familiar to us in this book – chicago, boystown, door county – we find it easy to immerse as we read aloud. we are transported in time – back to those days of early recognition of this dreadful viral infection. human immunodeficiency virus has not ceased and there are still millions of people with life-threatening and chronic symptoms. there are stories familiar to us in this book – for we are both artists and we both finished our undergrad work in the early 80s. there are people familiar to us in this book – though these are characters, in life they have been our friends and, now, they are the friends of our son, the tight-knit unconditionally-loving LGBTQ community. they are all treasured and unique hagstones and beachglass – gorgeous in human form.
the stash of rocks ended up on the dining room table, all fanned out on its worn surface. they are glorious bits of a stunning day. the stone that looked like a guitar pick with a feather beret cap stayed on the beach. i took it home in my camera instead.
we have plans for the next time. more snacks. maybe swimwear.
we have plans for pride in chicago. more compassion. maybe tie-dye.
we are merely two people walking on a vast beach, among zillions of beautiful rocks of all sorts, zillions of people of all sorts. it’s all familiar. it’s all unfamiliar. but it’s all a sanctuary under one sun.
in the late afternoon, the sun streams in the west windows and lights up the sitting room. it is the coziest of cozy rooms with the comfiest old slipcovered couch, smushy fur throw pillows, sherpa blanket. good lamps, happy lights and no television make it the perfect place to share time with a book. we love sitting there.
the sitting room had history as a cozy room. many years ago it was the only room in the house with a tv. when my children were little-little they watched mr. rogers and thomas-the-tank-engine and sesame street in there. my son lined up matchbox cars on the rug and my daughter sang and danced with barney and the gang. the little mermaid and the lion king and sing-along songs were on regular line-up. a small room, it was a hub of activity for small babies and toddlers. we danced for hours to the grapevine song and woke up the household on saturday mornings to brother band’s bagpipes.
the giant tv went to the curb and someone picked it up with a wagon and toted it away. the camelback rolled-arm loveseat, much worse for wear, took its own turn at the curb and the old couch from the living room donned a slipcover and – with great effort by my son and me – made its way into the cattycorner.
then, there was a period of time it was a little bit ignored. more of a pass-through than a room, it begged attention, some of our time.
and now, the rickety old farm table is next to the couch and holds an antique clock that magically stopped at 11:11, some dried flowers and charlie – the heart-shaped philodendron who clearly loves being the star of the room. beautiful paintings and an old screen door. and the sunlight greets us every afternoon and each time we walk from the hall into the bedroom or vice-versa.
it is easy to sink down into the couch and close one’s eyes. we know this from experience. it’s a really good nap couch. i wonder how it would have been for two toddlers on the move. i suspect it would have been a good addition back then. funny how cozy takes over somewhere along the way.
loveseats are good – and quite lovely. but couches – the kind you can sink down into – read a book together on opposite ends leaning back on fuzzy overstuffs, under a blanket – are better. looking back i can see that now. smushy > camelback. this would have been a better couch back then. hindsight. sigh.
lounging on the sofa the other day i closed my eyes, but not in sleep. for a moment, i could hear the tiny voices of my children – decades ago – as they played on the rug and sang along, “it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”, “under the sea”, “i love you. you love me”, “colors of the wind”. wistful moments. time flies by. our home holds us, ever-watchful.
i looked at the changes of the sitting room. a serene spot in the house, a place to think back and re-relish earlier times. times of barbies and baby dolls, stacks of books, matchbox cars and balls of every sport. growing children, dogs, a cat. it was a hub back then. it’s a different kind of hub now. and i’m eternally grateful for both.
and the snow fell gently in the woods, rendering it muted, like the tones of ansel adams’ pine forest, snow.
it was breathtakingly beautiful.
snowflakes slid from the sky, landing on our faces, our eyelashes, our hats and scarves and coats.
everything slowed – a 78rpm record playing at 33.
stretched out into slow motion, we stood and gazed up into the trillions of perfect flakes.
and, in the way of water – a balm, worries washed away and all that was left was peace. achingly gorgeous, we stayed in it, in the serene, a cloud, unwilling to leave the soft-focus-world moments, the snow sanctuary.
“know that the universe is always conspiring in our favor.” (paulo coelho)
reverse threading 