the breeze was decidedly heavenly, refreshing, a breath of fresh air.
it had been a while.
this summer – clearly in the midst of changing climate – has been a doozy. hot and humid and downright uncomfortable. it used to be that we’d ponder whether or not to place the window air conditioner units in the windows. we’d fuss and debate and look at the extended weather forecast, trying to decide if we could suffer through a few days or a week of sticky, knowing that wisconsin would reward us with a breezy sweep-through back into exceptional summer weather.
not this year.
it literally felt like it – the sticky – arrived. and never left. every morning i’d open the back door, step out on the deck and say aloud, “it smells like florida.” the fact that it also felt like florida made me want to get my money back from the wisconsin-summer for which i’d signed up.
in these days i am much less tolerant of the heat. me and dogga. and even d. all three of us, dogga’s tongue hanging out and all of us panting – it’s not a pretty picture. and so, we (the plural we, though it is most definitely the singular d) installed the window air conditioners. and, with WE-energies’-exponentially-rising-costs and caution to the wind, we ran them.
and then.
then the breeze shifted.
finally.
and, with great flip-flop glee, we started back walking our long ‘hood walks.
because merely steps away is this great big beautiful (oh, wait! i simply cannot use those words in that order anymore)…..merely steps away is this vast, stunning lake.
we feel lucky every time we walk along its edge. we feel lucky as the breeze wraps us in cool. we feel lucky at the harbor, at the beach, on the rocks, at the historic beachhouse where everyone gathered after our wedding. merely steps away is this reminder to breathe.
and so we stand there, staring at this lake like an old friend we’ve known for decades. and, just like people – filled with stories and layers and grief and bliss and tenderness and churning and color and monochrome – it’s always familiar and always an enigma – both.
the sun dipped below the west horizon, amping up the ombré of the east.
“only when a fire sweeps through, melting the resin, do these heat-dependent cones open up, releasing seeds that are then distributed by wind and gravity.” (national forest foundation)
one by one we fed ten lodgepole pine cones into our small solstice fire. one by one we silently whispered a prayer, a wish, a hope for each one. one by one we watched them ignite, slowly burning off the resin and sending off invisible seeds into the universe.
it was a perfect summer night. the wind had shifted off the lake and it was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been. we sat on the back patio for hours. it was quiet, peaceful.
it seemed a good night to look to something new, to celebrate the light of the solstice, the potency of life. it seemed a good night to lean into the lodgepole’s protection from unwanted energy, from evil influences. it seemed a good night to embrace resilience and renewal.
we have saved these pinecones, ever so slowly choosing them for release from a boxful that had been gifted us by a dear friend for our wedding. her words about fire and light and rejuvenation were truly soul gifts and we hold closely these precious lodgepole pinecones.
this morning i read that pine is “generally associated with longevity and wisdom, instilling courage and optimism.”
in the coincidence of the universe, these were a few of the words i held as i watched the pinecones i added to our solstice fire burn.
i want to hold onto the sound. cicadas and crickets on summer nights. it’s a locating sound, and, as i adirondack-chair-sit on the deck listening, i am immersed in it. i can feel it.
we’ve been watching the series “alone” lately. our binges have taken us through to season five, where ten people have been dropped off in desolate mongolia to survive as long as they are able. the sounds are completely different – wolves are howling, deadly snakes hissing, bears rustling through the woods – unnerving sounds. it is beyond my wildest imagination what these people are doing, how they are assimilating into and feeling a part of this environment, how they are sustaining. i would absolutely fail out there.
it does make me think that – indeed – we all have our strengths. as we hiked the other day we talked about how fascinating it is to watch other people and the random abilities they’ve been blessed with. we are simply spokes on the wheel…a giant wheel of universe proportion.
i came across this cicada in our driveway. i was immediately saddened, for it was wandering in a circle and i knew it had little time left on this earth. its beautiful coloring, its giant alien eyes, it captivated me and i gently placed it into the bushes next to the driveway, offering a few words of gratitude for its existence.
one less cicada to sing its nightly song, i know that too soon the night will be quiet and i will miss the sounds i have always associated with the white noise of summer.
i woke up this morning to the sound of walter and irma in our backyard. these are two cardinals that frequent our feeder and hang out on the wires of the garden happy lights or on the top of the fence that stretches across the yard. they are as much a touchstone as our cicadas, but i know they will stay through the fall, through the winter and hopefully will cheerily greet the spring again next year. they have a hard time with our bird feeder because the rim is not big enough for them to perch upon – and because the squirrels do gymnastics emptying it.
we have promised walter and irma a flat feeder – the kind we understand that cardinals prefer. and every time walter flails around on the edge of our current birdfeeder, we imagine that irma is reminding him that someday we will have a different feeder, to hang in there and to stop being overly-dramatic.
i think that someday has arrived.
sometimes it is the simplest of things that bring us the most reassurance. somehow the loss of one more cicada makes me want us to extend to our backyard birds something that will make their ability to sustain a tiny bit easier. they are spokes on our wheel – giving us the grand pleasure of watching them, slowing us down, grounding us.
in the days that we feel like we are in the wilds of mongolia – for we all have days like that – we find things that bolster us, we find things that give us perspective, we find things that make us feel a part of the whole, we find ways to sustain.
i know i will soon miss the cicadas and crickets. i recorded their nightsong on a video and saved it. just in case – in the middle of winter or the wilds of mongolia – i need to feel it.
dogga adores watermelon. he also adores blueberries and carrots. he’s a big fan of any kind of chip, cracker or cheese. really, any dog-safe morsel of people food – except bananas – are in his taste-treat wheelhouse. he finds us easy to convince – those eyes of his – complete amber eye-to-eye contact.
back in the day, when i lived in florida, you could find watermelon at many rural corners, much like boiled peanut stands – a pick-up truck with a bed filled with watermelons fresh off the vine for buyers to choose from. i remember breaking open melons, sticky sweet, a tiny bit cooler than the air temperature. these last few days here in wisconsin remind me of those hot summer days down south, with nights that don’t cool down and humidity lingering so much in the air you can see it. chilled watermelon helps.
in the olden days (as my poppo used to refer back) watermelons had seeds. lots of them. you’d stand out back on the patio or on the deck spitting pits over the railing – contests of whose would gain the most ground. now, we are lucky – seedless watermelons have changed life, like seedless mandarins. no more contests over the deck rail, but so much easier to eat. ahh, the end of the folksy tradition of the watermelon-seed-spit. probably not a big loss.
dogga will accept any treat he is offered. he clearly trusts that we will keep his well-being and his people-food tastes in mind, so when i cut up the watermelon the other day into bite-sized pieces, he was right there, by my side, waiting. it’s his summer too.
but time doesn’t stand still. we simply cannot believe that it is labor day weekend already. the summer flew by. and soon, a bit later on, we will be barreling through fall. it’ll be time for apple-picking and pumpkins, jeans and boots and vests. part of me yearns for that – autumn – my favorite time of year.
but watermelon is plentiful right now, and, so, our moments will include dabbing our napkins on our watermelon-slice-sticky faces in the middle of these hot summer days, these days of intense heat.
dogga doesn’t seem to have yearnings for later-on. somehow he knows that any time at all is too precious to waste. his wisdom is in his absolute presence. whether it is watermelon time or apple time or cranberry time or blueberry time…it doesn’t matter. he is just there – appreciating all the wanna-bites of the season.
so in the middle of winter – when it’s frigid outside and we humans are wishing for a little warmth while dogga is relishing the piles of snow – we may summon up these days in the sun. hopefully, even in our baselayers, wool socks and down coats, we might taste the summer we – hopefully – memorized. we might close our eyes and remember the sweetness of cold watermelon.
or, because this world is what it is and we are fortunate beyond belief to be able to purchase produce from nations and places far and wide, we may buy a watermelon – in the cold of winter – from the grocery store. we’ll take out the big carving knife and the cutting board and slice it into triangles, with great anticipation. and we’ll take a bite of the top of the triangle, easily the best bite of all melon bites.
and we’ll be back – standing in the hot sun, with sticky hands. because watermelon has that power. even without seeds.
we never put the air conditioners in. all summer. it’s been windows-open. summer two.
granted, there were a few days that were a little brutal, the humidity high, the breeze slight. we all melted a little.
but we survived. and, as i sit here, knowing that there are whirring central systems all around us, i can feel the breeze coming in from the east, the sun is gracing the comforter, the chippies are out back trying to dissuade the squirrels from eating at the birdfeeder and it is mostly quiet. our old house breathes and the outdoors comes in.
i guess i know people who spend scarcely any time outside. i personally can’t imagine it. we spend as much time outside as possible. even deck time counts. moments that we get to be up-north are exceptional and this time was no different. it doesn’t matter the weather, though sparklingly sunny days are truly impossible miracles of beauty. but even the rain, falling on the woods and lulling us all, doesn’t deter us and we sneak out in-between to take a walk and find wildflowers on the side of the road.
there is a chipmunk – and i am assuming, with no real basis for it, that it is always the same one – that comes to the fence across the driveway outside my window almost every day. it sits atop the fencepost and chirps loudly, stopping only when i call out the window to him, “hi little guy! hi chippie!” and make conversational chippie noises back at him. satisfied he said good morning (again, an assumption) he scampers off the fence and on to his next task-at-hand. were the window to be closed, i would miss it.
there are trips we want to take – to gorgeous high mountains and red rock canyons, to the atlantic coast, to smoky mountains, to cool canadian provinces, to faraway places overseas. we’ll spend as much time outside in those places as we can, drinking it in.
that window is big and wide open. and there is wild and sensational beauty out there.
but it’s even in our own backyard. and i don’t want to miss it.
the height of mosquitoes. the height. and the height. both definitions.
ankles, necks…it matters not. right now our favorite river trail hike is swarming with them. if i thought that mosquitoes had any good will toward others, if i thought that mosquitoes served a truly individualized and specialized useful purpose, if i thought that this being – a tiny species that causes infection to millions of humans – was not evil itself, well, i would be deluding myself.
they are dreadful.
this trail now – dressed in all shades of lush green – is only accessible to the deet-doused, unless you are one of those people who are immune to their snide little biting proboscis. and, in other news, there is no limit to how many times one mosquito can bite you – it bites until it is full. just yuck.
we missed our trail so we went earlier in the day. it was to no avail. there they were, laying in wait. long trails of mosquitoes following us and our carbon dioxide trails as we sprinted through the woods, thinking, foolishly, that we were evading them.
they do not amuse me. they ruin everything. i do not like mosquitoes. at all. not that you haven’t noticed.
i read, “mosquitoes hate the smell of lavender, citronella, clove, peppermint, basil, cedarwood, eucalyptus, peppermint, lemongrass and rosemary.” (homesandgardens.com)
i am looking for a new perfume or, perhaps, moving to iceland, which is reportedly mosquito-free.
there are days that go by that we don’t notice. we hear the waves crashing or the wail of the foghorn, we feel the wind shift over the cool water surface, we listen to seagulls over our house or boats racing the shore. and, though those are all familiar to us, we don’t notice.
we walk the sunset along the lake, night dropping in around us. it’s quiet but we hear faint strains of music from the harbor and the festival on the channel. the lights to our left balance out the ever-diminishing clarity of view to our right. it is pretty exquisite. we are lucky, we repeat.
we live in an old house with an old garage and an old yard in an old neighborhood. we are steps from lake michigan and its glorious power, its ferocity, its smooth-as-glass silk, its wide spectrum of personality. and, sometimes, we don’t notice.
because sometimes, like you, we get caught up in the stuff of life, the challenges of life, the confusing relationships of life, the weariness.
those are the days we should walk the sunset.
for there is not much that reminds you of time passing like watching the giant eastern sky answer the western setting sun. there is not much that reminds you of your absolute tiny-ness in the overall scheme of things. just shy of eight billion people on this good earth and everyone shares this one sun, able to watch colors over lakes, deserts, meadows, cityscapes, neighborhoods, ballfields, cornfields, highways, bayous, mountains.
to sometimes notice, sometimes pay attention, gives us petite pause, like the air you feel staring at a richard diebenkorn ocean park painting, the all-over softened loll of arvo pärt’s music unwinding you, slower-than-slow-dancing on the patio, the hush of a hammock.
“we think we have about twenty good summers now,” the wander women talk about choosing their adventures. we are the same age, so it’s a little bit bracing.
but a good reminder. even from the very start. if we only have about 70 or 80 good summers in all, if we are fortunate, it would seem each one really, truly counts. and, if the height of summer is – in most parts – about three months long, then that’s about ninety days. that means somewhere between 6300 and 7200 good summer sunsets in all, possibly more, possibly less.
it makes me wonder how much i noticed in the first 5670 summer nights to date.
i’ve got some work to do.
i’ve got some walking sunsets to pay attention to.
and so, september has arrived. and the texture of day for many is changed. fall is around the corner; the cooler mornings whisper that to us, ushering in – with little fanfare – the color transformation of leaves, the waning of the garden, the ultimate fallow of winter.
autumn is my favorite. and as i look to it, i see transition rising out of the horizon. undefined, but transition nonetheless. unfolding.
i got a letter a few days ago from the insurance company handling my wrist injury from falling. they have decided to stop my treatment. as of right now.
back in july they hired a physician to do an IME – which is the acronym for, ironically, “independent medical exam”. don’t be fooled by the word “independent” for when an insurance company chooses and hires and pays a physician time and again to do medical exam reports for the insurance company that wishes to stop paying for treatment, that physician is questionably “independent”. in an unsurprising result, the physician, who has not been the treating physician all along, gave them the verbiage they were looking for and BAM! they instantly wrote-a-lettuh to me discontinuing my medical treatment.
to say that i was disappointed would be to grossly underexaggerate the complex and intense emotions that came with opening that envelope. my own froedtert hand specialist and stellar OT, who both recommend continued treatment, have helped me make much amazing progress – as a professional musician who kind of uses my hands in lifelong work – and i am now able to bend my wrist to 60 degrees from the initial 20 when i started with them. it’s not the 85 – 90 degree forward range of motion of a normal wrist, but i guess the insurance company et al have decided it’s plenty. wow. and wow.
so the texture of my days will change as well. i’ll try to translate exercises and stretching my OT has done to home, without the benefit of specialized therapy center equipment or knowledge or her hands aiding my movements. and undefined transition will rise out of the horizon.
and we’ll see. things will unfold as they unfold. and summer will turn to fall. and fall will become winter. and we’ll see.
the cicadas are loud outside already. the windows are open and, though it will be ridiculously hot today, tomorrow will be their field day. it’s the end of august and, no matter who i speak to, the common marvel is how quickly summer has passed. a dear friend wrote to me, “it is the clove of seasons.”
i was behind him at office max. waiting in line six feet back, he was checking out. the checkout gal was pleasant but uninterested as the enthusiastic dad chortled about how his wife had forgotten to buy sharpened pencils for their children going back to school. he asked for separate bags so that he might bring them home to his kids in individual packages to add to their school supplies. he was excited, so excited, telling anyone within earshot of his errand to finish up prepping for the beginning of the school year. i couldn’t help but smile back as he walked past me with an elated look on his face.
i checked out and intended for the exit. it was the backpacks that got me first. the big four-sided display drew me over. there was this great floral backpack. . .
i started to wander a bit more, the calendars and notebooks and mechanical pencils making me wistful. stickynotes and highlighters and packs of gel-tip pens and fine-line sharpies beckoning.
these people knew how to place things in the store. i was not quite leaving.
i was catapulted back in time and meandered a little lost in thought about days – years – gone by, an empty nester’s trap of remembering with both joy and sorrow. all those years of school lists and target runs and picking out backpacks and first day of school walgreen’s or back-to-target fill-ins, things we hadn’t anticipated needing or somehow forgot. the piles on the dining room table as my beloved girl and boy selected their supplies and maybe their pencil case. they put looseleaf paper in their trapper-keepers and loaded up spiral notebooks and the required box of tissues, a few dry erase markers, a ruler and maybe a calculator. absolutely heavenly to be surrounded by school materials, stationery supplies, new reusable lunchbags and two mostly-excited children.
this time of year does it every time. even though it is extraordinarily hot i can feel it knocking. and i can feel the sadness of letting go of summer freedoms, of children, late-morning, still in pjs, of no alarm clocks and no dread of early morning crabbies. i can feel the elation of the bus arriving at the end of the day or sitting outside the school watching for a glimpse of my own beautiful children in a throng of beautiful children.
every year i feel it. that feeling watching them walk out the door to go to school, to go to college, to go into the world. even now i am immersed in it. i miss them.
i’m sure the momma bird was elated too when the eggshell cracked open and her tiny baby bird was born. she probably chortled to her bird-friends about her little miracle and its entrance into life. and then, after a time, bird-school over, she realized she was suddenly an empty-nester, her sweetest with wings that would carry it into the world to adventure and explore and conquer abounding opportunities. though the nest would remain, and would always be there, rooting and rooting, both, it was merely a launching pad to everything else.
and one day, as she was waiting in line at office max, as tears threatened to roll down her face, she would be grateful for all those times before and she would wrap herself in the memorized feel of freshly-sharpened pencils, late-summer cicadas and small hands in hers.
brad was off-zoom-camera when he asked, a little incredulously, “you mean you haven’t put in the air conditioners yet?!” i sheepishly replied, “no…not yet.” everyone on the screen laughed and then stared. i mean, it is clearly hot out. hot and humid and sticky – those dog days of august, though even dogdog is not a fan of sultry so-called-dog-days. every thing and every one is sluggish, moving slower.
i remember living in florida and working in a career where suits and business office attire were expected. you’d search for toe-cleavage-touting etienne aigner pumps on sale and score big on scarves to finish it all off. everything was air-conditioned: your home, your car, the office, the lunch deli. everything except the outside. so, after carefully attending to your ensemble and your make-up, you would get into your car in your garage and drive to the office – for me, this was downtown brooksville at the courthouse, as i worked for the state attorney’s office as the victim-witness counselor – and you’d drive around the downtown looking for a spot, hoping for something close to the square. you’d park -finally – a few blocks away, jump out of your car, grab your attache and purse and walk through 1000% humidity to the office while your make-up was sliding off your face and every wrinkle you had ironed out returned through the miracle of sultry-water-saturated air effects on clothing that does not have physical separation from your body. it is hard to look fresh and crisp when you, your clothing and your make-up are melting away. dog-days in florida are not merely a few days here or there in a month or two during summer. they last much longer than that and i always wondered how my elegant boss debbie managed to look pristine. but, i digress.
i felt compelled to answer brad’s question with a little more explanation.
last summer, in the middle of the beginning of the pandemic, in the middle of civil unrest, in the middle of dog-days in more ways than heat-inspired, we put our air conditioner units in the windows – early. the first day we were the slightest bit uncomfortable, late-spring sometime, we – well, david – lugged them upstairs from the basement and installed them in the sitting room and the dining room. we barely went anywhere. with the pandemic raging, we followed safety guidelines to limit our exposure to others, to limit our trips to the grocery stores, to refrain from eating out or gathering. we closed the windows and flipped on the air conditioners. we were isolated, insular.
the summer of 2020 seems like the summer that never was. neither of us can remember much of the summer-part of the summer. the usual backyard gatherings, trips to the mountains, music festivals and park concerts and farmer’s markets on the lake – all were absent for us. and, because the air conditioning was turned on, we basically left it on. it was easy to stay temperature-comfortable and that seemed like the only comfortable we had. as the spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall work and security fell away for so many and we were included in that. insular. temperature-comfortable but not life-comfortable. we knew having the units in was a splurge but it was our only splurge.
this year we are resisting. the windows are wide open. and some days it is hotter than roasting or sizzling or broiling or baking. but, like the environmentally-responsible outdoor company stio taglines, we “let the outside in.” my hair dries curly on its own and sometimes – gasp – i don’t even have any make-up on. our clothing is not smart and tailored and it definitely has a little drooping going on. but we can FEEL the outside. we can hear the birdcalls and sometimes the frog, the gurgle of the pond and chipmunks ranting. lawnmowers and music from the kingfish ballpark. the ice cream truck playing ‘it’s a small world’ and the street sweeper on its way down our street. we feel a part of the world, even in our continued vigilance of covid safety guidelines. we feel summer. and, to be fair, we look at the weather app for breaks in the heat, breaks in the humidity and count the days, knowing it is within our ability to get there without actually melting away. on days when it’s too too much, we sit in littlebabyscion with dogdog and have happy hour in the driveway, going nowhere.
soon fall will arrive – our favorite season. we’ll keep the windows open. we’ll smell the change of seasons and we’ll start sleeping under blankets. it will be easier to think, easier to move about, heck, easier to wear clothes. we are hoping everything will be easier. insular-island-at-home dwelling is not easy. in an opposite-reaction it seems that the more open, safe and healthy the world will become, the more likely we would be now to put in those air conditioners. maybe next summer.
and just a tiny word about linen. though it is supposedly breathable and plant-based and high quality, what’s up with all these wrinkles??? i could hear my sweet momma in my head the other day as i left the air-conditioned car, having driven a distance in a flowy linen handkerchief dress, trying to look fresh and crisp, perhaps a swipe at cooly-elegant, “you look like a ragamuffin!”
reverse threading 