Turning

Days are noticeably shorter. Since this morning's sky was overcast as well, it was still dim at six-thirty. About nine o'clock I headed out toward Deer Creek, walking in light rain. Sunday traffic is sparse which makes the experience of the walk so much more pleasant.

I posted on May 10 about a previous experience of walking in rain, so I won't repeat those specifics. Today I already knew exactly how to squinch up and tilt my face. The rain almost stopped by the time I was at the first corner.

Along Walters Mill I find Common Mullein in bloom, and Joe-Pye Weed, Jewel Weed, and many, many more. Gold finches flit about. A heron with white, blue and black feathers stands watching from the creek at one of the bank cuts, so close it looks rumpled. It does not fly as I pass. Most leaves are still green, but notable ones are bright, clear orange, or red or gold. Goldenrod are plentiful. Everything illustrates the day-by-day shift of seasons. I breathe in the quiet day, the damp air. About a tenth of a mile before I reach the Ady Road bridge, I turn around and start home.

I've never been to a days-long meditation retreat, but I read that the hours are spent in some predetermined combination of sitting meditation, walking meditation, chanting, eating, chores, and rest. A ringing bell signals when it is time to do each next thing. One need not choose, there is no choice given, one simply follows the predictable, reliable, dependable schedule and participates in whatever comes next.

Coming back from illness again, I look around for what comes next, seeking to get back to feeling like I did before. Wait. Before what? Before total collapse a decade ago? Before babies? Before I left my parents' home? What "before" do I seek?

A gentle, good-humored voice from some silent place inside me whispers, Before? Before? What's this before? You only have now, only ever have had now. Then it murmurs in time with my stride, Step. Step. This. Now. Step. Step. This. Now. I feel my walking movement through my whole body. Over and over that voice, mantra-like, and then it shifts to, Notice. Notice. This. Now. Find joy and compassion in this, now.

There is a Zen koan (teaching): "No matter how much the spring wind loves the peach blossoms, they still fall."

The sky has darkened as I walked, and when I turn the last corner toward home, the rain pours down in earnest. My shoulders are wet and easy under my t-shirt; my very short hair provides no protective curtain; droplets collect on my eyebrows, roll down my nose and jaw; I smile for this all feels so familiar and wondrous. I am past the horse farm there in the lowlands, and here comes a car. It is my husband. He came looking for me, and in his car he carries me home.