This morning's hour outdoors included half an hour walking from the top of the hill where Bernie dropped me off on his way to work, down the lovely back way, and half an hour walking from the road up to the house. Road to house can be done easily in five minutes if one does not stop again and again to fill one's mouth with wineberries. What a waste to let the ripest ones hang another day on the vine in this heat, for rot will surely take them. [Waste not, want not. :-) Ah, those voices in my head.] I have no idea how to count the calories, nor a clear idea of how many berries I actually ate. They were delicious, so sweet, so tart.
The horses across the road were being given their grain as I came to my lane. The farm hand rattles the bucket and calls, and the horses come from whichever part of the meadow they've been in. I watched seven horses come from the shade of their shelter, across the bridge built for them over St. Omer's Creek where it runs through that meadow, to their feed troughs. Two of them trotted, then ran. Four walked quickly, then trotted. One walked like I do when everything hurts. Each foot placed carefully, slowly, an uneasy shift of muscle and bone with each step, though no obvious limp.
On the other side of the farm lane, three horses in that pasture came to their fence. There are no feed troughs for them; they get no grain. They watched for some moments as their mates across the road ate their treat, then slowly turned away again. We know horses as temperamental creatures. Do they respond with some emotion to witnessing others given grain when they have only grass?
Yesterday we lost electricity at three in the afternoon and didn't get it back until about seven-thirty. The battery operated thermostat clicked occasionally as the hours wore one and the still air warmed and warmed. Ceiling fans spin and circulate air in most of our rooms, adding greatly to our comfort. I went outdoors a few times and quickly returned inside, in spite of the stillness.
My vacuum stopped when the power stopped. I unplugged and replugged and flipped the switch a couple times before I realized. My inner voice scolded, "You should have done this earlier," and "Gather ye roses while ye may," and "Whatever comes to your hand to do, do it with all your might." Oh my. How would I go on without the wisdom writings to guide me, the ones heard so often repeated that they forever ring inside me?
The fierce storms came later. I heard on the traffic reports through the rush hour (I turned on my little, old battery-operated radio with the headphones, sat in the sunny-window-chair and hand quilted) that Conowingo Road was blocked and closed in both directions by a downed tree. A fallen tree that big, one that blocked both lanes of a highway, could have taken out the lines that supply our electricity. Later, when thousands lost power due to the storms, we were not among them.
I missed the moving air, but I miss our running water the most. No flush toilets, no water from any faucet. I keep a supply of water to carry from the basement, in gallon jugs for the sinks, in five gallon pails for the toilets (if its yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down). There's always drinking water on hand, too. But fresh and flowing is the best, such a blessed wonder. I give thanks many times each day for the blessings of functioning indoor plumbing.
The occasional loss of electricity keeps always fresh in my mind a resonant sympathy for those who live in zones of war or other disasters who must cope without for long periods without cooling, without clean water. When they come to mind I always send them energy-light-prayer. Does that matter? To recognize the common needs, struggles, pleasure and suffering of all humanity, indeed, all Life? Does that persistent, intentional recognition of the commonality of all Life matter? It's the best I have to give...
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
"Be afraid to die until you have won some victory for humanity." Horace Mann
I wonder, how does one define "victory for humanity"? Are small, individual victories also victories for humanity? Does one count the victory at the end of Lao Tzu's recitation-- that is, peace in the world depends on peace in the nations, which depends on peace in the cities, which depends on peace in the neighborhood, in the family, in the individual heart-- does peace in the heart count as a victory for humanity?
Today the morning air, full of misty sunshine, smelled so fresh, and the berries hang so ripe and generous on the vines.
I wonder, how does one define "victory for humanity"? Are small, individual victories also victories for humanity? Does one count the victory at the end of Lao Tzu's recitation-- that is, peace in the world depends on peace in the nations, which depends on peace in the cities, which depends on peace in the neighborhood, in the family, in the individual heart-- does peace in the heart count as a victory for humanity?
Today the morning air, full of misty sunshine, smelled so fresh, and the berries hang so ripe and generous on the vines.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Bounty
It rained. Lovely, moist earth, no extra watering needed. The bird baths are full of fresh, soft rainwater.
Wineberries and blackberries hang ripe and lush on vines along the lanes and through the woods. I am drawn as with an invisible, sweet magnet to the field at the top of the hill where I know I will find more of both. The heat has brought them along earlier than most years.
I gather selfishly, just to fill my own belly. Wineberries are too fragile to gather and carry, and blackberries too scarce to find enough to share. Anyone I know with whom I might share could go collect their own should they truly desire the berries.
Cicada song has grown loud. Old wisdom claims that when the cicadas start, count six more weeks until fall weather comes. I wonder if that will hold true this year?
The Community Supported Agriculture program we're part of has started for the year. With our CSA, Greg and Janell of Wilson Farms-- our neighbors and our friends as well as smart businessmen and hard workers-- assess the produce available from their farm each week, and also the approximate value of said produce, and then they fill a couple carry bags with fruits and vegetables picked fresh. This week we had corn, tomatoes, green and yellow summer squash, onions, cucumbers, sweet green peppers, spicy green peppers, green beans, and peaches. I believe that's the list. Oh, wait, a dozen eggs this week, too. We're eating a series of fine feasts.
Bounty. The land holds generous bounty. But never just free for the taking. A bounteous harvest only comes after tending, waiting, noticing, recognizing, and tending some more. Nevertheless, bounty.
Wineberries and blackberries hang ripe and lush on vines along the lanes and through the woods. I am drawn as with an invisible, sweet magnet to the field at the top of the hill where I know I will find more of both. The heat has brought them along earlier than most years.
I gather selfishly, just to fill my own belly. Wineberries are too fragile to gather and carry, and blackberries too scarce to find enough to share. Anyone I know with whom I might share could go collect their own should they truly desire the berries.
Cicada song has grown loud. Old wisdom claims that when the cicadas start, count six more weeks until fall weather comes. I wonder if that will hold true this year?
The Community Supported Agriculture program we're part of has started for the year. With our CSA, Greg and Janell of Wilson Farms-- our neighbors and our friends as well as smart businessmen and hard workers-- assess the produce available from their farm each week, and also the approximate value of said produce, and then they fill a couple carry bags with fruits and vegetables picked fresh. This week we had corn, tomatoes, green and yellow summer squash, onions, cucumbers, sweet green peppers, spicy green peppers, green beans, and peaches. I believe that's the list. Oh, wait, a dozen eggs this week, too. We're eating a series of fine feasts.
Bounty. The land holds generous bounty. But never just free for the taking. A bounteous harvest only comes after tending, waiting, noticing, recognizing, and tending some more. Nevertheless, bounty.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Otherwhere, meanwhile
Yesterday I walked along Deer Creek for the first time in a full week. I walked otherwhere, meanwhile.
(I am caught, charmed, by those two words, are you? Otherwhere, meanwhile. Therein lies the whole world.)
A multitude of individual chickory flowers made a wash of blue up the sunny, north-east-facing slope in the meadow near the Ady Road bridge. A meadowscape full of summer blues and greens. High summer paints with a full palette, of course, but especially with blues and greens.
Last time I walked there the chickory blue didn't flare yet, but a section of the low, flat land near the creek glowed yellow with buttercups. Yesterday I searched the area where the small, golden faces had shown. The plants still stand in their place, the blossoms matured, closed and shifted to seed.
Otherwhere, meanwhile, last week included walks along the streets and paths where my granddaughter lives. She will soon be 13 months old. I am closing in on 800 months old. A person at 100 years-- easy math. Mother lived days short of 1037 months.
One explanation for why time seems to speed up as we age says that each passing day is a smaller proportion of the total life lived, hence the felt experience of each day shortens. Just like the long, summer-sun-measured days are already shortening toward winter. Yet I think it's more than that, though I have not words to explain.
Likewise, I have not words to explain the feeling of gazing into the eyes, the face, of this baby girl and seeing the eyes, the face, of my mother. This baby has her own mother's mouth (thank goodness!) but she has my mother's eyes. Mother's gray eyes. Baby's eyes are still blue, but sort of a steel blue, close to gray.
Beyond eye shape and color and overt face shape, there are the shadow expressions: the way Baby's eye lids fold as she focuses; the lift and droop of her cheek as she processes experiences; the shape and movements of her brow. All these things bring to my gut-heart-throat some yearning shiver that I can not elucidate clearly enough to translate into words. Perhaps you've had enough of a similar experience to already understand. To see Mother's face in Baby's face leaves me feeling breathless, awe struck, humbled by all we do not know.
Otherwhere, meanwhile...
(I am caught, charmed, by those two words, are you? Otherwhere, meanwhile. Therein lies the whole world.)
A multitude of individual chickory flowers made a wash of blue up the sunny, north-east-facing slope in the meadow near the Ady Road bridge. A meadowscape full of summer blues and greens. High summer paints with a full palette, of course, but especially with blues and greens.
Last time I walked there the chickory blue didn't flare yet, but a section of the low, flat land near the creek glowed yellow with buttercups. Yesterday I searched the area where the small, golden faces had shown. The plants still stand in their place, the blossoms matured, closed and shifted to seed.
Otherwhere, meanwhile, last week included walks along the streets and paths where my granddaughter lives. She will soon be 13 months old. I am closing in on 800 months old. A person at 100 years-- easy math. Mother lived days short of 1037 months.
One explanation for why time seems to speed up as we age says that each passing day is a smaller proportion of the total life lived, hence the felt experience of each day shortens. Just like the long, summer-sun-measured days are already shortening toward winter. Yet I think it's more than that, though I have not words to explain.
Likewise, I have not words to explain the feeling of gazing into the eyes, the face, of this baby girl and seeing the eyes, the face, of my mother. This baby has her own mother's mouth (thank goodness!) but she has my mother's eyes. Mother's gray eyes. Baby's eyes are still blue, but sort of a steel blue, close to gray.
Beyond eye shape and color and overt face shape, there are the shadow expressions: the way Baby's eye lids fold as she focuses; the lift and droop of her cheek as she processes experiences; the shape and movements of her brow. All these things bring to my gut-heart-throat some yearning shiver that I can not elucidate clearly enough to translate into words. Perhaps you've had enough of a similar experience to already understand. To see Mother's face in Baby's face leaves me feeling breathless, awe struck, humbled by all we do not know.
Otherwhere, meanwhile...
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Summer time, air conditioners running... People sweating, and humidity's high... To the tune, you know.
We have a deep well, and though the ground is very dry we're not really low on rainfall amounts, so I am watering the impatiens. Not many plants that flower all summer do well in our woods. Deer eat the hosta, even when I spray them. The tuberous begonias that my farmer-neighbor-friend-salesman promised would grow and bloom all summer in full shade, those bright red, charming, showy begonias are short of blooms-- there is one on three plants. The impatiens, though, contribute their sunny faces every day, setting new blossoms, opening and smiling, falling gracefully and returning to soil, always blooming.
Yesterday I kept my date with the cardiologist, the date set up six months ago, right after Christmas. I knew the scale would tell the truth of my past week of overeating, so I considered "reasons." It occurred to me it could be the weight of my hair. Yes, hair can be quite heavy. And mine is about two inches long all over my head. Well, shorter than that at the edges. When that thought came to mind I chuckled aloud, and quit my worrying. I shared my idea with the nurse and she laughed too, and as she stickied me up for my electrocardiogram we had a fine little chat about her life and mine.
When the doctor came, he commented that my blood pressure was lower and my pulse higher than he'd seen them ever before in his office. Both good things, for my bp is usually high at the doctors-- white coat syndrome-- and my pulse falls to alarmingly slow rates. And then he looked back in the chart in his hands and said, "And I see you've lost a couple pounds since last time. Ummm, good." Oh, giggle. It was right after Christmas.
He looked at me, really looked, and did not ask if I exercise. He simply switched to talking about the benefits of exercise and healthy diet, encouraging me to keep caring for myself, for I can do for myself what no doctor can possibly do for me. 'Tis true that I appear to be in blooming good health: normal weight, normally shaped by exercise, lightly tanned, some rosy color in my cheeks, smile wrinkles showing, groomed. I'll take it.
"So, I can come see you again in a year this time?" I said. It's been a routine six months between visits. His gaze suddenly became fierce and hawk-serious. "All right. But you must call me if you need me. You must promise to call me if you need me. If you have any of these symptoms, you will call me," and he went through a sort of scary list. "Promise," he insisted.
I agreed. Of course.
I find myself quite in tune with the impatiens. Here in my home woods, day by day I seek to contribute a sunny face, setting new blossoms in the form of specific small actions to contribute to the welfare of those whom I may touch, seeking to be open and smiling, allowing specific small things to fall away gracefully. It is my hope that I may be always blooming until the end of my season.
We have a deep well, and though the ground is very dry we're not really low on rainfall amounts, so I am watering the impatiens. Not many plants that flower all summer do well in our woods. Deer eat the hosta, even when I spray them. The tuberous begonias that my farmer-neighbor-friend-salesman promised would grow and bloom all summer in full shade, those bright red, charming, showy begonias are short of blooms-- there is one on three plants. The impatiens, though, contribute their sunny faces every day, setting new blossoms, opening and smiling, falling gracefully and returning to soil, always blooming.
Yesterday I kept my date with the cardiologist, the date set up six months ago, right after Christmas. I knew the scale would tell the truth of my past week of overeating, so I considered "reasons." It occurred to me it could be the weight of my hair. Yes, hair can be quite heavy. And mine is about two inches long all over my head. Well, shorter than that at the edges. When that thought came to mind I chuckled aloud, and quit my worrying. I shared my idea with the nurse and she laughed too, and as she stickied me up for my electrocardiogram we had a fine little chat about her life and mine.
When the doctor came, he commented that my blood pressure was lower and my pulse higher than he'd seen them ever before in his office. Both good things, for my bp is usually high at the doctors-- white coat syndrome-- and my pulse falls to alarmingly slow rates. And then he looked back in the chart in his hands and said, "And I see you've lost a couple pounds since last time. Ummm, good." Oh, giggle. It was right after Christmas.
He looked at me, really looked, and did not ask if I exercise. He simply switched to talking about the benefits of exercise and healthy diet, encouraging me to keep caring for myself, for I can do for myself what no doctor can possibly do for me. 'Tis true that I appear to be in blooming good health: normal weight, normally shaped by exercise, lightly tanned, some rosy color in my cheeks, smile wrinkles showing, groomed. I'll take it.
"So, I can come see you again in a year this time?" I said. It's been a routine six months between visits. His gaze suddenly became fierce and hawk-serious. "All right. But you must call me if you need me. You must promise to call me if you need me. If you have any of these symptoms, you will call me," and he went through a sort of scary list. "Promise," he insisted.
I agreed. Of course.
I find myself quite in tune with the impatiens. Here in my home woods, day by day I seek to contribute a sunny face, setting new blossoms in the form of specific small actions to contribute to the welfare of those whom I may touch, seeking to be open and smiling, allowing specific small things to fall away gracefully. It is my hope that I may be always blooming until the end of my season.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Kindness
"A simple act of kindness has a beauty all its own," wrote my brother in his thank you card to me. (I couldn't find it attributed to an author.) "How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it, " says George Alliston, quoted on a card I have hanging where I notice it often. "May I be kind to myself," begins a prayer one friend taught me and what another friend has identified as a variety of a meta-meditation.
Kind. Even the word carries a wash of-- calm? relaxation for the neck ans shoulder muscles, for the breath? peace?
Where does kindness fit in this world of fierce competition? How do we find a path to kindness? How do we balance soft kindness with firm kindness?
Ah, let me go into my day intending kindness, and with a heart full of laughter and gentle joy.
Kind. Even the word carries a wash of-- calm? relaxation for the neck ans shoulder muscles, for the breath? peace?
Where does kindness fit in this world of fierce competition? How do we find a path to kindness? How do we balance soft kindness with firm kindness?
Ah, let me go into my day intending kindness, and with a heart full of laughter and gentle joy.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Seek the Light, Be the Light
Today, in another perfect summer day, I am thinking of light. Sunlight, moonlight, starlight, firelight, candle light. Spotlight, harbor light, kitchen light, flood light, porch light. The reality of light and the metaphor of it. How sunlight covers all equally, blesses impartially. How we see (or not) in the available light. How we use light to find our way.
I share here an untitled, unpublished piece by my friend Dana Knighten:
"What is it about the glimmer of a single distant light across water that calls to all that is unanswered? It stirs such wordless yearning. Its beckoning call, the sense of hope, the promise of fixity in the flow of uncertainty, a still point in the midst of troubled waters.
"Just a single light evoking home. The warmth of a light left on to guide the way, a light that says someone's home, someone's expecting you, here's some help to guide you in to safe harbor.
"A light left on in the darkness conveys so much."
I share here an untitled, unpublished piece by my friend Dana Knighten:
"What is it about the glimmer of a single distant light across water that calls to all that is unanswered? It stirs such wordless yearning. Its beckoning call, the sense of hope, the promise of fixity in the flow of uncertainty, a still point in the midst of troubled waters.
"Just a single light evoking home. The warmth of a light left on to guide the way, a light that says someone's home, someone's expecting you, here's some help to guide you in to safe harbor.
"A light left on in the darkness conveys so much."
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