10.23.14 As The Dark Day Continues On

 

It was cold and it was windy and there were torrents of rain, as I got out of the car to zip up my old raincoat, that accompanied me up Mount Washington a few times, with my family, years ago.

Pulled the hood up, fastened the arms, And retrieved Dante from the back of the car, the wind nearly pushing us over; trees swaying, A vast number leaves , of every color flying through the air.

We made our way down the lane a bit, and then I saw. The puddles. How deep they were. I was in my old sneakers. Oh well. It was just such beauty.
I unleashed the dog, and he went flying down Kestrel Lane. Grabbing the largest stick he could find, triumphantly galloping back to me, smashing me in the thigh, as always, with his youthful delight.

The trick, you see, is to walk along the Lane, or anywhere else, and keep your eyes open for sticks. And keep tossing them-so he bounds off, or, just to keep him off-guard, give a quick throw behind you, so he pivots and races that way. Yes, it's great fun. And yes, exhausts him. A little bit.

On we went, my feet sinking into deeper and deeper waters. First just the sneakers getting wet, then my ankles, then the bottom of my pants. By then, like every other year of my life, I had surrendered. To the momentary chill. To the absolute beauty of the universe that exists within a puddle. 

To the changes of the lane, from just yesterday. So many changes, so fast, always. Everything in flux.

One of the most interesting things to me about reading about others' lives, about gazing at photographs of them when they were young, and then old. Of the words, and anything else they create, or think, a different seasons in their lives, is that invariably, they get to the place where they realize, in their own way, that-all is one.

I've been enjoying Vita Sackville-West's poetry, and snippets. Sometimes the meter and rhyme of the age does become a little tiring, but the amount you discover about her, and her time, from that perspective, has such depth.
And there she is, saying that the one who lives and the one who watches the living - are the same. 

What we have heard from all aspects of life, since the beginning of time. When you get right down to it.

I'm thinking this over, as the puddles become deeper and deeper. As the colors change. As the variety of leaves, and the compositions, shift over and over, while we make our way down the lane.

In the meantime, the wind is blowing sideways. Rain pelting us. The pup, now and then, looking up at me, as if to say "This is really okay?" Makes me laugh. The little boy has forgotten last winter. But we all need a few go arounds, before we began to remember. What all the variations are like. To internalize kind of knowing. Some would say, to remember. From ancestors. Other times.t 

About three quarters of the way down, the whole lane is one huge puddle, and I turnabout, sailboat on a whipped wind ocean. And we make our way back, as I peer into each cuddle, seeing so many configurations of composition. 

Leaves suspended beneath water , reminding me of our Quabbin reservoir here, where they removed towns and towns, peoples lives. 

Now you can rent motorboat, and go down down the long reservoir, far down to what are now virtually inaccessible wildlands, a refuge for wildlife. Because you are allowed to fish, but not allowed to get out of the boat.
So unless you want to hike miles and miles and miles in, the land is undisturbed. Populace moved. The places where their ancestors were born and died no longer exists, or rather, it's just beneath a lake. I walk along, wondering what that's like.

As I watch the rain plummet down upon the puddles, pressing the water this way and that. Forming shapes and contours, around leaves half protruding, or leaves fully submerged. I probably could stand there all day, just watching what becomes.

We get back into the car, going by Northampton on our way home. Toweled off sufficiently.

And in our nearest little city, on this day where the rain has stopped, but is sprinkling, there are different groupings of homeless people, some with jackets and sweatshirts and gloves that match.

 Making the best of their situation. Piles of bags next to them, protected from the rain. 

Enjoying their conversations, holding out cups for donations. Such a wide range of ways that all of us could become without homes. I for one think about this. But as I observe one person and then another, I'm left wondering how they got to this place for themselves.

Back home, we warm ourselves, we dry ourselves, as the rain assaults the mountain range, and the house. Splattering upon the windows, surprising the young shepherd. The cats are all delighted, because despite being a New Englander, I finally succumbed. And the two oil filled radiators are on, one in the bedroom,, And one in the living room. The felines cluster about them, and refuse to move, even when the shepherd tries to play games or intimidate them.

Shiva lays upon our huge bed , upon the floor, just for her, warm and comfortable. The Danto follows her, and tries hard to sneak up for a cuddle, quietly succeeding.

Down her back I work, dispersing inflammation, releasing tension. Working down her sore joints. 

As she sighs and smiles. And the dark day continues on.