8.2.14 "So what!" I growl, stumbling down the stupid rain-wet road

It just seems to be that kind of day, 

possibly only here: possibly only me.

 Where there is something about to change

....about to shift....

and I'm all a'twitch with the crab crabbiness of the juncture. 

Kierkegaard used to talk about the anxiety before to the leap. 

"So what!" I growl, stumbling down the stupid rain-wet road, 

wishing it worked to live life 

with dark sunglasses and earplugs and blinders.

 To pretend something comes of whine whining 

about one's own poor poor situation. 

But no, no it doesn't work. 

Not at all. 

If what you want is to be alive and awake and aware. 

So get on up, turn around, and shake yourself off, for goodness sake. 

Stop thinking so much. 

Just stand your own self up, 

and get on with it. 

Inch by inch; row by row.

7.31.14 Because you may not know that pages are actually now (shhh) being patiently turned

What becomes a story- a story taken from life that stretches into fiction that returns to living breathing real time? I mean , how does this come about, simply visiting a place, at a certain time, with individuals living and breathing , who just now do happen to - in this particular place ,in fact at this very moment , turn about - 

And make their way out the side entrance of the shaded clapboard house, as loosened glass in the door's window quakes. There is a small wind that is fleeting, that passed by their ankles , as they twist summer- hot palms round the doorknob, and firmly pull it shut. 

For we see that this is the land of stories waiting to be written, where we come upon Individuals engaging 

thoughts about reheating the thick fragrant pea soup for dinner , considering the fresh tang of sautéed shallots and garlic , dug from the garden just this morning- with the fresh crushed Oregano and Rosemary snipped moments ago from the weed-infested kitchen garden out back.
As the olive oils warms spatters a bit, before gluten-free bread crumbles into the sautéed mixture, soaking up sodden herbs and caramelized alliums , to be spooned atop each bowl of soup placed upon the long, scarred pine table. 

Oh- and the green beans are waiting in the garden, as we stand here,outdoors in near twilight; they are bright yellow and purple and deepest green, and we pick them from the low laden bushes, while conspiring to lure one or two children to come sit round the table and snap off the bean ends, while we concoct an engaging story , with them starting as the fanciful protagonists, off on daring adventures. 

Or does it seem more likely that the goings-on in the mind of this protagonist perhaps involves the yet-to-be-fed and then off to bed chickens ? Would you consider perhaps instead the gas bill payment, sealed in in the envelope on the kitchen table ,the taste of the licked envelope lingering in the mouth- the envelope which will need to be walked down round Halligan's Grocery -past Lucille's Hair Shoppe and the Granby Inn's dusty, weed filled parking lot, across Main Street, and up to the gas company , come tomorrow afternoon?

Or are we considering some other unimaginable , yet inept , and far too general possibilities of human distractions , and the unanticipated outcome. as the story wiles away it's time?

Because you may not know that pages are actually now (shhh) being patiently turned, this time, as a reader peers at the small book held quietly in their hands. As they visit in their imagination this small town that comes ever so slowly to life. 

As the one reading develops a sense of the moment in time, and slowly begins to notice how the glimpses of lives accumulate 

like so many half-hearted wishes - pressed down into an old cracked mason jar, only to be forgotten high on the back shelf of the pale yellow pantry, to fester quietly . 

Unbeknownst to anyone who doubts that all this could possibly be true. You know . All this, with the wishes. And festering. And possibility .

Forgotten by all save the sleepy determined reader; who lays on her side in a simmering hot bedroom, dogs lining the floors and sidling up against sweat slicked legs . 

We are watching as a wobbly floor fan makes its interminable sweep, over and over, providing only the most minute relief of a breeze, as it swings by once again. 

The cats are stretched out , tufted bellies up , across the bureaus and between the bed pillows .
The other human sleeps fitfully on his back, chest glistening in the impossible summer's heat, as she holds the book on one side ,and then the other, braced against flat old piled-up pillows , covered with soft worn sun-scented pillow cases, 

She hears his restlessness increase - the irritable sighs in between snorts and snores. The uncomfortable shifting as he turns and covers his sweat slicked head with a pillow, with his love; with his determined patience , knowing that she somehow presses on.

The fatigue of her poor bed partner comes to lean up against her hunger for one more paragraph - before the thoughtfulness in her succumbs, and the bedroom light is snapped off ; allowing at last a thick hot darkness to fall. 

So that finally the two of them turn to each other, the book sliding from her hand to the floor.
They are pressing along butter-smooth sheets; they are settling betwixt and between each other, age-old, in a delicious, exhausted embrace.

7.30.14 There Comes Into Us

There comes into us , 

and upon us,

 and then blossoms within us 

- such profound sadness,

 with loss.

7.30.14 God's Love; And Mine

Due to a recent tragedy; to a very very sad situation in some lives, 

far from here, impacting those close to here,

 I am grieving the loss and the great challenges 
and enormous grief and the stolid never-letting-up agony
 and hopelessness that we of all species at times experience, 
and so often, so very alone. 

Simply holding in my heart 
those who fall into sad or tragic circumstance
 and cannot , no matter their efforts or very best intent,
 pull themselves out. 
Prayers to fill fill them with God's love. And mine.

7.29.14 Out early enough that the grass is dew sopped; late enough that stunning sunlight spills upon everything, in every direction.

Out early enough that the grass is dew sopped; late enough that stunning sunlight spills upon everything, in every direction. 

The dew cold and fresh as only morning dew can be, on bare feet. Dew upon flowers and early rising bees . And, I wonder- on the swift almost unseen burgundy hummingbirds? Who we find delighting in their best season: The delicious Red Bee Balm coming to a close; the light lavender just on the cusp of exploding into that colorful cascade of deliciousness for hummingbird and butterfly and bee alike. 

The Phlox more enormous every year, if that's possible - probably over 5' this time around. The luxuriant thick Scarlet Runner Bean blossoms rangling across the arch, languid -like some sort of aphrodisiac is certain, from the looks of it. 

Towering Mallows food for all, pink beauty blossoms all along the soft feathery leaves - and the sprite young weightless Sparrow babes find the Japanese Beetle population there easy pickings.
The Kale coming up for perhaps the fourth year on their own ; you can imagine hearing them stretching as they bear their deep green leaves . 

As we close in upon the ripe red cherry tomatoes that pop in your mouth, warm from the morning's sun, a taste never found from any store purchase. 

Down the conservation fields, the young Doe lingers with ease, innocent of things like hungry winter Coywolves, hunters, motherhood, or hunger itself. Having her fair share of summer 'a bulk and tastes and morning safety and delight.

Overhead the first clutch of egg's offspring are swinging by everywhere you turn, filled with easy found breakfast, lunch and dinner; chasing each other through the deep dark Sumac and the tall aged Maples, playing about their birthplace, their nests and birdhouses; everywhere at home.

7.30.14 Faith. It's what we grow when we can't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

7.29.14 The Beautiful Gander, Rife With Freedom ; His Once Upon A Time

This is what I imagine . We have the ever present guardian goose....who one day long ago had his wing feathers grow long long, without some farmer keeping up...and discovered flight. and took it, the flight, and took off. 

Did he have an inkling he could fly, the way the Robins and the Sparrows and the wild ducks and the wild geese flew overhead, every single day, and then ,far and away? 

 Did he have any idea whatsoever? 

Did he feel it stirring inside of himself, this thrumming of some ability to have the strength within his wings and the innate knowledge of how to take a running start, and the liftoff that could happen? 

Did he discover it, and begin quietly practicing, when no humans were noticing? 

Did he plan his escape? 

For he did. escape. 

From the farm he was raised upon. 

He escaped and he flew anywhere he wished, and he somehow came upon the pond at Mt. Holyoke College, and has been there for years, ever since.

 Just take a gander at that happy Gander, eh?

He is a guardian, and takes care of visiting Canadian flocks, feeling his responsibility seriously; while evidently relishing the uncommon socializing, that often lasts almost a week    

He took seriously ,last year, staying by the small female Mallard who, without a male, hatched maybe 8 babies. He seriously stayed by them and protected them and helped to raise them and never left her side, guiding them to  bed down on rocks  in the safest part of the stream, between the small  bridges, and then  staying by their side, watchful and powerful, all of the night. 

He took seriously his love, a Canadian female, who spent long luxurious days preening him as he preened her, while two single male Canadians looked on, clearly frustrated. 

While he and she languidly swam about the pond together, as other Canadian couples did the same, courting and falling in love. 

But the life-long love was not to be, and after a few weeks, sadly, she was gone, maybe to settle for a life-long mate - who may not have had his joie de vivre, nor his fierce devotion, but could answer her call for mating and nesting and raising small ones. 

He is still there today, as the sun rises and as it sets- in coldest winter 

and the hot lazy summer days we are having now. 

Feeding deep into the mud. Spending time with Mallard friends. 

  Keeping watch.

 And every day - I am dreaming and  going and watching -  he is waking early, and rediscovering himself filled to the brim with the preciousness of his autonomy 
and the breadth of the life he has made for himself, rife with complete freedom.