9.17.15 Early this morning, I stepped out into the sopping grasses

Early this morning, I stepped out into the sopping grasses, the birds all asleep, dragonflies too. The weight of the fog dampening all things, keeping wet bees aground, asleep beneath blossom and leaf. A small wind swirling down the range, through the conservation field, and down to the river, where it will follow the tugging waters to the sea.

9.17.15 We pass by dew-covered Asparagas, our steps silent beneath us on the dirt

We went down, early, to the road by the farmer's fields, down by the Connecticut, and wandered along in the morning soup. The corn is now half harvested, the soybeans ripening, and the cabbage huge and healthy. The Milkweed flourishes, providing an ecosystem for so many insects it's unbelievable, all getting born and growing up and feeding and hanging out. Out beyond our sight call the Hawks, preparing for their fall migratory convening on the nearby range . The Bluejays call excitedly to one another, freshly arrived from summer in the North, figuring out what to do and where to go for the winter. One Great Blue Heron, motionless, glides by overhead. Two fields have new For Sale signs on them, one for a waterfront piece of land, and so it goes. The squash do not pay. So sad, this that does happen, and has, as humans expand and stretch and grow. We pass by dew-covered Asparagus ,and grasses with their remarkable luminescents, our steps silent beneath us on the dirt. As nearby, the river continues to renew itself to it's estuary. The ancient path. As we turn, and settle back into the day we have been given.

 

9.17.15 Let's just say

Let's just say you live in a place where there is no water. 
Where there is love and food and warm enough clothes and home and beauty and nights and days. 
Still, there is no water.

 

9.16.15 Day after day, the clouds return and the skies paint themselves another story.

9.16.15 Where, oh where

Where is the beginning, and where the end, of thoughts, of political trends, of regaled stories or reminiscent remembering? Sometimes they seem to last forever, redoubling off into the ionosphere, while still, they can seem to implode, leaving nothing in their wake.

 

9.16.15 That way, quietly smiling

The house where I grew up with my six siblings was nestled down along uninhabited Lane, down into the woods, situated in a pine forest. At this house there were innumerable fundraisers for the Unitarian church, for the civil rights movement, for town recycling fundraisers, for the NAACP, for Cardinal Cushing-even though we were wasps. And there were an alarming number of cocktail parties, as well as mothers galore, coming over most afternoons with their children, thirstily drinking down cocktails, until it grew dark, while the kids ran wild.

One of the mothers had lived in France for years, and have three children close in age, who were as beautiful as she was, all of them bilingual. With exotic names. She was the only woman I have ever seen who didn't wear lipstick, which I recognized from an early age was a great improvement. Or high heels. She had long brown hair falling down her back, and large brown eyes, wore flip-flops and tiny shifts with slits up the sides, had a wonderful deep laugh ,and of course was single. She let my mother use her apartment now and then , I knew. 

My brothers also remember that she was possibly the only adult we met who actually was sincere when she looked at you, actually saw you, actually asked you how you were, actually listened. 

All the other mothers pretended to like her, but they were all a little bit nervous , as well they should have been. She was a woman who enjoyed herself immensely.

At one of the parties, she brought a good friend, a young woman maybe 10 years her junior, a blond woman, sweet and gregarious, very very bright. At this party, she was introduced in that perfunctory matter to all of us kids, and then I had to herd the little ones all upstairs, while she stayed and talked to my older brother, taking a great liking to him right away.

At the time I think he was 18, fresh returned from first wild year of college in Mexico City. A startlingly good musician.

And so, she invited him, his best friend, and myself, 16, to come to her apartment in Brookline for dinner. I remember her name was Celia, and it was the first time I had ever seen a city apartment. 

It was a tiny, very creative space , and she scooted about the miniature kitchen, cooking something very complicated and elegant that we had no interest in. 

We all crowded to sit down to the miniature kitchen table together, ate politely, and talked. But it was clear there was only one reason we were all there. It was my brother.

I still remember that day, a stifling hot summers night , leaving at maybe at 10 ,after we moved the dishes from table to small counter, put our shoes back on, his friend and I going to the hall, while she pushed him over to the closet, laughing, he I knew willing . 
And so we made the best of it , standing around the dank dark hall talking for a bit, waiting. 

On the ride back, I sat in the back , pulled up as close to them as possible. , the windows open, the cool air rushing about, the car speeding down 128, my brother quietly smiling.

9.16.15 Straining the door of the cellar

Some days, its important to assert the present day life, and stick to it, as if your life depended on it. 

And other times? Why, there are things that have come up, that have built up, and are straining the door of the cellar, that have needs to be listened to and sorted out and held kindly enough to settle once again.