Look around...leaves are brown now...and the sky...is a hazy shade of winter...(Credit where credit is due. Paul Simon, "Hazy Shade of Winter" [how often can I say that?], the "Bookends" album)
Just got back from the annual Thanksgiving trek. Living as we do almost exactly between our two families of origin, no holiday is complete without an eight hour drive somewhere.
I describe the visit as "bittersweet" (in case any of you were wondering about my cryptic facebook post). The dinner was great. Seeing family and friends is always a joy. Especially joyous this time around since I got to meet a new member joining us through marriage. But all is not blue skies and sunshine. Various people I know and love are facing difficult life transitions and my heart aches for them. Our world can be a difficult place. Just ask the Syrians. Or the Israelis and Palestinians. Trouble is no stranger.
I have to confess, in case you haven't noticed, that I haven't been writing much. My sense of humor seems to be on vacation. The well of inspiration has been running a bit dry. Me and my couch have become very good friends. My social life is my little computer screen.
Today was different. Today, I took a walk.
It's a thought that has crossed my mind from time to time when I glanced out the window on those rare sunny days, but it never got past the thinking stage. Today, like I said, was different. I've been feeling my age and the hips no longer tolerate those long car rides likes they used to. Sitting was not my friend this morning. A little voice in my head said "go."
I didn't go far. For those of you familiar with Obieland, I headed down the paths behind Johnson House. I walked through fields, gazed at the trees, and the lyrics of that song (Hazy Shade of Winter, remember?) popped into my head. The scene was nearly colorless, washes of variations on brown. The landscape was a reflection of my state of mind.
I first went to check on my favorite tree, a large conifer with branches that sweep low to the ground to create a beautiful natural shelter. Some of the lower branches had been removed, but it was still a sanctuary as evidenced by the jacket and beer can left behind. Next door was an apparent victim of the backhand slap we received from Sandy. The downed tree was huge. My arms would only wrap halfway around its circumference. It appeared that there was a weakness, some rot, at the bottom of the trunk. It had splintered almost at ground level. The wood still had the scent of fresh lumber. Upon closer look I saw drops of sap, like teardrops, clinging to the broken surface.
As I wandered into the woods I noticed how bare everything was. There was no hiding here. Houses that were normally shrouded by greenery stood out. It was like I couldn't leave town behind. I heard the cars, the incessant drone of airplanes, and, as always at moments like this, a chainsaw. The few other people who were out exploring were completely exposed and visible. We would acknowledge each other when we passed on the path, but no one spoke. I felt like we were winter trees, our life tucked away until the spring.
I followed the path to the Morgan Street reservoir. It's one of the town's treasures that I never take advantage of enough. As I walked the path that encircles its edge, I remembered how it was my favorite escape when I was a new mother desperate to get out of the house. I would tuck my daughter, and later my two daughters, into the stroller and take this path. I walked past the area where we would go sledding, not a tall hill but pleasantly steep. The water was a shimmering rippled gray under a feeble sun.
The path curved around to become a little isthmus between two reservoirs. I always loved the second one because it's fringed with brush and normally hidden until you get right up on it. Some tree roots made natural steps to the water, which was remarkably clear. I could see through the surface to a mosaic of rocks and autumn leaves. I could see the bottom dropping away to a watery emerald green.
That's when the magic happened.
I turned to the first reservoir in time to see a duck. It was a small diver, dark capped and white-cheeked. (A male ruddy duck in winter plumage. I looked it up.) I sat on the path and just watched. The sounds from the town seemed to fade away into a light rush of wind rattling the stubborn tree leaves that had refused to fall. I watched as the bird disappeared, leaving only concentric circles on the water's surface. After what would seem an impossible amount of time it would pop to the surface with the smallest "plink" of water. Then I heard a chatter, and a kingfisher was swooping across the surface of the water, a flash of blue against the gray with a blazing white collar when it turned. Behind me I heard loud quacking and splashing and turned to see a flock of about 8 mallard ducks coming in for a landing.
My reverie was broken by a dog, a puppy, all big ears and paws. I hastened to my feet before the owner at the other end of the leash came around the curve. I knew her. She was John Birmingham's daughter. John had been a wonderful boss, dear friend and mentor, a papa bear figure. When he was dying of cancer this daughter had assisted me with the birth of my second daughter. My first childcare job had been for her sister and her partner who had adopted an adorable infant girl, Nora, from Cambodia. This would have been John's first granddaughter, but he didn't live to meet her. I was told that one of his last acts before he passed away was buying books for the grandchild he knew he'd never know. His family and I shared a common bond in our love for John.
I hadn't talked to anyone from the family for quite some time so we chatted to catch up. She had become a midwife but now was teaching midwifery to nurses and was enjoying the more regular hours. Her husband (I had attended their wedding after John died) was successfully working multiple gigs as a therapist and therapeutic artist. I inquired about her sister, and Nora, and learned that they were currently in Cambodia, looking for members of Nora's birth family. They apparently had found a close relative and had an emotional reunion. She asked me what I was doing and I explained I was back working at the county domestic violence shelter. As she turned to resume her walk she suddenly turned back and said "John would be proud of all of us." (Just typing this brings tears to my eyes.)
I was flooded with a feeling of sweet thankfulness as I continued my walk. Thankful for all the wonderful people, past and present, in my life. Thankful for love that survives loss. Thankful for the beauty that can be found when one takes the time to notice and observe.
Hang on to your hopes my friend...well that's an easy thing to say but when your hopes have slipped away then simply pretend...that you can build them again...(Yep, same song)
The world seemed alive and infused with beauty. As I walked along a ravine I startled a pair of juncos, the first I'd seen this season. A bright red cardinal swooped by. While passing a field of brown weeds it came alive with goldfinches in their drab winter plumage and chickadees gently swaying on the tall stems. I had a stare down with a little red squirrel. I found another cozy den under a fir tree, which, again, had apparently been enjoyed by student types. Those kids don't miss a hideaway and Black Label beer seems to be the local favorite. Even after I had emerged back into the everyday world I noticed the tiniest little sapling, little more than a stick, really, with one, perfect, tiny red leaf holding on tightly.
Bittersweet. It's how life goes. Joy alternating with sorrow. Big trees may fall but the itty-bitty sapling holds on. And there is beauty when we least expect it. Yesterday, as my facebook status, I had simply written "bittersweet." My favorite response was from my sister, who wrote back "My favorite kind of chocolate."
Look around...leaves are brown...there's a patch of snow on the ground...(Do I really need to tell you where this is from?)
And how are you?
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