A Prediction From The Trees

     It’s here.The wild end of Autumn. Trees with few leaves, shaking and holding on in cold bursts of wind. A messy landscape revealed in the wet detritus of bent branches, brown leaves stamped on wet ground.  

    The trees know the long inward march and the icy edges of snow.  Tough bark limits the bite of cold. Trees will watch another parade of winter with equanimity. Their bodies will hold a living record of this time. Then, their leaves will grow again. They will stand, roots sunk deep, with winter. 

    We know cold, how it chills, wakes us up, burn the skin. We anticipate, sometimes wrongly, the stretch of winter months. We have the slant of perception; historical and personal. We look backward, wincing over mistakes, reliving the shock and fear of past traumas. We have learned how the bitterest regrets become scars.

    Whatever future humans choose, they will stand knowing they played a part in it. Learned helplessness is believing you are unable to change a situation. You stand, frozen, not just feeling but as trauma has convinced you, knowing you are helpless. Fear has a powerful, compelling voice answering every protest with a tiny bit of truth. 

     So, I will remind you and me.  Respectfully because fear can be good and bad. You could give yourself a chance. You know doing nothing will mean damage; your own pain and disappointment will happen inside you. Listening to helplessness is not standing and doing nothing. It is actively taking in fear.

     When I walk my dog through stands of Maple, Oaks and Ash trees, I feel comfort. Together, trees are a forest whose peace calms my fearful, what if, heart. I remind myself I am here now, spending time among them while they stand swaying in a fearful wind. I remind myself of their age, their strength in standing with the endless seasons. And I stand with them,  breathing in this winey scented, unpredictable, wild world. Then, I walk on.

     It’s why I love walking. Each step, however hesitant, moves me forward. And has done so, from my very first toddling steps.  Each step moves all of us and each of us, forward. We are walking into our future every day. Let’s take a step.

     

Portugal

Portugal is green... Eucalyptus with paper like peeling bark, rough barked Cedar and tall Oak trees interspersed with twisted Olive trees.

Portugal is hilly. Slopes of 10, 12 percent in tiny towns hugging the hills. Curved streets so severe you couldn't see past the biker behind you. We biked for five days, experiencing more cobblestone streets than I ever thought I would see in my lifetime. 

Those towns created with tall houses jammed together with wrought iron balconies. Glazed tile fronts with patterns in pink, yellow, green blue. It became an act of will to not take a photo. 

Porto, a seaside town with a river of slow moving green slicing through, unfurling into the open sea. Small one window restaurants along the river front. We picked a fish off the ice in the front window, then waited at our rickety table  until we could eat it, grilled and surrounded by buttery potatoes. 

We stayed hungry that week; biking many miles, some of the more memorable near Porto. A system of trails built on old railroad tracks, much like Minnesota. Riding a bike on a smooth tarred surface through stretches of shady forest, smelling fragrant Eucalyptus trees and gentle farmland is one way to experience peace. 

We toured wineries and stayed in monasteries with thick walls anchored in calm. Walking the white stone halls meant easily imagining monks or nuns, walking meditatively in a comfortable rhythm with their swinging robes. Hearing bells in the courtyard seemed somehow natural. 

Yes, we were clearly tourists but asking directions was anticipated rather than dreaded. People were friendly and informative. On a tour of the town of Amante, our guide pointed out stone tablets on the churches. We were told if the church started to burn, the tablets named other churches nearby where people would come and help.  The system was in use until the late 1800s. 

We hired a guide to see the seaside town of Cassis; a small town with a castle, gardens and a lot of tourists. The sea was cold, braved mostly be surfers in wetsuits. The sea was also restless, hurling against lava looking rocks. 

 There was a softness about Portugal from the quality of the air suffused with Eucalyptus and Olive to the  language often with the "th" sounds. From the smoothness of the red wines to the friendly gaze of people. I breathed in a type of thinking I really liked. As if, when in thought on a problem, the past is considered but does not rule the present. Portugal has a way of living taking time lightly into account.  

Jim

 My friend Jim passed away. I was able to see him twice. The cancer diagnosis and his passing away happened in a matter of weeks. Jim was a good man. That sounds so simple but is the most true.  He was a man who knew how to be a great friend; always there to listen, concerned, caring. He was a man who had a life; adventures, living in rural Wisconsin on a lovely piece of land, owning his own business creating jewelry, especially wedding rings. Jim went to a lot of weddings. 

 He made me realize how important friends are...how a life’s most valuable action is spending time with family and friends. Jim taught me through the quality of his attention in our friend group, in his big laugh, his willingness to reach out, arrange and get together. You could see love and enjoyment when he talked about time with his sons and his siblings.

Jim came to Nadia's graduation. He came to Andrew's funeral and never shied away from talking with me about my grief. He grieved with me. 

 One of the things that became important to me in the last few years was to say out loud I love you. So, I started saying that to Jim. And he picked it up and gave it back to me. He didn't hesitate. He was a good, good man.

The last time I saw him at his house, he told me he thought he would have more time. A few more years at least.... A big reminder of one truth I learned when Andrew passed away. There is never enough time. So live now.. Don't wait to do it. Do it now. 

Enjoy heaven, Jim. I imagine the freedom of leaving your body which was in so much pain..I hope you can fly. I just know you're looking down, chuckling and enjoying us. I love you Jim.

Suspended

 It's almost August. So far, normal Minnesota summer has been suspended. We are having an average of two thunderstorms a week. The thick air, sometimes fragranced with forest fire smoke, starts out heavy at 6am. The green is phenomenal; sumac, Oaks, Maples are massive; crisp green outlines are smeared on the horizon. Trees and branches have toppled from the combination of rain and wind.

I feel suspended too. I walk out my front door, bare feet hitting uneven pavement and look up at the pure blue of the morning sky. I was suspended in memory; a child, this feeling of seeing that pure blue expanse going on forever; calling forth my own chest opening expansion. I was free. I remember throwing my arms wide but my body couldn't express that powerful cracked open feeling. 

It was a rare event in my childhood home of San Francisco to see a blue sky in the morning. It's been a rare event to see one this summer. Somehow my brain made a connection, transporting me there and back. A visit from me; the child who ran and played and laid in the green grass without worry; wholly present. Thank you

windows in cars

My air conditioning is broken in my car. It's been well, sweaty but, honestly, good. Isn't summer in general, having windows open to the world?  Summer means we can hang our arms out, tapping to the beat, smelling green grass being cut, donuts, fried chicken, hot tarmac. Hearing people talking, arguing, laughing. Looking at the faces of happy dogs, having random thoughts about the person singing as we wait on the on ramp.

What, anyway, is a voice singing but one pure expression of a person? There you are, you brave person, letting us hear something that comes from inside of you, formed by your bodies structure, your personality, your mood. Wow! Sing out. 

Instead of listening to music in cool quiet comfort, I'm letting wind fingers mess with my hair, inhaling the smell of French fries and considering having some. At the stop sign, I'm looking over at the guy in the big truck whose window is also open. So so close. I look away.  Noticing the curly white haired  lady, head down, walking her dog in the crosswalk and the little girl, face scrunched up,  in shorts and a t shirt, slowly being pulled down the sidewalk. 

I can hear the wind combing the Cottonwoods lining the street as I drive home. I look up seeing the trees growing and the trees browning. How did I miss this? I did open my windows but mostly kept them closed. Like taking a bite instead of the full meal of a summer day. Yes, my hair is messy, my face shiny and I'm a bit warm when I get out of my car. Ironically what I was missing with the windows rolled up and the heat cranking out in cold Winter. More though, I feel grounded. I'm here. Now. Not being transported from one place to another but in it. Summer. 

Be enough

 Tomorrow is Andrews Birthday. I’ve been sad all week I’ve become aware of two new pieces this year.  It’s been five years.    

 I had this surfacing expectation it would look different. I would be different; more matter of fact, more business like, motoring along in acceptance. Sometimes I am. 

And sometimes I’m more confused about the future, more sad.  Grief is more present than last year. Sadness feels like an insurmountable wall today.  I’m standing in front of it. One step at a time I remind myself. 

Two is I’m navigating through a thicket of expectations about where I should be…expectations creating shame and guilt. It’s strangely hard to let them go and realize I don’t know. To ask myself how are you, really?

I know I love Andrew forever. And I feel that love. I know grief is a journey. Which means unexpected events, feelings, thoughts happen. That’s all I know today.  I’ll try to let that be enough. 

 Sadness is a layer like

Smoothing sheets across a bed

Keep it hidden. Exposed I can’t function 

Grief is saying the same words over and over until 

emptied of meaning. Grief is being in a place 

alone. 

Impossible to share the inner transformation

I’ll try colors

Churning red to cerulean blue

Black to a dab of yellow on the far right  

a gray wash for days.

True Measure

 Today is my birthday. I’m trying to stand in my age today. And take the true measure of what I have learned, what I have done and what I want to do. What I value and what I don’t now. A lot of questions…I don’t know the answers. Still, it seems like a good birthday thing to do. To stand in this present and see it as clearly as I can. 

 Excavation 

They are out in the street, digging up the cement 

with huge metal claws. Beneath is the dried dirt,

full of pebbles. Below that are the water mains. 

The men tell me they are replacing the valves. 

May is an excavation; the separation of 

scar tissue exposing the skin, the red insides.

Swinging the metal claw around to descend 

almost silently, digging a bigger hole. 

So many birthdays. so many happy memories 

overlaying this month of spring. And so much 

excavated sorrow, sadness of the years we 

weren't together, the taste of grief, knowing 

we won't be together as a family again, 

going on five years. 

And last, because memories pair with memories, 

because this is life, I'll tell you this. I took Andrew 

when he was under 5, to watch the men excavate 

another street near our home. And because he was 5, 

had his own toy earth movers, watching those men dig 

made him literally dance with joy. 

Begin.

Green Buds 

I know why you don’t 

want to unfurl. To know 

the length of your summer.

Yes, hold on longer. 

Find the corners of sight, 

see blurred movements, 

rain drops. Hear a 

muffled birdsong. Grow 

a bit stronger until 

you can’t not…start.

Then go. Burst open. Show 

your bright green, your new 

shine to animals, air, us. 

I’m sorry. 

I don’t notice you

individually, just the 

extravagantly beautiful mass 

of all of you.