Category Archives: Earth

When Things Fall Apart (Or Seem To): Everyday Magic, Day 890

Since the inauguration our family has been living out a microcosm of the macrocosm. While the details aren’t mine to tell, let’s just say that we had one of those unjust life incidents in which we discover that, contrary to popular human opinion, there’s sometimes (translation: often to always) no real ground when it comes to what we can count on and control. Macrocosm-wise, this also feels true for many of us who are partaking of the buffet of letter- and email-writing, phone calls, marching, and all manner of resisting unjust policies stinging our hearts, violating our values, and crashing apart our ideals and safeguards.

In such times, I go back to Pema Chodron, particularly her anchoring-to-reality book, When Things Fall Apart, in which she writes,

We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.

I remember when some close friends of ours were going through major marriage re-evaluation, both of them hurting but shining. They told us, “Then you realize there truly is no ground, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating.” They made it through and have been together for the likes of close to 40 adventurous years, and I’m so grateful to them for their example of courage and clear-seeing at the fall-apart times.

Yup, it’s a panoramic swirl of falling apart and together, and along the way, often all at once, there’s a careening dance of agony, ecstasy, anxiety, heartbreak, hope, amazement, and many moments when we can really feel our beating heart. Sometimes it all comes together at 4 a.m. when one of us wakes up to exhaustion, freak-out, and wonder. Sometimes the calm of trembling cedar trees against overlapping clouds reminds us to breathe. But always, there’s both groundlessness in such times, and the real ground, where we will walk soon, in a hurry to get from house to car on a cold morning, so that we can aim ourselves toward (what else?) love in whatever form shows us why we’re here.

Tucked into the Clouds: Everyday Magic, Day 888

img_2966For days, it’s been overcast with an active sky varying hews of gray in between tossing out ice pellets, a bit of sleet and freezing rain, a lot of regular rain, and a smoky sense of being. Although we avoided the potential big ice storm in this town, thankfully keeping our electricity and most trees intact, there’s no sunshine to be found for miles, which doesn’t cheer me.

But what there is: a dog napping on the couch behind Christmas lights adorning shelves for the cats to climb and sleep on, skillet corn bread baking in the oven, and Ken typing on his computer to my right, and classical music on the radio to my right. The ice-encased tall grasses around our house are free to shift slightly in the warming air, and for the first time in days, there’s some variation of gray with darker clouds on top and foggy horizons lightening up to almost white. There’s also hot tea in the mornings and warm piles of quilts at bedtime, piles of books, a happily-used simg_2965ewing machine and lots of colorful fabric, and a lovely time to pause and watch the junos and chickadees eat the birdseed on the deck.

Eventually, the clouds will dissipate, but for now, here we are despite whatever human-made turmoil rolls into and out of form close by or far away. In the distance, here is also a lone great blue heron winging her way back to the water as whatever is changing unfurls in its quiet and active ways.

A Beautiful Moment in a Time of Despair: Everyday Magic, Day 876

img_2686It’s hard to look at the news or social media without feeling like we’ve failed as a species. The Great Barrier Reef is dying, the bees — essential for the pollination that feeds the world — are endangered, and a presidential candidate not only brags about sexual assault but calls his accusers names, all the time unleashing America’s underside of horrendous sexism, racism, xenophobia and other social illnesses. Below the splay of horrifying headlines, I’m tuned into the stories of beloved friends and family, some of whom are struggling mightily with depression, debt, grief, and other ailments of our time and propensities of being human. Having had an on-and-off-again cold and some nightmares lately, I’ve dipped into the pot of despair at my most local level too.

As I turn away from the news of collapsing politics and ecology, I also see this: the sky to the west is filling with clouds, the wind is tossing around the heads of the big, leafy trees, and the last tomatoes have ripened on the vine. The moon, rising over the field last night, lit the tips of the grasses silver. Ten hours later, the horizon shines golden white. As Charles Bukowski says in one of my favorite poems, “The Laughing Heart” (watch this great little film here!):

be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the
darkness

Add to that one of our favorite Leonard Cohen (and all-time-ever) choruses from his song, “Anthem,”

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

So during this season of some very real despair and enduring danger all around us, I’m looking at this moment, another time of great beauty and promise, toward what light I can find, letting it penetrate the cracks I carry in my hope and heart.

Ocean View to Porch View: Everyday Magic, Day 868

Yesterday morning, I walked acrosIMG_1758s the narrow beach into the ocean, dipping my toes into the cold Maine waters until, scared and hesitant, I dropped in and swam like crazy to warm up until the sea carried me with ease.

This morning, I walked to my front porch, put my feet up, and stared into the Osage Orange tree and other things in my view, like my car that got strangely covered with bird poop while I was away. I let the chartreuse padded rocker (found years ago in a small-town Kansas thrift store) carry me into quiet.

In between, there were airports, a very strong cup of iced coffee, a narrow plane seat 30,000 feet off the earth with a view of the Jersey island (Long Beach Island) where I fretted as a teen, and IMG_1813surrealist naps between the captain’s garbled announcements. There was the ride to the Portland Jetway with an old friend/ Goddard student who shared the moving, drastic, and ultimate healing story of losing his home to a fire. There was a lobster roll and very salty potato chips at one airport, and a Philly pretzel at the other. There was the baggage carousel with finally Jerry’s suitcase to grab, the luggage left to me by my dearly-departed friend who still travels with me. There was Ken late at night and the beautiful and car-fumed air of the home airport, then the ride where as usual, I alternated between talking at high speed and staring into the blur of familiar highway sites. Then there was the house waiting for me, complete with cat vomit in the entry way, a very happy dog, my beautiful sons, a clean kitchen counter, and a whole lot of mail.

Balanced precariously on the ledge of these merging views, I recover from close to two weeks away and all the beauty and exhaustion that filled that time. I run to the garden in the morning in my nightgown to graze on tomatoes and consider what to plant for a fall garden. I nap deeply for hours, then find out it was just 10 minutes. I plant a big dinner while watching the many hummingbirds from this porch, then decide yogurt and fruit is best.

The view behind, the view ahead, and the view now hangs mysteriously together when I see a fast orange butterfly reminding me that just yesterday how a bunch of us in the ocean pointed up and laughed when we saw a black butterfly. Motion links us.

Insomnia with Stars, Rain, Thunder, and Lightning Bugs: Everyday Magic, Day 866

There’s something to said for seeing in the dark especially when the first rain in weeks makes both a dramatic and gentle entrance, adorned with lightning bugs filling the fields, stars to the south, and lightning flashes turning on and off the vista of clouds.

There’s something also to be said for listening closely when thunder echoes within echoes, opening up caves within caves of the sky, the wind barely trips leaf against leaf, and filling it all are thousands of tiny pings of rain.

It’s a still life for the senses, only instead of a canvas, it’s life being life in this place at this moment. A crooked bolt shines on down before vanishing. The car hoods glow metallic every few moments. Inside, the dog stands up very concerned, then lies back down. Outside, the tomato plants out back and hostas out front drink it all in, me too sitting on the porch, awake when I should be asleep.

Sometimes life rocks us into its beautiful cradle, and eventually, I hope, toward refreshing sleep. But for now, this is enough.