A most glorious day.
Blue skies with magnificent white clouds floating by,
Sometimes obscuring the sun, leaving a chill in the air.
Sunlight illuminates every color of green. Overwhelmingly green.
Every flower blossom exudes fragrance on the air,
Passing by just to give a whiff, of pleasure.
The mottled ground, shadows of quivering leaves.
The Bush Tits flitting, where else? In the bushes.
I’m mesmerized. I cannot move from this chair.
What if I miss a moment?
I miss winter already.
I miss the dark and brooding skies,
As I look up through bare branches hanging overhead.
I miss the mist and the cold wind against my face,
And pulling my coat and my scarf a bit closer around me,
And my hat tightly down over my ears.
I miss the hard, hard rain,
Soaking through my pant legs and my boots.
Although it’s barely spring,
I miss the long nights of storms blowing through from the east,
Rattling both shutters and awakening my fears.
I miss finding comfort in piles of quilts and wool.
Even the soft light of spring seems too harsh, too bright.
I’m not ready. I’m not prepared for what is exposed in this light that comes even through clouds.
Though there are a million other beautiful things about spring,
I miss winter already.
We had a thunderstorm last night with pouring and pounding rain, bright white flashes of lightning and booming, rolling thunder and wind blowing the trees sideways. It blew by. It lasted for just under 20 minutes.
I counted the first burst of sound and flash of light that woke me from an uneasy sleep, just like Mom had taught me to do. “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.” It was right over head as it headed west. I quit counting at seventeen one thousand… it was traveling across the midnight sky.
Then just as suddenly as it began, all was quiet again. The trees stood still and the undisturbed darkness returned. The smell of wet pavement blew in my open window as the drops of rain fell on the warm streets.
When I woke this morning, we’re back to the heat with bright sunshine. The sky is light blue with high fluffy clouds thousands and thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of feet in the air.
The light is a soft, muted golden yellow. Even the air itself, as if it were visible, shimmers. I think because of the slow and gradual transitioning to autumn, and the extreme heat we’ve suffered, the leaves are starting to turn on the trees and fall to the ground.
What a sight to see and remember in this late August time.
Cottonwood tufts,
Float by on warm air,
Into sunlight.
It’s just past noon on the summer solstice.
For days it’s been cool and raining.
Everything is just a bit damp.
While the temperature is climbing,
The hammock is calling.
I answer the call and lay down,
and I gaze upwards.
The sky is so blue it’s an impossible shade of purple.
The leaves are every shade of green,
From black where little light can reach,
Under the dense branches,
To chartreuse where the leaves shine against the sky,
Almost translucent where sunlight amicably tries to penetrate.
I think I’ll just lie here for a while.
After all, the warmth and beauty are mesmerizing.
When we were kids, Dad said we had to choose one of the many gardens in the backyard to keep weed free.
Mom worked nights and so slept during the day. On weekdays we were in school but on the weekends Dad was home and he liked to keep us busy. He was a big believer in chores. In the cold months we usually had to help with the dusting or other house work but in the summer we had chores outside.
Of all the gardens, I chose the garden underneath the nook windows that had a row of Japanese Quince. This side of the house faced North and so was generally shaded by the house. It seemed to be the perfect environment for the Japanese Quince. It was always damp under the bushes. A little bit of dark green moss grew on the surface of the dirt.
In the Spring, the bushes broke forth in riotous blossoms. They were, what I thought was a perfect shade of pink, with a hint of orange giving them a deep hue of salmon.
Nothing grew underneath the hard stems covered in wicked thorns. The moss did a good job of acting as mulch creating a weed free environment. You would only need to get close to the bushes for those thorns to seemingly reach out and grab your hair or your clothes. If you were that unlucky you would probably end up with a tear in your sleeve or end up crying trying to untangle your hair from the thorn.
It was strange that a child would prefer these bushes to any of the other flower gardens in the yard. But I loved them and I love them to this day.
And now that I look back on that time, I think it was not at all strange that Dad would let me choose a garden that needed no weeding. You were the best dad in the world, Dad.
…………………………………………………
May the rain fall
And the sun shine on you,
And sometimes at the same time.
This morning’s weather reminds me of when I was younger. It shows just how Portland I am.
It’s grey everywhere except for the explosion of some small Spring flowers. It’s cold. It’s raining but not pouring but it’s constant.
The wind is blowing. It’s blowing hard enough that I can hear the bells hanging on the porch.
The trees are still barren with just small buds of green showing. The exceptions are the Magnolia and Tulip trees that have full blooms, now drooping and dripping. The Japanese quince, stiff and thorny, is showing pink.
I walked the dog and I was reluctant to come back into the house. But Yum Yum was wet (her least favourite state) and ready for her treats.
Now, I’m sitting in my room and the rain is tapping on the windows. The big and old trees are swaying slightly against the wind.
I can hear the heater motor and see the fake fire inside my electric stove. Somehow warming.
The cat is sleeping on my bed so there’s no reason to make it up. She has made beautiful swirls in the blankets.
It’s very dim in my room and I don’t want to turn on any lights. I like this gloom and deep shadowed corners that are inviting and welcoming.
I think I will have a cup of tea and a little bit of dark chocolate and slices of the orange sitting in a ramen bowl.
I don’t miss the invasion of the bright rays of the sun that is hiding behind the charcoal clouds as they scud by, pushed along by the wind. There is a brightness in the far distant horizon where the clouds have thinned.
I might even doze a bit today. The gentle pitter and the patter of the rain are the perfect lyric and rhythm that can enduce slumber for any troubled mind.
I’m held in the arms of Portland weather and memories. Let the world go by. I’m not interested.
I wake to another cold and rainy day. What a relief after our brutal Summer and Fall where the earth cried for rain. From what’s predicted, we should have nothing but welcome cold and clouds and rain through the middle of the month, at least. May it be so until Spring arrives in our neck of the woods
As long as I have my coffee in the morning and my lovely warm bed and my beautiful room and knitting to do and the cats and dog lying about, I can’t imagine being more content on this November 1st.
I’m trying to put aside the earth’s sorrow and just enjoy that the holidays are here. Though I love every season I might say that this is my favorite time of year, though I can find something in every season to bring me joy.
But I love the dark days and I love when people start to put up the twinkling lights. I love to walk by houses with lights in the windows at 5:00 in the evening. I can imagine a warm welcome for everyone. I love the gatherings with drink and food and at least an appearance of love and goodwill. I love the giving of gifts no matter how great or small.
Contrary to what many, or maybe even most think that these are Christian holidays, for me they are not and never have been. Rituals of celebration and gatherings and the giving of gifts existed way before what people think of as commercialization. Make your days of celebration be what you will.
I am too much of a realist to wish a cozy home and enough food to sustain through the dark months for every person and being on the Earth… and peace… at least peace. And yet I wish it so.
My trip to Arizona was amazing. Tracy and Kelly and I visited historic sites to view missions and petroglyphs. We visited mountains and canyons, the desert and rivers and creeks.
We hiked in the Madera Canyon in the Santa Rita Mountains and did a lot of birdwatching. A coati came right to the door of our cabin… not once but three times.
Deer and wild turkeys were abundant as were the afternoon thunder storms with raindrops the size of marbles. The food we ate on our travels was a cultural adventure.
Tracy drove us along the rim of Box Canyon, an adrenaline rush to be sure. Where the road was washed out and only wide enough for the truck, we laughed or held our breath as we looked into the depths of the Canyon, yelling and telling Tracy not to look but to keep her eyes on the road.
The skies in Arizona are wide and blue or black with giant storm clouds the size of mountains. The roads are strewn with washes and signs warning of flash floods and cattle wandering the open ranges.
I greet the saguaro as we pass by. They seem like old friends and maybe ancestors. I love all of the cactus that I see as we drive long, long stretches of road through the reservations and small towns and seeming nothingness except the land, the mountains and sky. But there’s something special about the saguaro that I can’t explain.
Though October is rattler explosion time, I thankfully didn’t see a one and I thankfully didn’t see not even one bear or big cat. The universe heard my cry.
We knew the elusive Red Start was near because we could hear it’s song. We were never able to spot it until moments before we left the cabin when it hopped upon our door jamb as though to mock us and to say goodbye.
Back home we visited the Cosanti studio again where they bought me another bell. We swam in the pool and looked at the sky and read the books we bought along the way. We watched a movie or two and discussed life in general and in particular as we loved on the three old dogs and cats.
Times like this change our lives forever.
eyeamdust 