“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”—Albert Einstein

Early this morning I caught a glimpse of the pumpkins on the steps of our front porch, a thin layer of snow covering one side of them—the contrast of colors, striking. Coastal Maine leapt brazenly this past week from an extended aura of summer into the arms of winter’s chill.

I look around noticing the people now bundled up in defense of the cold. Some are lamenting the rapid change in weather along with the clocks turned back—driving home from work daunting in the evening shadows, looking out for the nocturnal creatures venturing out earlier than before.

For others, the shift ushers in a deeper inhalation of brisk air, a feeling of aliveness rising up in them. There is an invitation in the ethers this time of year toward a more inward journey—enhanced by the element of fire burning hotly in woodstoves and fireplaces.

This is the season of candle lighting and a time for absorbing the few remaining bursts of color present in the foliage hanging—just barely—onto the branches of deciduous trees.

I missed the brief flurry of snow yesterday, tucked into a hospital bed and then under my own down comforter at home for much of the day. Even in minor surgery, there is a seriousness—an almost reverence—presented by the various players. It got me thinking about how in some ways our culture reflects an immense value on the preservation of and care for life. In some ways, it clearly does not.

One by one various medical staff came and talked with me.

Their mantra, “We are going to take good care of you.”

The surgeon took and squeezed my hand gently after explaining again the procedure then leaving to prepare herself. I wondered if this was her way or something she had been taught to do. It translated to me, “I care.”

I was in the prep-room for quite some time and found myself thinking about the idea of calling protection to my body. I imagined the people who I have loved—though now departed—surrounding me.

It is typical for me to linger one-part in the tangible aspects of the world while another part of me interlaces with the vast landscape of the unseen. Perhaps it is my Gemini— twins—nature that compels me in this way. Perhaps it is the distinct impression I have that nothing ever truly ends or dies—we just go on in a different way, in a different realm.

At first, I saw them in the forms they inhabited here on earth.

My grandmother on my mother’s side held her purse under her arm—there was sure to be a little bag filled with mints inside it if I needed one. I could see the steel blue eyes and grin of my paternal grandfather. My father once said of him that he left everything he touched better than he found it. I count this as one of the ways I aspire to be.

There were others, too. I imagined who they all were beyond their physical bodies— releasing them in my mind from that which had been so defining when they had lived.

Throughout my childhood, a wooden, adorned, mantel clock chimed throughout the day in my maternal grandparent’s home calling out the hours and marking the steady rhythm in which they lived. Its song warm and cheerful, like them.

It was the ubiquitous Westminster Chime that rang out in my presence for so many years of my life. I remember sleeping near it in the living room as a young girl on a pullout couch and waking in the night to the coppery tone of twelve gentle beats.

It took three tries to get an IV into my arm. I have tiny veins that want to roll away when poked. The anesthesiologist intervened and finally got it himself. I noticed a difference in the way he approached it. It seemed there was no way he wasn’t going to get it done. It made me think about the times when I have been sure that there was no way I wasn’t going to get it—something—done.

Taping the IV down tightly, he’d said, “You’ve earned this, I don’t want there to be any chance that it will come loose.”

“I’m going to take good care of you.”

There were two heated blankets covering me while I waited. I had no idea what time it was. I was hungry from fasting. I was growing tired of waiting.

Suddenly, I heard the chiming of a clock—a sound you would find in a home—not in a surgical hospital. It rang out a song that was warm and cheerful and familiar. It was the Westminster Chime announcing itself there in the medical building.

I asked the nurse about the clock and she said it had been moved there from another facility. It had lived for many years on different parts of the campus and now it was there, just outside my little room—one of the few places close enough to experience its calming, exquisite song.

 

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“Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.” –William Wordsworth

It’s another temperate October afternoon—still damp from the night’s rain and Halloween is in the air. A flock of crows swoop back and forth high above the tallest pines cawing loudly—announcing the coming storm or some other alarm that only those within their clan can decipher. I’ve yet to bond with one of these dark and intelligent creatures—so frequently in my midst—although I did once place a shiny, silver carabiner on the top of a hedge in a gesture of friendship.

The hammock has been taken down and packed away in the shed safe now from the winds, the pollen scrubbed from the pair of white Adirondack chairs that sit in welcome throughout the seasons. I’ve placed a pot of lemon balm on a table between them—a gift from a soul sister, dug from her garden and offered as a tonic with antiseptic properties. Later I will snip some of its leaves and pour steaming water over them for tea.

We have more pumpkins than we need—two are enormous—larger than we’ve ever picked out before. There are six in total, the pair of smaller ones already tucked in the car ready for carving in the classroom tomorrow.

The bees are telling their story again. They have had to find a substitute for the few remaining flowers that I pruned this morning in the front bed and four or five or six of them have landed on the jagged mouth of a jack-o-lantern, nibbling away at the remaining pulp from yesterday’s carving. One lone bee makes its way across the stone walkway, tipping over to its side and falling and then gathering itself upright again to keep moving forward toward some unknown destination.

He must have been brave—or looking for a way back to his den— to come so near, the boys playing loudly in the front yard. I suddenly felt compelled to look behind me. I must have heard something. As I was turning and peering down the pathway on the side of our house I caught a glimpse of a fluffy, grey tail leaping away from us. I took a few steps forward and at once realized we had been just a few long strides from a large grey fox diverted with my turn toward him and now running for the shoreline.

Inside a few days later, the boys and I were gathering our things to leave for an appointment. I was talking with them and facing our front door—large and outlined in windows. My eyes were suddenly drawn beyond them through the window where I came in contact with a pair of large, black eyes peering at me and attached to a wide and round body.

At first I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. The raccoon was so large and walking up our pathway with such confidence, it seemed he might stroll right up the steps and ring the doorbell. I composed myself and quietly alerted Jonah and Adrian and they turned slowly to face the door. With just that amount of movement our visitor scampered to hide in the line of bushes along our porch, Jonah heading quickly outside to catch one final glimpse before he scurried under the porch.

Dawn’s first light was only just beginning to reveal itself, a gentle fog hovering in the distance around a tiny island offering ambiance to the season. The house was completely still and silent except for the gentle movement of my pen across the page. I was perched in the spot I return to before the sun comes up morning after morning opening to connection and preparing myself to meet the vast energies that cross our paths in living.

In an instant I felt a presence to my right where a wall of windows looks out into our yard and the water beyond. I turned slowly—unsure of what I might find. My mind had to acclimate itself to an unusual scene once again—the presence of four majestic deer lingering within a stone’s throw of my seat. It was as if they had been looking in at me.

I looked back at them in awe—feeling my heart expand—and zeroing in on the mother’s perked tail, white on the underside. Her head turned toward me in a steady gaze, her ears at attention. In my mind I immediately felt compelled to send her a message of safety—of love, even. I thanked her for being there in a way that I hadn’t had a chance to do with the other wild creatures that seem to be circling our home coming more and more near.

I began to rise up—I don’t know why. There were two little deer along with the adults and as soon as I rose, they all began quickening their pace—moving gracefully— across the landscape away from me. The mother—in the rear of the group—looked back at me for just a moment longer than the rest. I took in the softness of her tender gaze and then watched as she caught up with the rest of the herd, wondering what other visitors I might be welcoming next.

 

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Joyous International Women’s Day!

There is ample reason to point out that women are as capable as men. We can do math. We can create art and music and laughter. We can run and tackle and climb. We can work construction, be on the front-lines and fix your plumbing. We can love other women and raise children on our own. We can make scientific discoveries and invent things and make loads of money. We can speak up and be heard and march and teach. We can lead. We can heal you and ourselves. We can do all of these things and more. And yet, there must be a reason women came to life—and there is no denying it—differently than men. There must be a reason for the struggle and the privilege to birth new life—new thought—to have had to claw our way up out of an idea that we were somehow less adept at living and to be seen as capable of voting and holding jobs and having control over our own bodies and minds.

There are as many ways to identify as a woman as there are women. We are not to be boxed in. That would be contrary to our very nature—creative, and expansive and divine. Let us celebrate today those many ways that we go about the world making our mark differently. Let us remember the cellular make-up of the feminine experience and let us encourage our valuable men, too, to discover the existence of these qualities within themselves so that they might better see and understand our real place—not in the kitchen—though many of us give and thrive beautifully there—but on the global stage where we can do our part to bring to life less war, less famine, greater equality and a more cohesive planet for all. This is not a competition. We—the magnificent women of this world—are a critical component in the global equation for PEACE and EQUALITY for ALL.

 

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