Rainbow, overlooking a veranda, somewhere in California.
Is it Really True?
Rainbow, overlooking a veranda, somewhere in California.
My journal is filled with disconnected ideas, weather conditions, and random thoughts. Days and dates, and months of the year quickly pass by. Yesterday marked the first day of Spring, an annual milestone, filled with new hopes and dreams, like a toddler taking their first steps across the room.
I don’t remember learning to walk, but will never forget when I learned to ride bike. One day, a small bicycle suddenly appeared in the yard, and I knew what to do. It wasn’t mine. It was borrowed, and I would teach myself to ride. No eyes watched me, and no one talked. No training wheels attached themselves to the frame, either. It was hop on and go, from the top of a small embankment of the lawn, down. The incline was slight, and the soft, fluffy grass protected me when I fell. The time spent balancing became greater than time on the ground, until finally I was sailing away. It only took a day, or two. Left to my imagination, in this crucial task of growing up, the way to build and sustain my fragile confidence, was to be left alone, to own the accomplishment for myself.
It just occurred to me that the photograph I took of the stepping stones, leading from the forest into the open field, can be a metaphor for every task I embark upon, in every new stage of life, like riding the bike. And now, as each page of the calendar gets turned, and every new season passes by, the uncertainty remains as powerful as before. But, to move along means to cross the stepping stones at every juncture, and make the most, of tous les jours.
People don’t always see things in the same light. Reactions will differ, from something to nothing at all. Even in seeing a blade of grass. The same blade of grass in a sea of millions of other blades, an observer might ask: why are you looking at that blade of grass? -singular, like yourself. – And if you choose to answer them they still may not understand. You simply have to move on.
On a walk this morning up the street, the sun was shining and the temperature was pleasantly nearing some 50 degrees. The wind blew at varying tempos, fast, medium and slow. The rays of the sun came bouncing down to earth, dodging shadows in search of objects to reflect upon. The brilliance glistened silver on small sage leaves of olive bushes dotting the landscape. A nondescript tree had tiny reddish-brown leaves that whirled and whirled like tops. They hung on fiercely to the branches. Wind and sun converged in the air as I remembered fragments of a dream from the night before, where I inhabited a town of mean spirited, and kindred folk alike. Where a child lost in a sea of water called his mother for help. Others swam against the current, upstream. I roamed in and out of empty homes trying to find a place of friendship, when finally peace-loving souls welcomed me in. Relieved to be awake, reality reassured me I was alive in Autumn.
The gray, white, fluffy clouds
hang low in the baby blue sky.
The constant moon glows, and shines,
The trees bursting with buds
incline this way and that,
like a pregnant woman ready to give birth.
The bunny rabbit scurries
under the dark olive bush
wagging its white cotton tail.
The street light ignites
And the sun sets in the West,
on a horizon of many reds.
linger in the darkened sky
and the day light goes to bed.
The snow was all around today,
The trees laden, of white fluffy stuff, emerged in the gray blue sky.
There was a chill in the air.
No birds were singing.
The sound of shovels could be heard.
The tread of feet crunched in the snow paved drive,
Taking care of early morning rise.
The day began for many a hurried man,
As the day commences and the gray skies roll in, on this mid September day, I have thoughtless nothingness rolling through my mind. A vague recollection of a sweet dream, brought on by night fall’s misty stars. I try to wrap my mind around the blissful moment, but reality pushes out groggy sleep, to move onward with the tasks of the day. The vividness of the fantasy, moves ever further away, and I contemplate, that which comes next. The gray clouds loom over head, beckoning the arrival of much needed rain.
In the forest, wooden trunks, and structures
stark in sunlight, stand tall in their multitude.
Sentinels ready to file into Spring,
Inside, the cawing of crows, outside.
The ticking of the clock, on the mantel.
Shapes of sound, poured into silence
of time and space.
Lush earthy aroma of cinders in the chimney
permeate the air.
February, gone away,
March is still.
GRB ~ TiffanyCreek
“Twilight” Photo by GRB
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
While the grogginess of waking comes over me, on this gray rainy morning in early October, an autumnal mood hangs in the atmosphere. Yesterday, we were forewarned of the coming of Joaquín. Beware! A huge hurricane was riding the waves of the sea! Relieved, we were spared from another big one.
With the season in our midst, I remember the occurrence of Hurricane Gloria, at the end of September of 1985. Coming from the Midwest, this was the first hurricane I experienced in my life. Similarly, my husband came from the Ring of Fire, where earthquakes are the norm. In light of the newness of it all, fear was not on my agenda, having lived through many a Wisconsin tornado and blizzard.
The morning before Gloria’s expected arrival, on the advice of a vigilant neighbor, I hurried out to buy batteries, only to find every store, wiped out of supplies. No new batteries, and no duct tape, to secure the windows. Making do with the Duracells, found around the house, I prayed the panes wouldn’t break. Well, the storm, a lesson in science, was proven to be an all day process, moving into the next. As I stood, looking out the divided lights, I saw the trees bend and sway back and forth. They moved 180 degrees, from one side to the other, like sticks of licorice. The daunting speed of the wind caused the trees to crash to the ground around the house. One, two, three and another, uprooted from the base, they fell with a huge thump. The house was being spared, except for the electrical box. Without warning, a trunk like branch from a tree fell on the wires extending to the street, and the metal case was abruptly severed from the clapboard siding, strewing live wires all over the ground, outside. Then, an incredible stillness enveloped the air as the eye of the storm passed overhead, only to be followed by a more gently flowing wind. Nearing the end, Mother Nature had orchestrated a tremendous performance, with her emissary; The great and powerful Gloria!
Life was disrupted for several weeks into the month of October. The clean up was slow going, and the crews worked morning and night to restore electricity. The public waited patiently, as fleets of trucks, were sent from Quebec. They were like the Messiah, coming to bring everyone out of the dark. A heavily wooded state, storms inevitably pose a problem for Connecticut, and its residents can pretty much expect to cook with propane, and burn the lamplight oil.
Well, we survived. I look back, with gratitude that I had no small children to watch out for, and, there was no loss of life, at least that I know of in Connecticut, or New England.
Sitting on the Atlantic Coast, we wait patiently, and ponder, as hurricane season descends upon us. Will the brewing storms perish at sea, like Joaquín, or should one “batten down the hatches’, before it’s too late? In my quest for enlightenment, I ask myself, “What kind of a sailor will I be in the next storm? Will I have duct tape and batteries, and jugs and jugs of water? Will my bathtub be filled, and overflowing?” The question is not; Will another storm blow in? but rather, How can I ever be prepared? Having not the answers, with affection, and humble regard for the unknown, I recall the beloved words of E.B. White. “I cannot not sail.”