The Time Between

I was born the middle child in my five-member family; the one between the two outliers. It is an honored place. I had more opportunity to know both of my sisters growing up than they had to know each other. And besides, everyone knows middle children are the best. At least middle children know that.

I am the middle generation of the five with whom I have occupied the planet over some portion of my 60 years. All the greats and grands are gone now; and only four remain of the second generation, all over 90 years of living and one over 100. The fourth generation is complete, and the fifth is multiplying. It is the circle of life.


Autumn is morphing into winter. The season between is coming. The job of the trees is to let go of the effort of green, red, yellow, orange; to let go of their leaves and succumb to the nakedness between flashy fall and bursting spring. There is frost on the car Friday night, when I leave a local theater production; and the Saturday morning temperature is below freezing. I sleep with the windows closed for the first time since I arrived here in early July. When I leave yoga on Friday, a favorite brief view of Mt. Rainier from the highway reveals a new blanket of sparkling white－cold against the blue sky backdrop.

It’s an in between time in our country, too. We reelected a president, which eliminated the time between adminis- trations; but we took a big step toward ending another bastion of discrim- ination. Three states became the first to grant by popular vote, marriage equality to all; a fourth voted down a constitutional amendment that would ban those rights. It’s an in between time. To proponents, while jubilant, it is agonizingly slow work. To opponents, it is frightening. It is divisive. It is uncomfortable.

I exchanged emails this week with a young friend at an in between time she is finding uncom- fortable. She tells me that in her hot yoga class (not something I aspire to) the teacher tells them that the mini-rests between the intense strength-building and energy-exerting poses are not supposed to be comfortable, only still. A time to observe where the pain is and notice its easing as the yogi works it out.
 
I am between; not for the first time. I have had my flashy falls and bursting springs, along with some passionate summers. I expect there will be more. But right now I am heading into winter. My mother asks me Saturday morning what the weather forecast is for the beginning of the week. I have no idea. I can’t look that far ahead these days. My living tomorrow depends on what, that is beyond my control, happens today. Perhaps this time of stillness I am in, like winter, is not meant to be comfortable. But, as in those little between moments in yoga, this time in my life is an opportunity to notice the places of pain among the places of beauty; and to work them out.


It’s not a bad thing, this time in between. I am exploring my inner landscape. Which reminds me, yoga was much better this week; I felt like I challenged my muscles. We did gate, lunges, plank, chaturanga (well, I kind of added that last one) for the first time in this class. So many more poses we haven’t done, but it’s a start. I left the studio with that “I have done a good thing for my body and for my inner landscape” feeling that has been missing since I left Julie’s yoga classes at the Raleigh YMCA. It reminds me that I need to get more yoga into my weeks. If we are not finding that sense of well-being someplace in our life, we need to adjust.

After doing reclining twists and returning to stillness on our back, the teacher tells us, in preparation for savasana (the resting pose that completes our practice), to lift our sacrum just an inch and resettle back into alignment. The word sacrum comes from the Latin “sacer,” which means sacred. I wonder, is the time between our preparation for what comes next, our sacred time of realigning and rebalancing our lives? Are we making space for the time between? Are we taking time to settle into it?

I was informed by my friend Vee who keeps me apprised, that Mercury is in retrograde right now; an event that happens several times a year, when Mercury appears to be turning backward. Gemini and Virgo are signs ruled by Mercury, so if you were born during those months－and I am a Gemini－you will be complaining especially loudly of stuff going haywire. Why would the Universe give us Mercury retrograde? Because to move forward it is sometimes necessary to back up and reconsider, repair, reflect, and reconnect. Mercury forces us to slow down and rethink things.

I treat myself, finally, to a massage this weekend. After a week with an aching back, I finally make the appointment. Immediately after the phone call, my back stops hurting. I guess it was just reminding me that I need to do this good thing for myself. As Dalean massages those spaces in between muscles and tendons, and I experience the working out of pain, I am reminded again of what my friend told me: the space in between is not supposed to be comfortable. But when we sit in those spaces, allowing them into our consciousness, we see the discomfort and then can begin to realign our lives into balance.

Possibilities, No Promises

“There is a possibility－but no promises－of rain in the Pacific Northwest in about a week; breaking the about-three-month drought that has cursed or blessed us, depending on your point of view.” I hear this on the local public radio station Saturday morning as I head down the hill to Santa Lucia, past red and gold leaves and frost-covered roofs sparkling in the sunlight. The natives－at least the ones who are not dependent on rain for crops－are, I expect, happy to squeeze out every sunny day they can get; having lived through the longest rainy-season on record. (I made that last bit up, based on anecdotal evidence: my sister’s rantings.) I, on the other hand, moved here at the beginning of the drought from a state where it doesn’t rain nearly enough to suit my PNW blood (though it did this summer－after I left).

A friend emailed me this week to say it was snowing in her native Minnesota. She is currently living in North Carolina and that weather happening made her long for home. I have been enjoying the lung-cleansing crisp clear mornings here－and the afternoon warmth. The frosty roofs make me smile with anticipation of a possible real winter. I hope, after a snowless last winter in NC, there is white stuff here this year. But not yet!

This week’s presidential debate is disappointing, or encouraging, depending on your point of view. The subsequent jobs report is hopeful, or twisted lies, depending on your point of view. Marriage is sacred, or a mockery, depending on who it is doing the marrying, and who is doing the opining. Is there anything at all that everyone agrees on? I must say, I hope not. That sounds kind of scary to me. At the risk of turning this post into a sermon, even more frightening is the political climate that has been happening in this country and around the world in recent years. The polarization into one’s own viewpoint to the exclusion of being able to see any shred of truth in anyone else’s way of seeing the world has probably been at the root of every war－in groups as small as family to as large as countries－since the beginning of time. The current time is no exception; we are at war within this country.

Kate Maloy (A Stone Bridge North, 2002), a Quaker, says, “I believe every religion has a piece of truth, as every human being does, even if it is difficult for outsiders, or even insiders, to discern. Troubles arise when we mistake our own small piece as the whole and regard the truth in others’ possession as upstart lies. ...When God fragmented oneness into the multifarious universe, She gave both Herself and us, out of boundless, risky, heartbreaking love, the only possible route to knowledge and understanding: comparison, diversity, opposition, contrast. ...Creation is fragmentation, first. To make anything－a house, a quilt, an omelet－we first have to break, cut, tear, collect the pieces or ingredients. Perhaps our job on earth is to find as many scraps of original truth as we can and fit them together again.”

The garden is created from the tearing apart of the seed pods and the scattering of its potential onto other pieces of earth. Birds and bees and butterflies remove truth from one flower and plant it in another, propagating the species and giving birth to beautiful new ideas. In the spring, the soil is tilled and torn, and the garden is augmented, not destroyed, by the introduction of fresh rich soil from other sources.

As I explore my universe this autumn, at Mt. Rainier and around my home in the woods, I cannot help but notice that it is not the red leaves that makes the landscape beautiful; it is the red, orange, yellow, and green living side-by-side that makes the world sing.

There are no promises in this life. No promise of good health, permanent relationships, financial wealth, fulfilling jobs, high-yield gardens, “enough” rain or sun or snow. But when we open ourselves to the idea of some bit of truth in every individual, political party, religion, and even climate, we open our lives to possibility. When rain and sun come together, there is a rainbow. A rainbow containing every color in the world.

The Sweet Side

After Friday yoga, I go to the Olympia Farmers’ Market to fill my mom’s order for green vegetables and peaches; and a couple more honey crisp apples for me, in spite of the fact that there are buckets of transparents and gravensteins on the porch picked from the trees at my home and the neighbor's. Passing the cart of red, yellow, green, and orange peppers－its sign proclaiming one side as the sweet side, as opposed to the other hot side－I think, there next to the end waters of Puget Sound under the blue sky and the free-wheeling gulls, “yep, I am living on the sweet side." The sweet side of life, the sweet side of this country. (In my opinion, of course.)

My yoga instructor had offered earlier that there are two sides to all things. As we enter into this season of autumn and cooler weather and stillness, the southern hemisphere is gearing up for summer. As I stilled myself in supta baddha konasana, I thought about my life and how just about everything has a flip side. For every gladness there is a complementary ache; and vice versa.

I would be beginning the annual ritual of pulling out summer vinca and marigolds pretty soon in North Carolina, and planting winter pansies. It is a duality of tasks that always made me a little sad, since the summer annuals were still pretty; until I started doing it, then I enjoyed creating openness. I haven’t bonded with my mother’s garden, beyond enjoying its beauty; but I do hope to enhance and renourish the soil this fall in the little patch around my patio to ready it for spring planting. Maybe by then I will be ready to create another garden. Sometimes all we can do is prepare and then wait to see what inspiration might come to us.

Thursday I take off for Mt. Rainier: one last romp in Paradise before the onset of winter snows shuts it down. It is a beautiful day, only somewhat marred by the eau du smoke de plumé from the wildfires on the eastern side of the mountains that mostly dominates the alpine parfum. Every now and then, I round a curve and come up close to the timberline trees and my nostrils fill with the true essence of paradise. The smoky haze obliterates the view of the rest of the snowcaps behind the silhouetted Tatoosh Range, but at my back, Mother Mountain is clear as a bell. Two sides.

I hike up Dead Horse Creek trail, the one that was still under snow when I was there earlier in the summer, then detour off onto the Moraine trail. It is mostly a non-maintained trail, with a sign warning hikers to "travel safely and make minimal impact." It is a beautiful footpath through an alpine meadow of mossy dampness, up close and personal to the mountain. I can hear the roar of the waterfall coming off the glacier; and, I guess, boulders rumbling as they bounce down the bare rock and ice slopes. Though I scan the slopes when I hear it, I never detect motion.

Back on Dead Horse Creek, I follow the trail to where it joins with the Skyline trail. Three or four years ago, I hiked up the other side of the loop until it came to the permanent snow field and turned back without reaching Panorama Point, in view on the other side. This time I take the trail clockwise to the Point. I eat my sandwich on the promontory at the base of the top of the world and wish I could see the other mountains: Adams, St. Helens, Baker; I did go to all that climbing effort, afterall. I watch a man with neither poles nor cleats, either brave or stupid, cross the steeply-pitched snow field from the other side. When he arrives, I comment on the personality choices I had assigned to him, and he wonders if he might be both. He says he saw the sign, .8 miles up and over, .3 across, and figures that’s a no-brainer. I think he lost his. One slip would be a really quick trip back to the lodge.

Pleased to realize I have more in me, I head up the High Skyline trail, the one up and over the snowfield. (I don’t have a death wish.) I get to the apex of the trail, the highest point one can climb on this mountain without equipment and a sherpa, and am rewarded with an art installation! Dozens of carefully stacked and balanced sculptures of volcanic rock on boulders. I am unspeakably enchanted. (The brave/stupid, “take the shortest route” guy, missed it.) I wander around the rocky point looking at the efforts, and add my own contribution. Community art in the high Cascades.

I had thought I would turn around here and return the way I came. Though the other side of the loop is my favorite side of the mountain with its vast meadows and gentle slopes of brilliant color, it is a considerably longer descent. (It is also a considerably longer ascent. I don’t know if that is the reason for the burning lungs and shaky legs I recall from my last trip up the trail, or if I am also in better shape today－thanks to three years of yoga.) But, what the heck, I am in no hurry. I head down the other side.

I immediately encounter a three foot length of very narrow path around a point. I am so filled with fear I forget to take a picture. Or maybe that is because I am, now, going to turn around; I don't want to record my failure. Having just met a quite elderly couple who had obviously navigated it, though, I decide as I did at Hurricane Ridge, not to let my fear win the day. I take it carefully, holding onto the embedded rock shards that is taking up the inside half of the trail, and not stepping on small loose rocks. Also trying not to think of the father that fell off a similar spot on another mountain in front of his young son a couple of weeks ago.

I don’t fall off; the rest of the trail is glorious. And I am enormously proud of myself. I have never done the entire Skyline. It is an elevation change of 1700 feet from the lodge, to a height of more that 7000 feet－nearly (only) half the elevation at the summit. But it is my summit, and I claim success.

I meet another couple, brother and sister about my age, coming up the other way. He comments on the smokiness, and blotted out views, and then shrugs and says, “That’s what the experience is on this day.” Indeed. Everyday is our experience on this day. However bitter (or hot pepper hot) it may seem, surely there is some moment of sweetness.

“What day is it?” asked Pooh.

“It’s today,” squeaked Piglet.

“My favorite day,” said Pooh.

This day is surely one on the sweet side of my life.

Autumn Schizophrenia

Week before last it was 90 degrees. Last week highs struggled to reach 60. This week it's back in the 80s.  It's the same every year, but to hear people talk--including me--you would think it's the first time in the history of the world the temperature has been so schizophrenic. It is summer's last gasp. Now, with the autumnal equinox behind us, fall struggles for a foothold. I suppose we all let go of the past kicking and screaming; and we leave skid marks as we dig in our resistant heels to what is new. Eventually it all evens out. I, for one, don't let go of the southern summer kicking and screaming. I am more than happy to leave it behind; and I love autumn--bring it on! Yesterday, in celebration, I buy beautiful yarn. I am ready to build a fire, wrap in an afghan, and knit. Which reminds me, I need to go to the Farmers' Market and buy firewood.

Staff retreat is this week. We go to our favorite place in Durham, where we love the meeting room rocking chairs and the Sisters. The food is pretty good, too; and we get our own rooms. We are less enamored with the plethora of dead Jesuses. As friend Suzanne says, "You would think it time they resurrected Jesus." I walk the meditation trail twice with my camera, which seeks out the mushrooms. It is a good retreat. Two new staff members, who are as different from one another as two people could be, join us. The new blood is good as we seek better ways to communicate with and care for each other and the congregation.

Speaking of autumn and work... yeah. Lots of work around finances and budgets and program start-up publication needs (my schizophrenic job). But one task I brought on myself this summer, when I spearheaded a refurbishing project in the front office and the hallway outside the office. And now, along with the seasonal busyness, it must be completed. As the finishing touch, a church member and I scored 
a find at Habitat ReStore: a cabinet with work table top to replace the unsightly mishmash that was next to the copier. A volunteer repurposed it beautifully and brings it upstairs mid-week. That leaves me to empty out a large metal cabinet that had been in the office, then moved temporarily to the hallway. Now it's in the soon-to-be new administrator's office. It has been reproducing junk like field mice for a couple decades, and I unilaterally decide it's time to clean out the nest. The new administrator should not have to move into a storage unit. So, I spend Saturday morning purging.

Among the items I find are:

• Enough hanging file folders to supply a large, pre-computer age business
• 17 IBM Selectric ribbons (that's a typewriter in case you have forgotten, or never knew)
• A box of labels for a dot matrix printer
• One quadrillion tabbed notebook dividers
• Tons of miscellaneous hardware (yes, in the business office); some neatly labeled, by a certain anal previous administrator, as to what long-discarded-whatever they belonged to. Others kept by someone(s) who had no idea what they went to, but couldn’t bear to throw anything away, however useless. Reminds me of my dad and his methodically-labeled box of "string too short to save"

I am not a saver. I have seen the consequences of keeping everything that someone somewhere might need someday--or not--and I travel light. When one lives alone, purging is a breeze. But I am not the only stakeholder at the church, so what doesn't get relocated goes back in the cabinet. Staff has two days to rescue what they can't live without and find someplace to keep it; on Wednesday it will be liberated from its decades-long cabinet captivity.

Back home I take stock of what's happening in the garden. I need to cut the grass, but in the past week or so there has been more rain than we have seen all summer. At least more consecutive days. With the ground too wet to mow, I take advantage of the soft earth and pull plantain weed out of the lawn. It has profited greatly from the rain. Eradication is like trying to rid the sky of stars, but I attempt.

I also clear the weedy grasses from the water meter cover. It takes me back to my childhood when it was my family's month as volunteer meter reader for the Seminary Hill Association, which bought water from the city. I love how doing something as simple as exposing the meter in my yard reminds me of going around the hill with my dad recording the meter readings in a little spiral notebook.

I wander through the yard looking for retreating plants, but I am surprised by what is experiencing rebirth. Yep, it's a schizophrenic time of year. Several of my ferns that had long since disappeared in the summer heat and drought, are poking cautiously back up, like it's spring or something! The Japanese painted fern isn't even being cagey. It's just full-out back. My favorite wild phlox that blooms wherever it wants--mostly in the yard--until the heat settles in for good, is up and blooming again. But the surprise that leaves me gasping with delight is that the Prairie Something bulbs I mail-ordered and planted three years ago that has never bloomed, is!

Every growing thing in my garden is my most something. Even the catbrier, which is my most detested something. The flower I love most for its multiple beautiful stages is the hydrangea. From the dead-but-not-dead winter canes, from which green leaves directly sprout in the spring; to its beautiful green, gradually morphing to pink/blue/purple long-lasting-if-you-keep-it-watered summer bloom; to the faded fall color that dries in the house for winter beauty, it is a most amazing plant.

I have been wondering if the toad lily is going to bloom this year--I can't remember its estimated time of arrival. A couple week's ago I notice buds. I check it out again, not blooming yet. Something to anticipate; maybe next week, or the next. I pull more marigolds; they are mostly gone now. Only the black eyes of the black-eyed Susans remain. The zinnias, vinca, and that Annual I Can't Remember the Name Of are blooming like they have no intention of stopping. Ever. The late-planted lantana has finally taken off and the Mexican petunia that struggled this year is blooming. I even spotted some morning glories this week. I keep accidentally pulling the vines with the ivy; I am pleased by their tenacity. The volunteer cosmos just keeps coming. And the sedum that I didn't remember having a bloom is lovely.

I confess I have been lonely this week. Maybe it was the two days and an evening with people at the staff retreat that makes my beautiful home feel temporarily empty. Maybe it's the rain, which I love, but which raises a yearning for a snuggle-buddy. Maybe it's watching the season-opening Grey's Anatomy and Christina's reference to Meredith as her "person" and feeling like my persons have all faded away, and I will never have one again. Being in what I thought would be a garden in full-out retreat, but isn't, reminds me to never say never. Everything is seasonal. The person-drought will come to a close when it's time; and probably when I least expect it.

Autumn. I exchange my spring/summer porch decor for the autumn/winter version. I welcome fall, which will come into fullness in its time. I am glad to cycle along with the seasons. They come, they move on, they return. All is as it is ordained.

Dance Like Your Hair's on Fire!

All week the weather-tellers predict a 25º temperature plummet Thursday night. My anticipation can not be greater if the forecast were for snow. And I love waiting for snow. As promised, Friday and Saturday, under a gray sky, the drizzle-filled air does not get over 60. The heat is not over, but it has loosened its grip. Human beings will never stop trying to control whatever they can, but at least for now, they cannot keep autumn from coming. The autumnal equinox begins Friday, at 5:05 AM, ready or not. It doesn't mark an absolute cross-over, but it throws up the signal: the change, it is a-coming. The annuals are blooming their hearts out, but they can't keep it up. The perennials that didn't succumb to the heat and drought are beginning their descent into the earth to rest and renew. The geese honk over my roof this morning, heading south.

There is nothing cold about the emotional temperature in Raleigh this week, though; it's on fire. Early in the week, the State legislature voted to put an anti-gay marriage amendment  on the May ballot. Of course they don't call it that; they call it protection, not discrimination--it's a scary line. I am weary of this regressive state. I just do not understand how a same-sex couple wanting to legalize their love is threatening to straight marriages. Truthfully, I'm not sure why anyone thinks it important to legalize love. In my humble opinion, I think tax laws should not address how and whom a person loves. I think any adult should be able to say who they want to make decisions for them if they are incapable of making them themselves, and who they want to leave their stuff to when they die. And if they write it down, that should be good enough. Why should you need a state sanction for that? The government should not be involved in whatever ritual of commitment feels right for two people, and men and women of the cloth should not sign a civil document for anyone. I say ban all marriage laws. And Brian at Cafe Carolina, who gave me free coffee this morning, agrees.

People are afraid. That's all I can figure out. And I understand fear: fear of change, fear of losing control, fear of dancing. But the world changes every single day--the political world and the natural world. Our families change, our job responsibilities change, we change. And we never had control to lose, only the illusion. A historical note of interest about North Carolina: in 1920 our beautiful state--marred only by the frightened, control mongers--had the opportunity to be the final ratifying "yes" that gave women the right to vote. But the legislature defeated the measure by two votes. The next day Tennessee had the honor of ushering the 19th Amendment into law. When did North Carolina ratify it? 1971.

Within the state both pro-suffrage and anti-suffrage groups campaigned vigorously and distributed materials to persuade others to support their cause. Just as they are now on the issue of who should be able to marry the person they love, and who should not. Those opposed to the amendment did so for a variety of reasons, including:
• the belief that voting rights should be the purview of the state 

• women who became involved in politics would neglect the home 

• women would be forced into roles they did not want, such as having to serve on juries 

• giving women the vote may lead to Negro suffrage.

In hindsight we can ridicule those individuals and groups for their short-sighted bigotry and misogyny (though sadly there are still people who believe those things). They were afraid then. They are afraid now. They are still trying desperately to hold on to some kind, any kind, of control and power. Everyone is dancing like their hair is on fire to make happen what they believe it right.

Over the past year, the Wake County school board majority has been passionately working to repeal the school system's diversity policy. They have all sorts of faulty rationale, but what it really comes down to is socio-economic racism. They don't want the privileged among us to have to put their children on a school bus, or to sit next to a student in the classroom who doesn't look or dress just like they do. Both sides are dancing like their hair's on fire.

I watched a disturbing (Danish) movie last night, In a Better World, about bullying. Bullying comes in all shapes and sizes. The child who befriends a bullied child and uses the power of that friendship to talk the grateful recipient into wrong-action, is as guilty of victimization as those who name-call and beat children not like them. Politicians and preachers who lead their disenfranchised and fed-up followers toward the wrong star are just as oppressive as a dictator.

On a happy note, three weeks ago, my daughter and her girlfriend became engaged! No, they cannot legally marry in the state of Washington. Yet. But Washington is a progressive state. If not always pushing the envelope like their neighbor Oregon, they don't like to fall behind. I am thrilled for Emma and Wynne. Thrilled that they can openly share their love. Thrilled that they are not afraid to post their happy news on Facebook. Thrilled that my 95-year-old mother is honored that they want to have a ceremony next summer in her side yard, and that she loves Wynne as much as I do. Thrilled that perhaps in some way I eased the path for my daughter to know herself and to not be afraid to be who she is. I am not an outwardly cause-passionate person, but in my own way, I dance like my hair's on fire. I have tried to know and be true to myself even when the path was rocky.

I have a confession to make though. None of us are without our own insidious homophobia, even those of us who are gay ourselves. While I have referred to Wynne as my daughter-in-law (jumping the gun in a way I would not have until the fact of the wedding, were they a heterosexual couple), it took me several days to realize that I am to be the mother-of-the-bride. It kind of hit me like brick. I will need cute shoes and an outfit! I just was not thinking of this marriage in the same way I did when my son told me he was engaged. I am on the path now; I hope that is enough to forgive myself, and for Emma to forgive me. We move slowly, the important thing is that we move. Start the dance slow, but move on to jitterbug.

It makes no difference to me if the state recognizes their life together; but if it is important to them, I hope they dance for the right like their hair is on fire. We all have causes about which we are, in whatever way, passionate. I am unlikely carry a sign on the Capitol grounds (though I might, and I have marched for a cause) or write a letter to the editor (though I am writing a blog) or give a speech to the masses (no way in hell). That doesn't mean I'm not on fire. And no one can tell me what causes I should be dancing for. I am irritated by people who think everyone should throw themselves into every fire. There are people dancing for one important cause and who, though they may be passionate about others, do not have the energy to throw themselves completely into another dance. I have mentioned here three causes--gay rights, protection of diversity, bullying--that are really about the same thing: holding one group of people down so another group can stay on top. Dancing for one is dancing for all. They are all about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That rings a bell.

People intent on passing legislation to hold back love for all and among all will be no more successful than keeping women from voting or keeping autumn out of the garden. Religious leaders who use the Bible to justify their bigotry will not be successful, because the Bible is all about love. "Weeping may come in the night, but joy [and dancing!] will come in the morning." The One who is More is doing a new thing in the world...and the sun will rise on the new day.

“Be fully passionate about something. Let your heart be moved. Know what you love. Shout it for others to hear. Write, sing, paint, live--like your hair’s on fire.” (Patti Digh) And dance!

Bird on a Wire

I resurrected my early morning walk three weeks ago, after a long hiatus: too dark, too cold, too hot, knee issues.... I love being out at dawn. In the beginning I vary my route, until the morning I head for the cemetery after not being there all summer. And now, though I may think of going elsewhere, my feet go toward the grave stones like a hummingbird to nectar. I walk silently with the Vietnamese caregivers of the dead as they head out with their equipment. (I think I would like that work.) I observe the ground fog loitering around the marching white stones of the war dead. I watch and wait for the sun to rise behind Bartholomew Figures Moore, a huge red orb preceded by pink then orange clouds.

On the way to the cemetery one day this week, I spot a bird sitting on a utility wire. Just sitting. Perhaps watching for the sun to come up. Or resting. Or waiting until the time is right to move on. A few steps farther and I look at the three faux Tibetan prayer flags (bandannas, really), tied to a cable fence. And still farther, a forked branch caught on the wire high overhead, blown out of a tree by Lady Irene I expect. As I enter the cemetery, one of the first markers my eyes rest on is the odd fox permanently guarding Mr. McKee's final resting place. These are the images that stick in my mind through the week.

Thursday after work I go out for a beer (and, incidental to the beer, supper) with a newish friend. Lisa is one of those rare people with whom I have found a quick and easy connection. Not confined to the slow death of small talk for months, we are comfortable with getting to the nitty gritty of life in conversation, even though we have known each other for such a short time. She tells me she is thinking of leaving her job of 15 years. She's tired. She's tired of the crap, of incompetent assistants, of being unappreciated and underpaid. She has an opportunity to go to work in her husband's office she says. And she is thinking about it. But she's sitting on the wire. "What is the worst thing that could happen?" I ask. "I hate working with my husband," she says. "And then what?" I counter. "I quit," she replies. "And then what?" I say, pushing the envelope. "I get another job, " she answers. Me: "Uh, huh." She: "Oh."

That bird can sit on that wire as long as it wants. And it can fly off anytime. It just has to decide it's ready.

This has been a really hot summer. How do I know? Last year I made peace with the heat, I adapted. I spent a lot of time under the dogwood tree. This summer, I have rarely sat on my new patio under that tree. I can't bear the sizzle. There are no moles. I don't know if that's because of heat or lack of rain or what; I just know the yard doesn't look like it's been strip mined after I mow. Last summer I had grape tomatoes until I picked a huge bowlful of green ones just before the first freeze. I made green tomato soup, bread, sweet and savory pies. This year the vines are already nearly dried up. I'm sad about the tomatoes. Not for anything else.

Someone hurt me this week, not for the first time. But just when I was thinking we were done with that, wham! gotcha again. I don’t like it when people disappoint me; I want them to be better than that. But really, after I got over being slugged in the gut, I realized I’m just sad for her. I wonder if she likes who she has become. Cuz that is all I really care about. She can’t hurt me; I just hope likes herself.

Those bandannas? They can't choose to leave the fence, and wind won't blow them off. Someone has to untie them. There are so many people in my life who don’t disappoint. They are the shining helpmates in my life. They have all the power. They untie me from that cable of hurt, and they give me reason to untie myself. And each time the pain returns, its grip is loosened faster. But I have to be willing to let them in.

There are signs of the coming change of season in the garden. As I sit on the deck, puffs of wind blow dead leaves off the branches and they rattle down through the trees. Birds fill the grove last night, flitting from tree to tree; they clamber around my feeder, oblivious to the fact of my presence or that of the cat. I imagine them bulking up for winter. Yesterday I notice the dogwood tree and nandina suddenly have berries. I have always loved autumn. I love the very word. I love the anticipation of cool air and stillness. The Burning Bush is starting to show its color; it is still so subtle--unnoticed until I stop and look at it. I am reminded of Moses, who saw the bush burning and didn't go right on past it. He went out of his way to get a closer look. And that is when the One Who is More spoke to him. Not until he left the familiar road.

The branch on the wire can't get off by itself; it will take a blast of wind to blow it loose. Just as Moses needed the help of a distraction to lure him off the path, sometimes we need the the pull of something curious to pull us toward new opportunities. Sometimes there is a force outside of our bidding that propels us, and sometimes we have to watch for the what calls to us--and be willing to leave the wire.

An acquaintance died yesterday, following several months of illness. I am told she has been sad, angry, and cantankerous since her husband died, more than a decade ago. I think of the stone fox. Stuck on that gravestone. Neither choice, nor distraction, nor the winds of time can blow it off. That is death. It is sad to choose death early. What wire are you sitting on? What is calling you or pushing you to leave? Who are you letting in to help you loosen your grip?

I watch a favorite movie from my small collection last night. Meg Tilly is blown off her wire; Christine Lahti chooses to leave hers. They help untie each other. They don't stay in their dead places. It isn't easy. It seldom is. And we often don't know what the outcome will be. But we will never know if we don't take the forward leap. “I have to act like things are going to work out, cuz if I sit here for one minute and look at things as they really are…” (Leaving Normal, 1992)