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)

Gradual Instants

The author of a book I am re-reading refers to a term used by another author [Ann Michaels]: gradual instants. Things seem to happen in an instant, or because of a single decision; but when you look back you realize it was all gradual; many forks, many decisions, all leading to where we are at any given moment. Sometimes the journey looks like we expected it to; but often it seems to bear no resemblance at all. And we say, "This is not how it should be." Counselors call it "shoulding on yourself." I have been thinking this week about the shoulds and the gradual instants in my life.

In the garden, on the last day of October, there is more color than it seems like there should be. Or less color. Most of the leaves have not begun to turn. And maybe they won't. There has been more heat than there is supposed to be. But because of the late warmth of the sun, the Gerbera daisy that didn't bloom all summer, has two bright blooms. And the Persian shield, a spectacular foliage plant, has new growth. I have never had a coleus before and I didn't know it was waiting for the end of the season to shine, but it takes my breath away. I didn't know...so much of the best of life are things we didn't know would happen.

At my high school graduation ceremony, the vocal ensemble, for which I was the pianist, sang my favorite poem. You know the one, by Robert Frost: “Two roads diverged in a wood and I--I took the one less traveled by…” It sounded very fine, but I had no thought--and no courage, even if I had had the thought--of taking a less traveled road. In retrospect, I probably didn’t even know what it meant. In 1970 there were still a lot of shoulds for women, and I thought I was buying into them. I certainly meant to. In my family, college was an assumption; and the stated expectation was that one finished in four years. But then what? Nothing was stated for what was to come next for me and my two sisters. I had no role model for anything other than the traditional life of a woman. I figured to get married, have children, and one day celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary. That is what should have been. Fact is, there is nothing certain about this life. I made it right up to the 50th anniversary part. But before I got even halfway there, my life took another road, “...and that has made all the difference.”

I should have celebrated my 35th wedding anniversary this month. Instead I have been not married almost as long as I was married. I am going to a wedding next weekend. My niece is getting married. Except I guess she is my ex-niece. She is my former brother-in-law's daughter. But the only thing former about the family is that her uncle is no longer my husband. Should I consider all the relatives former, or ex- (an ugly term that I refuse to use), just because that relationship took a fork in the road? He is still the father of my forever children. Some would say that I shouldn’t be going to the wedding; that I have no place there. Two years ago my niece asked me to come; because, she said, I am her aunt. I am going.

I should be 18 years into a counseling career. I felt so old when I got the degree at age 40, but if I had stuck with it I would be approaching 20 years with a state retirement in reach. I guess I wasn't all that old. But the work didn’t make me happy. And even if it had, I can’t imagine doing the same thing for that many years. And so I took another branch on the trail. And one thing led to another to another. I have suddenly realized that I am a traveler. Or perhaps I just suddenly named it; it has happened gradually over a lifetime.

I am so different from the person my parents raised me to be. Or am I? If I had had different parents or been raised differently, I would not be me. I believe what they wanted for me, and raised me to be, is an independent thinker. They taught me to love the outdoors--which is, by definition, a place of freedom and solitude. Much of the time during my last years at home, my father was away on business. I watched my mother care for her children, except for financially, pretty much alone. I didn't see that he was her absent support, I just saw the alone part. I just saw her independent strength. (And truly, it was only much later that I named that for what it was.) I married someone just like my father, and I was alone with our children much of the time, while he was working out-of-town. Why should I be surprised that I turned out strong, independent, and in love with solitude? Gradual instants. It all led to this point. Maybe it is all as it should be; just not what was expected. The uncertainty in my life, the not knowing what is coming next, is what has been the most exciting part of my journey. It is a journey without a known destination. It feels so hard some of the time, but it is the love of my life.

I fell in love with the Burning Bush in my son and daughter-in-law's yard. Yesterday I planted one of my own. It required creating a new garden bed that was new to my vision of what I planned to add to my garden. I thought I knew what the new bed should look like, but just before I made the last few hoe-hacks to remove the grass, its truth suddenly revealed itself. Except it wasn't sudden. It got to that point because of where I started digging, and the direction in which the digging proceeded. One hack following another. Random? Accidental? I don't know. But, it doesn't look the way I thought it would, and it is perfect. And that will make all the difference to what comes next. Perhaps that is faith. That the order of events will happen just the way they should. In the case of the garden bed, I am glad I was looking, and that I recognized what was right in front of me.

The garden is full of gradual instants. In the spring it is all happening underground. When the perennials stick their sprouts through the ground, it did not happen in an instant, though it appears to. The leaves, which seem to turn colors all of a sudden, really are working up to it. The color has, in fact, been there all along. But photosynthesis produced the dominant green that covered the color. Or something like that. When the sun gets weak there is not enough light for photosynthesis and the color dominates again. The leaves need the sun's light, though, so they drop off their branches without it and the trees go to sleep for the winter, living off the food stored during the summer. There is nothing about the process that happens in an instant. We have had a lot of late-season warmth, and the trees have done exactly what they should do, just on this year's unique time table.

Yesterday I went to the cemetery in search of fall color. I think it is no coincidence that the prettiest tree there spreads its red foliage over the graves of Harold and Mary Minges. They had no idea of the part they would play in my journey. That their resting place is under a beautiful tree is exactly as it should be.