Like a Rolling Stone

Omniscient They say rolling stones gather no moss. And I guess that is true (though they may pick up a good bit of mud as they roll on). So does it follow that a stone at rest, growing moss, becomes stuck; trapped in its opaque moss casing? It is also true that one must slow down in order to notice that the constantly moving stone is gathering no plant matter.

Because we humans have well-honed selective--dare I say faulty--memory, we must record and compare to be sure of whether or not one something is different this year from last. I am a recorder, if not much else. Last year in a mid-January blog post, I included a picture of the first bloom on the winter jasmine. The photo above is this year's mid-January winter jasmine.

I started this blog in May 2010, thinking I would record a year in the garden, and after that there would be nothing new to write about and I would stop. But I just keep on rolling. And neither I nor the garden gather moss. I am different. The garden is different. The blog has become my journal of a life--all that's fit to print (which means a lot is left out). I no longer keep a journal in my own hand, which is a little sad to me, but there is a lot less verbal diarrhea and a lot more intentionality. When I did keep the journal, though, I often looked back at the same time in a previous year. And I often thought, "Good God, nothing has changed." I wondered how I could get unstuck. But the truth is, everything changes; it's just so tiny and slow that it doesn't always seem like it. The days whip by, the seasons cycle through at lightening speed, and our lives roll on inch by excruciating inch. That doesn't mean there is no change.

A year ago this month I tore my meniscus. In May I had surgery. My record of healing comes in the form of yoga. In fact, noticing change throughout my body is recorded in Julie's yoga classes at the YMCA. My very least favorite pose when I began yoga--when? three years ago, four? I must look back in my journals--was the dreadful pigeon (Eka Pada Kapotasana--I don't think I have heard Julie use the sanskrit name for that one). I don't know why it came to be my favorite over time. Perhaps because it is one that initially I Could Not Do At All. And then I could. It is a major victory. But after the injury and even more after knee surgery, I couldn't do it again on the right side. I suppose I did notice that each time we did it, I could bend it a little more and for a tiny bit longer, but I had given up thinking I would ever again do it completely. And, frankly, all I really cared about was the end goal. But this week I did it, a full year after the injury. (I still can't do a straight-legged forward fold with my palms on the floor. I think Never is a safe word with that one.)

That caring only about the end goal gives me pause. That's why we don't notice change. We tend to overlook the miniscule. We look too far ahead. And too far ahead looks too far to ever reach. And so we imagine that we are stuck--no longer a rolling stone. When we get stuck, stuff sticks to us, and that keeps us more stuck. There is a mathematical principle that I read in some novel several months back. It got my attention, so I wrote it down in my electronic file of Things I Might Want to Explore in a Blog Post. "Never start with the unknown variable." Even though we might think we know what's down the road, we really don't. It is an unknown variable. So we start with what we know. I think the same thing might be true when I begin the time in my life that what's ahead is most certain to be decline. The variable might be worse or better than what I imagine; but what I have is what I can notice and fall in love with today. My mother has started calling me, or sending me a note or even an email! about things she is falling in love with in that moment--like the fog in the valley. She often tells me what she has not been able to do; I love when she tells me what brings her joy. 

Shake off the moss. Shake off the mud. You are not stuck. Notice that pigeon is easier this month than it was last month. Start noticing the tiny buds on the hydrangea. One day they will have extravagant orbs of tiny flowers, or there might be a blight or an insect infestation or a hydrangea-loving deer. But right now the leaves are budding and beginning their slow rolling journey toward fullness. Rejoice in today's tiny bud. And eat your muffin one delicious bite at a time.

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)