Moving On

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The End and the Beginning

Today our local newspaper chronicled the history of believers who predict an apocolypse. It is true that we are in a time of increased seismic activity, and weather disasters are becoming commonplace. On tonight's news, they showed aerial photos from Mississippi where people are literally building islands to protect their homes. Nevertheless, hearing that some have quit jobs and spent irresponsibly makes me wonder what happened to make some of us abandon reason. I believe wholeheartedly in life's happenings as metaphor. I also espouse respect for the beliefs of others as long as they do not impinge or exploit. Is there plenty to worry about these days? Absolutely. Still, the light revealing six shades of green on lush trees is enough to make me pause and catch my breath. I have strong legs and good eyes. My dahlias, tulips, pansies, and bleeding hearts are in bloom--and the color variations are complicated and beautiful. On Facebook, a number of comments have been posted--songs for the end of the world--Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, "Let it Be" by the Beatles. Tonight we prepared fresh greens with lemon and olive oil, turnips from the farmer's market with a light dill sauce and a Pinot Noir. I can't imagine anything better as we sat on the porch, watching the waning light through lacy leaves. I remember a poem by Linda Pastan, "The Happiest Day"..."if only someone could have stopped the camera then/and ask me: are you happy?/perhaps I would have noticed/how the morning shone in the reflected/color of lilac..." At the end of my life, I hope to remember these moments--looking at your still handsome face, muted by the encroaching darkness, the small light on the wine glasses, a nod of purple hyacinth in the untended garden. This has to be enough.

Bleeding Hearts

Walking amid primrose, bleeding hearts and tulips, I feel colorless. All of us walk around as if we were ordinary when inside, ideas are churning and blood is pumping, nourishing our organs. I'm amazed when someone tells me something about myself that I didn't know---mostly because it often isn't true. All of us have internal and external selves and we humans make assumptions. I asked my class in Critical and Creative Thinking how many of them had experienced a misunderstanding through email or text message and just about every student raised his or her hand. We are clumsy at communication. Reading between the lines, we see a callousness or intimacy that may not exist. Even as a writer, I often blunder on the page. But I would take imperfect writing any day of the week. Notes, letters, postcards, and even emails are important to me. I learned as a young child to revere the written word. In a sense it gave me a kind of power I never felt I had when speaking. I still prefer writing to talking on the phone. I've learned to speak or read my work in public but I'm never completely comfortable. I just fake it better now. Like the amazing bleeding heart, a person's exterior can look very different from her interior or emotional state. I marvel at the complicated shape and color of this flower, realizing that we are also complex and our season of perfect blooming is short, not always fully realized.

Stinging nettles, Calla lilies

Nature is filled with paradox. On a recent walk to look for fiddlehead ferns, those furled beginnings that have to be picked only in the two weeks before they mature, open into the ferns you see by ponds, we also saw poison ivy, brushed against sharp branches. I can't describe the delight I felt finding these shy plants, curled up on the newly thawed ground. My daughter, Kira was with me. She is as familiar with the woods as she is with riding a bicycle. As an aspiring mycologist, she has learned the language of food that grows in dark and secret places--wild onion, morels, hen-of-the-woods, and oyster mushrooms. She is gone now--off to begin another kind of trek; that of higher learning.

We have finished our international book tour and Geraldine Mills has returned to Ireland. Last night I had my last coffeehouse with my writing students at the job I will leave at the end of this year. Endings also bring new possibilities. If I can learn to honor the seasons of things, I will become alert to the quiet places where the best words hide. I can move through the imagination like a native.