Photo by S. Auberle
an old post, yes, but a good one for Thanksgiving...
Among other wonders of our lives, we are
alive with one another,
we walk here in the light of this unlikely
world that isn't ours for long.
Friend, the road is the destination…so they say, but my destination this
morning is a sunny meadow. The air is
crisp, a bit of frost lingers on leaves beneath my feet and a little north wind
teases at me. Across the field, and into
crow-talking woods for a while--I am warmer in here, out of the wind. The trail winds deeper through tall trees,
past old settlers' discard heaps. The
crows and I converse for a while, then, wing to wing, they fly off into late autumn
blue, and I return to the dry grass meadow and its ancient apple trees. Here and there hangs a yellow or red globe, a
bright spot of color in the dead branches.
Garlands of bittersweet drape their bright orange against a cerulean
sky. Small, abandoned nests dot the
trees and a mud-dauber house hangs heavy in a branch, its swirls and patterns exquisitely fashioned. At my feet grasses are hollowed out, where
deer have bedded down in the night. A
dog barks somewhere, far off. I am just
another child grown old, yet my heart still beats, lungs take in air, legs
carry me over the land--what gifts--what blessings! The fourteenth century mystic, Meister
Eckhart, said if the only prayer you said
in your whole life was thank you, it would suffice. And today I kneel in cold grass, whispering
my two word love poem…over and over and over.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my family and friends...
Photo by S. Auberle
Annie turns 99 today -- soon she'll be just
another star, looking down and wondering what on earth all the fuss was
about. Her house is filled with paper
lanterns, her black and white photos, rocks and bones and birdwings. For her birthday I think I'll take her a
bowl of sweet cherries, though she never believed that about life. Just like she never believed she'd live to be
99. Survived cancer twice, heart
attacks, yet whenever you left, instead of goodbye, Annie always said cheers!
As if it was enough to wish it, she didn't have to believe. On the day Pavarotti died, she called to tell
me that once, upon hearing him in person, she nearly fainted. These days small Annie grows smaller by the
moment, and rarely speaks. Perhaps,
after all this time, there is nothing left to say. Annie has fierce masks hanging on her walls
and owls watch her, she once said, from the forest outside her windows. I don't know for sure if she speaks their
language, but it wouldn't surprise me.
Or dragonfly, perhaps. I asked
Annie one day if she believed in a god.
I don't remember her answer, but I doubt that she does. Maybe as her time draws near, she's reconsidering that. Or perhaps she's just
enjoying this cool west wind today that sets the lanterns to dancing and the
birdwings preparing to take flight…
(I wrote this piece a few months back, Annie died yesterday)
RIP Annie R. 1916-2015