Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

warm winter sweaters

It feels like living when old things that I have always loved come back the forefront.

I've been listening to Sixpence again. I went to the Chicago Botanical Gardens with Jeffery and pulled out my old drawing book again. I haven't been writing (like the good little scout I ought to be) but I have been getting interested in life again.

Jeffery found out there was a lecture at the Chicago Botanical Gardens on English roses the day that we could go. I bounded around a few times and then pondered if my father had managed to kill all the English roses that we had had (You know its bad if something dies on my father. He's very careful about these planty things). All our roses were dead but who cares?!?! This lecture means life.

I had never been to the Gardens. The architecture was cool and soothing. It reminded me in some ways of Bethel. Bethel had been designed by a Japanese architect. They couldn't afford what all his designs called for but they tried to remain somewhat true to what he planned. The Botanical buildings had the coolness and lines that comes from Asian beauty meeting the Midwest landscape.
Something else that came into high relief…the care bestowed on the plants outside. Every tree and bush had been so carefully pruned and tended. I've been in gardens that have been cared for but this was different. Masses and masses of trees and bushes and every single one carefully and precisely cared for. There's a lot of love in the Gardens. A lot.

Our lecturist turned out to be a sassy middle age woman who was enthused not just about roses but flowers. And not just flowers but life and living in this life. She gave us a website to order lady bugs from (!!!!) and other nifty things. I'm on a high level of enthusiasm and planning. This year…definitely a new triad of english roses. they will live! they will!

and speaking of living…life with Jeffery- what can it really compare to? It's the life I have always wanted. It's talking about things that go deep down into the sea and move in those far away currents. It's like when I go on walks and the beautiful is so spectular that it hurts my eyes and I have to turn away for a brief moment. It breaks my heart and makes me live bigger and stronger. Slowly, slowly, my eyes are getting accustomed to so much beauty.
We walk and we talk. We lazy around and we talk. We watch movies and we talk. We nap and we talk. We just talk!
The future looks so good. There's things to work through but they are being worked through! and not waited to work on a “better day” or “when there's more time.” They are in progress and they are progressing.

So…l'chaim! that's where the snow falls.

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Out for a Walk with the Wind and Water

I love being alone in the park along the river. As soon as I step out of my car, I tell that I’m alone by the unusual silence stretching out in all directions. It’s a special sort of hush because instead of human voices dominating the space, it’s the gentle call of birds, animals, wind, and water that fill the air. These are much more gentle and quiet for they represent a continuation of a certain life on this planet, a life much older than humans.

I glow inwardly as I walk the park alone and for the first time in days, I smile to myself. Some Buddha statues wear slight smiles, the internal smile to the eternal world and as the memory of the statues comes back to me, the pleasure of connection causes me to relax even more.

When alone outdoors, I can relate to myself most fully and watch and listen with more mindfulness. I hear the birds first—the chickadees scolding one another and sounding like sweet, soft toy horns and then the cardinals, chirruping and checking up on one another. The sparrows hop and cheep in barren branches, never to be overlooked and always numerous.

Then comes the sound of water, lapping along the riverbank, rolling itself under the bridge.

The wind follows, shifting a blanket of leaves across my path and swaying tree branches overhead. The evergreens branches issue a soft shirrrrr-ing sound as the wind passes through. They retain a green elegance while everything else is brown, stripped down bare.

After I have heard the squirrels cracking walnuts and rustling through the dried weeds, and after I have seen the wind ruffling the river’s top, then finally, I can hear myself. That sound is very low and deep and it takes me a little while to hear it, after the delight of hearing everything else. But it is there and it inevitably opens up what I need to know that day whether it be comfort, direction, an answer, a question, or all of it. It has taken my whole life to hear myself and I have paid a great price for it but I would do it again in a heartbeat. For when a woman has herself, the nightmares slip away back into the inky, black darkness and living life is hers.

And so the wind moves through the evergreens, it plays along the water, and dives between the feathers of the birds. It touches my face and we walk together, two entities atop this impossible blue planet.

Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment