a perfect day

I love fall. Every day something new. Wind stirring leaves across the deck or whirling them in random waves from their branches. Gold, rust, scarlet, fading greens of all hues. Fallen leaves forming ever-shifting patterns on the ground. Quiet days and howling nights. Sun, rain, unpredictable temperatures. All of it morphing summer’s landscapes both interior and beyond. The hint of cold to come; the nostalgia of warmth leaving. The snap of first frost with its promises of warming fires and soups. The changing light. Sudden silence following the incessant honking of traveling vee’s of south-winging geese. The quieting of songbirds. Cold-nosed nights under cosy comforters. Turning inward to reflect, hold, contemplate.

It turns out my new pup loves fall, as well. We take long walks along beach, through forest, in open fields. Each scent an announcement of some new joy or mystery for her to solve. Each clump of grass an excuse to explore. Each canine encounter cause for celebratory play. Each basin of water an invitation to splash and leap. The sheer exuberance of it all is heart-expanding, energizing. The season renews and invigorates even as it winds down to quiet and stillness. And then there’s the experience of a single, perfect day.

A Perfect Day
9.28.21

Daybreak. Orange fluttering atop pink
milkweed, six or more pairs a token
of past years’ orange clouds covering fields 
to refuel en route south for winter. 

A yoga hour of stretch, rise, bend, 
reach, the dog beside me on the mat, 
her bone firm between paw and jaw.
The two of us savoring the calm. 

Ahead, gathering and dispersing weed,
broken branch; checking for ripe 
eggplant, tomato; plucking the last
golden raspberries from their canes.

Later, a dark gray ribbon snaking the horizon 
vowing thunder and pelting rain to follow. 
The dog reveling in the rise and fall 
of foam-edged tide; and I, 

in four decades of this same walk
my children growing up and I, old. Shoreline
receding with memories of each summer 
spent, each reunion and visit shared. 

Evening sun sliding down its softened hues. 
Peace rising between and around us.

swb

none

Joanna

I love it – yesterday’s Daily Prompt Challenge word was NONE. For one obvious thing, my writing output yesterday was … NONE. For another, NONE could summarize my presence here during the month of April. That’s about where it ends. For NONE could NOT summarize my activity over the past several weeks since my last post, ‘An Ordinary Day.’

I know I have a pass of the most compassionate kind. April was the month that ended with the interment of my sister’s ashes and the formal memorial service that celebrated her life. Which therefore means, the month that led up to those events filled with details and lots of communication back and forth among us four major planners.

None would have been more delighted than my sister herself at the results of all those weeks. It was a bursting-with-warmth-and-blossoms spring day. The entire extended family was in attendance – including grandchildren, grand-nieces and -nephews, and even the newest puppy among us. She would especially have loved that.

And none would be loved the choices of readings, music, food and pictures more. None would more have appreciated the convergence of classmates from high school, neighbors from our childhood, caretaker and clergy from her far-distant most recent three years. Above all, none will ever forget her.

conscious cairn-versation

rock cairnThis is a conversation I have been wanting to have. For weeks, actually. Why conscious cairns? Because I have come to realize that the significance of cairns depends entirely upon context. On mountain sides, they tend to signify the direction to follow when a trail is unclear, as across sheer rock. When constructed within a clearly marked circle, they are more likely to hold ritual significance. But the cairn constructed along woodland trails or in open meadows would most likely be an act of art. Which is what brings me to conscious conversation about them.

At Red Rocks, a woodland park in downtown Burlington, VT, where I daily walk with my cherished canine companion, I have taken to observing the ups and downs of several cairns. By which I literally mean, that one day a beautiful cairn is up, carefully constructed with artful balance baffling the eye while challenging gravity. The next day, it is gone. Not merely fallen down; but carefully dismantled, its component stones scattered  or buried in an apparent attempt to undo any memory of its prior existence.

I dwell on this because, while there are clearly people like myself who enjoy both building and contemplating inventively piled stones, it seems there might also be those who feel, for whatever reason(s), somehow threatened by them. At least, this is the conclusion I have reached, short of issuing a questionnaire to walkers in the park. A thought I did, at least fleetingly, consider, being of curious constitution myself.

Instead, I patiently re-build the three cairns I have taken personal interest in when they are down. I carry on conversations with my imagined source of their destruction. I marvel at the additional creative ways others have placed mossy stones within decayed trunks; piled and bridged flat stones to create a waterfall effect; worked stone, branch and birch bark into complex sculptures that celebrate the interaction of human creativity with found natural objects. They feel to me like celebrations of life. Clearly they have been created with conscious intent – if not to guide our way, then to invite us to stop and contemplate a while. Like Tom Woodman, in his short “Zen and the Art of Cairns,” I could sense that someone had shaped the environment through piling stones in certain ways and my appreciation of the landscape was richer because of that. I do not need to understand the particular message behind such an action of conscious creation in order to appreciate it.