Landscapes of the Past

23 06 2014

IMG_4533

My brother and I named the area of trees and bushes at the back of my father’s farm The Jungle. We were kids, and the world was an exciting vista awaiting our discovery. I spent hours wandering by myself through this magical place, my imagination running wild. Pretending to be lost in the myriad of streams and trees, my heart would pound as a delicious sense of adventure kept me looking for wildflowers and tracks of mysterious creatures. We had heard of wildcats back there, though we never saw one. There were insects and baby turtles and snakes interspersed with the plants. The river was just a short distance away with its bounty of rainbow trout and salmon. That larger body of water fed these tiny streams I followed and sustained the vegetation around me.

The fields of the farm have long since gone to seed. Where the house once stood there is a charred area surrounded by weeds, though the trees shading the side of our home still stand sentinel. Two of the trees are bare, long dead but still upright. My brother and I walked the farm a few years ago as part of a trip to pay homage at the graves of our parents. It was, in our eyes, a memory tour, a visit to our childhood. So much had changed.

That trip verified that nothing stays the same. Maybe it’s our memory that’s at fault, the events of the past being shrouded in this cloak of happy times that preclude the hard things. When you revisit, truth replaces memory and changes the images that were there. Regardless, I choose to hold on to the magic I felt as a child, allowing one memory to weave into another to create an endless stream of recollection.

Four years have passed since we revisited the farm. If I close my eyes, I can envision my young self there again. The pasture where our old sway-backed horse grazed isn’t fenced now, but I can see him there, lifting his head as I walk by. He shakes his mane, pauses a moment, his liquid brown eyes gentle on me. He lets out a soft whinny and goes back to doing what horses do best, being content to nibble at the grass of the field. I wave and walk beyond his world to my own, that magical Jungle of my childhood. And I lose myself in memory.

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Thoughts on a Morning Breeze

8 08 2013

Maple leaves

Maple leaves


As I sit on my deck, a single maple leaf quivers and shifts on the newly sealed floor, the drop of rain from last night’s shower shimmering as it glides off the edge. I watch, mesmerized, as the leaf lifts, floats for a second, and settles back into a new spot. It no longer has life, and yet it moves from place to place, carried by the early morning breeze.

It’s an amazing thing, that little bit of motion caused by something invisible. I look up into the tree and I see movement everywhere–every leaf, branch and seed pod is gently swaying because of the light wind. Raindrops roll off and fall on my arm. Shadows dance with the sun, making an ever-changing, abstract pattern on the deck.

Life is like that. Ever changing, never the same, unpredictable. That’s what makes it so beautiful, all those little surprises unveiled each day if only we stop and allow ourselves to see them. Sure, it can also be a harsh reality when the unexpected is painful and debilitating. I learned that lesson when my husband died unexpectedly in March. At those times it is impossible to see beyond right now, but out of that pain comes something salvageable and precious.

Once again that recurring theme of perspective comes to mind. I’m not an advocate of pain. Pain is, well, painful. But I was born with my father’s optimistic temperament, and I choose to believe that out of my pain there will come something beautiful. Maybe it will be in the form of a new friendship borne out of that pain. Maybe it will be a stronger relationship with and appreciation for my children and my friends. Maybe it will be a renewed faith and dependency on my God, the author of that breeze. Maybe it will be all of those things, and maybe it will take a long time to discover. But I believe it will come.

A small gust of wind picks up the leaf and blows it away. As I watch it swirl and dip and disappear, I feel a spark of something unexpected pass through me. Joy. There is so much to be thankful for. And joy doesn’t preclude pain, a lesson I learned a long time ago. It’s a state of mind. I look forward to the day I can see the other side of my grief, but in the meantime that sense of joy remains. Life does go on, it does still have unexpected beauty in it, and it does change every day.

I recently added a line to my email signature. It says: Spend each day as if it is your last.
I tend to barrel through my days, trying to pack in the items on my to-do list. I’m beginning to realize that it’s a coping mechanism, that maybe I need to slow down in order to appreciate those small things. If today is my last day, may it be filled with little sparks of joy.