Comfort in the Clouds

The fairy tree in the northeast corner of the woods has finally laid herself down.

From her reclining position on the spongy forest floor, it looks as if it all happened without violence, strong invisible arms gently lowering her to the ground with tender regard. I shall miss her tall presence, the hollowed-out base of her trunk, perfect hiding place for apples and Jolly Ranchers for the deer and raccoons. For twenty-six years (and who knows how many before that?) she stood stalwart and hospitable on four sturdy feet while owls and squirrels poked their little faces out the holes shaped to perfect roundness by the canopies’ woodpeckers.

Two winters ago, my suburban-dwelling niece called with a mild mouse dilemma—she’d live-trapped two from her garage (or kitchen) and shyly asked if she could release them on the land so they’d have a chance for a better life. Of course she could (we’ve turned down offers of live-released groundhogs and skunks. Got plenty of those). When? Is it ok if we’re not here when you drop them off? We arranged the details with minimalist ease. I didn’t suggest a specific location; she thought she’d just start down the walking path once she got here and see where the forest called her. Tucked carefully into a tightly woven oval jute basket, with empty toilet paper tubes stuffed inside around a thick pack of straw, these two small critters were about to go big or go home.

The relocation took place almost unnoticed for weeks until I was off the main walking path and picking my way toward the fairy tree when I saw the basket carefully tucked into the hollowed-out base of her trunk. Lucky mice, I thought. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect spot and my niece found it without a nudge from me. This is the Ritz of woodland real estate, and she had provided every eventuality—straw, cardboard for chewing into softer bedding and a generous handful of peanuts, mice tucked behind it all in ultimate warmth and luxury. I expect they slept all the way there, rocking gently in the cradle of my niece’s arm as she made her way along the path.

On another walking morning, I stopped by the area to check on everyone, looked up and saw the round fluff of a saw-whet owl’s face filling the topmost hole in the tree’s slender trunk. Her eyes blinked once and stared down at me with cautious curiosity, wondering whom she should thank for the neatly packaged and unexpected DoorDash delivery this far from human civilization. Whether the mice met the owls or squirrels, I’ll never know. But with the tree now sleeping horizontally, all remaining residents were suddenly evicted by wind and gravity. The forest will hold onto that story forever.

There’s now a long vertical gap in the tree line’s smile, no less magical but giving off a wistful vibe to this section of the wooded neighborhood. The surrounding blue beech, black walnuts and red maples seem to be standing a bit straighter and it feels like respect. I touch the smoothness of her trunk beneath peeling slabs of grooved bark and thank her for shade and shelter. She taught us all strength and perseverance, hospitality as only a tree can do, lessons we could all put to good use these days. When I have a need for sanctuary and presence, I sit here among the standing and the fallen and remember, gratefully, how small I am indeed.

To catch you up from the last long-ago post, my dear friend passed away on August 21st after several rough nights of terminal restlessness. If you’ve not witnessed such a transition before, it can run the gamut of unsettling to disturbing. It hurts to remember that she was on the more difficult side of things that way and though I wanted to look away, I also could not abandon her. I sat vigil in her darkened room for three or so hours as she worked hard to get what she wanted, something I couldn’t see. When I finally left her side, the meds had finally done their job and she was sleeping a bit askew in her reclining rolling chair (wheels locked), a soft blanket pulled up to her shoulders. Five days later she was gone.

Walking out to my car that afternoon to make the long trip back home, I looked up to see thick and towering bunches of clouds as only a humid August day in Ohio can conjure up. They made the sticky unmoving air almost bearable and embodied the word “majesty” without question. As I registered the sharp contrast—bright, warm white and blue expanse above me, while my friend snatched some moments of peace for herself in the shuttered darkness of a nursing home room—I felt comforted by the transitory existence of something grander and softer than even my own heart. They were eye-soothing and brilliant, ever changing and yet perfect (to paraphrase Richard Bach from “Illusions”), a billowy welcome to any and all souls making that trip across the great divide in classic childhood “heaven is up there” thinking. Some days I forget just how much is above our heads, in so many ways. And all it takes is a simple head and neck adjustment that naturally drops the mandible of our skulls in the open and awestruck position. Rather nifty architecture if you ask me.

The skies were like that on the day my other dear friend died (can it be she’s been gone nine years now? I swear, I just said goodbye to her last week), the clouds pushing each other back and forth to make room for her. I was standing by my car that day beneath an oil painting that kept reinventing itself and it brought me a much-needed measure of joy. I’ll never forget that.

We’re well into the cold gray days of autumn and winter solstice is still a few miles away. The gray clouds that swirl overhead unfold themselves like moth-eaten quilt batting, changing shape and softening the sharp edges of the trees’ bare arms stretched out and waiting for the snow that will soon cover them. If it weren’t so risky to sleep outside in the bed of my truck on such nights, I’d be parking myself in the meadow just next to the Old Man sycamore tree, bundled up in as many blankets as I have. Maybe the clouds would part and dissipate just enough for me to witness the flashing streaks of next week’s Leonids’ meteor shower and give me a memory to last a lifetime.

All I have to do is stop. And look Up.

The Constant

An oxygen concentrator hums and rattles as my friend sleeps. I’m just so grateful to be here with her, the noise almost fades into the background along with the vibrating A/C unit just under the window of her small sunny room. Memories of her as vibrant, vertical and on the move are clear, their edges sharp on my heart.

She asked for a Frosty and I brought us each one—chocolate and vanilla. She chose the latter, her slender hands barely holding the cup and long-handled spoon. Her smile said it all as she took that first bite, eyes closed in a savoring moment of sweet cold relief. Later I would bring her a frozen strawberry soda (they were out of the blue raspberry she preferred) and enjoy that same look on her face—utter contentment from the simplicity of it all.

My last best friend on earth is in hospice.

Thirty years ago, we began gathering our stories, knitting them together around a shared commitment to Lakota ways, listening and watching closely as she and her husband taught us about food, humility, laughter as good medicine and how to conduct oneself during ceremonies. I still have her fry bread recipe, in her delicate handwriting, with a disclaimer note at the top of the instructions stating, “mostly spirit-filled”, lest I think I’m in complete control of the process. Once, at a party she hosted in her beautiful home atop a wooded hill, she served platters of three varieties: plain, cinnamon sugared, and drizzled with melted dark chocolate. There were no leftovers.

In the years that followed, we quickly expanded our common ground to include justice for the vulnerable and misunderstood, compassion in all directions for everyone and the stress-relieving benefits of the occasional snarkfest. She taught me courage and deepened my convictions; I gave her humor and consistent presence (though she has the final word on that). I cannot count how many times I fell asleep on her couch while the men were taking in a sweat, how often her voice accompanied me on my way to and from work, the number of feral cats she fed or the hummingbirds that buzzed her windows when the feeders were low. She was the best antiquing-and-lunch pal and could easily teach hospitality and manners to five-star hotel concierges. She’s a force of nature, a woman to be reckoned with and the first to offer an understanding nod.

As I sit vigil at her bedside, companion to her intervals of napping and wide-eyed alertness, I write down what she says, spontaneous bits of insight and life wisdom that are pure Jackie—intentional, calm, unassuming and explicit. You know where you stand with her, what she cares deeply about and what she will not abide. She does not suffer fools gladly and yet keeps her embrace wide and forgiving. I’m still a student in her Life Class sometimes and once again wonder if I gave her anything of equal value in our three decades of friendship. If I voiced that question aloud in front of her, she’d give me a side eye of disbelief and admonish me lovingly with “of course you did” and I’d receive it without argument. In between bites of Frosty, she locks eyes with me and says, “You’re very interesting. We both are. We wander, you and I. We wander, without apology or explanation.” I will be unpacking that for a long, long time.

I feel selfish in my sadness as I realize, slowly, that she is the last person in my life who knows my stories from the past thirty years. When she makes her walk, I will be friendless in a way I’ve never been before. I won’t be able to call her on my way to or from work, hearing her views on the news of the day or how she always (always) asks how I’m doing, how’s the job, how’s Patrick. She is gifted in the art of well-timed irreverent humor and is not offended by much, save for human cruelty and malicious intent. When I was sick several years back, her support and encouragement was not only unflagging, they saved me and my little life. I would not still be here without her. What if I face another dark time? Who will I go to with all that fear and uncertainty, seeking the reassurance that only a shared history can offer? The very thought rattles me and grief once again wraps itself tightly around my throat. She would understand, would not want me to struggle too long in this place and tell me that, when I’m ready, I’ll see things in a different light. I’ll try, Jackie. I’ll give it my best shot.

Until then, my friend, I will fetch you more Frostys and frozen sodas, watch your chest rise and fall as you dream about horses and the hell you’ve been through these past two months and pray fiercely for a smooth crossing to wherever you’re headed next. Mingled with my tears and fears and grief is the constant thrumming of gratefulness that we met, that we built thirty years of solid, real friendship between us.

I will sift through the rising bank of stories we created together and look for those lessons that stopped me in my tracks.

I will keep taking you on my morning walks to the trees who know you by name.

I will let your voice echo in my memory’s hallways, “you’re a magical woodland creature”, “you’ve got this”, “there, there…”, “I love you.”

I love you too, my friend.

Life in the Cracks

I feel sorry for the freeway trees.

Those patient and stalwart sentries who never know true darkness, never really sleep. They inhale the dust and diesel of round-the-clock traffic, their leaves in a state of constant flutter from the downdraft of semis and buses.

And they still turn green each spring.

I see them through bus windows dulled and smudged with fingerprints and they seem determined, yet resigned. And there’s no safe way to touch them reassuringly on my twice-weekly commute to the city of concrete and steel.

My Wednesdays and Thursdays put me right in front of the paradox of living things growing out of concrete and I give thanks for those tiny green spaces, surprising and resolute, as indifferent footsteps rush past insistent sprouts by inches or less. There are trees lining the streets, sapling size, in carefully curated pots surrounded by wrought iron fencing but…where do their roots go? The metal sewer lid nearby suggests an underworld of dangling woody tentacles reaching for soil that doesn’t exist above tracks of clay tiling that channel all manner of waste to, eventually, the river that snakes its way through the city’s finest stacked architecture. When folks leave the buildings to take their lunch on the statehouse lawn, where precisely placed older crabapples, red buckeyes, northern red oaks, star magnolias, sugar maples and baldcypress hug the outer edges of the meticulously landscaped grounds, they might be gladdened to see signs of life that resemble a hiking trail they once visited. It is important to note that the trees listed are all native to Ohio, evidence of thoughtful planning decades ago. Occasionally, a white squirrel makes an appearance in the branches of a crabapple closest to the bus stop. Those of us waiting to climb aboard and head home point and smile.

Things continue to grow worse and there’s no looking away or pretending it’s not happening. Alaska, for the first time ever in its history, is under a heat advisory, joining the majority of the lower 48 as we sweat through the next week miserably together, and still we scroll past that horrible reality in search of a better headline, only to find that the US unconstitutionally bombed three nuclear sites in Iran yesterday while Gaza speeds toward a deeper level of its own humanitarian crisis. If it weren’t so hot upstairs, I’d be under the bed right now, praying in fierce desperation. But I’ll stay put here on the couch, with a view of the trees on the ridge and the luxury of a large fan oscillating its relief across the living room. Our house wrens and orioles seem blissfully unaware of any human turmoil and for a few moments, I close my eyes and join them in their daily quest for survival. I want to live too. And thank the heavens, prayer is infinitely portable.

How do we cope with this? There are myriad options, many of them encouraging and effective, others more indicative of our darker side as a species. Our ability to choose wisely hangs taut in the balance, a knife’s edge of informed intention and childlike “just make it go away” terror. In the absence of my own parents, I look to those slightly older than I am for even a spark of hope. In their presence, I feel safe for a few moments and that’s enough. They are my green sprouts, daring to come forth in the midst of all that hard concrete of evil and despair. Children too (thinking of my great-niece, Nora, who knows only comfort and her parents’ cheerful deep love and how it feels to be held and fed) bring this measure of reassurance and I fling it all outward so that it lands on others who are at their wits’ end. Litanies and supplications are now an intricately-woven tapestry of protection, strength to endure and resilience, the Ask to End All Asks. Somehow, beauty finds its way in there and nestles itself right next to the weariest part of my soul, sending down roots and pushing out buds that I know will bloom. I just don’t know when or how.

Our garden is loving this heat, following a long stretch of episodic showers and downpours. Weeding one of the raised beds yesterday resulted in an unplanned red onion harvest and now our salads and sandwiches will have an extra tanginess that we love. Oven-roasted and put atop black bean burgers, we’ll eat them in grateful silence as the cats lay flat on the coolest floors of the house, not moving at all.

Dear friends, I’m clinging these days to whatever grows up and out of the concrete, those ambitious sprouts and buds that didn’t read the rulebook on ideal germination conditions. Life and love are the only “once and for all” I understand in my short time on this planet we share. They keep showing up, keep coming back with lessons and guidance and renewal in their open and generous hands. When I look to my left and right, over my head and to the earth beneath my somewhat steady feet, they’re all I see that fits the definition of “forever.”

I choose them. Again. Today, and in whatever arrives tomorrow.

Busy Signal

Why do the multiflora roses have to smell so heavenly? Pruners in hand, the morning walks have become a conflicted trespass of beauty mingled with unfortunate purpose as I try to ease the thorny burden on our newest maple, shagbark hickory and oak saplings. I’ve heard the laughter of brambles before—a deep and derisive shrillness—and still I trudge on with my agenda amidst the echoes of futility. Perhaps, akin to the starfish on the beach story, it matters to this one (tiny red maple, brave little oak, innocent shagbark hickory).

Please forgive the gap in reflections (has it really been two months since I put my fingers to the keyboard?); I’ve been outside on my knees in the garden, mulching, hilling up the potatoes, running my fingers through the tender leaves of this year’s first radish crop (five varieties!) and slowly shrinking the pile of wood chips that our nieces hauled and offloaded next to the raised beds, spreading it on the narrow paths that wind their way through our future groceries. I have plans for refinements to the whole enterprise—reinforcing the south side of the bean and vining tomato trellises with welded wire fencing, filling in the trenches that Patrick dug for potatoes and closing off that area with the remaining wood pallets currently leaning up against one of the more established mulberry trees. It’s good and honest work that will probably take the better part of a morning and I’m up for it, thanks to a good massage therapist and a most pleasant bathtub that makes me forget those knots in my shoulders.

A while back, I mused about tending to living things as a remedy for the frightening State of Affairs that currently engulfs us all and it’s working, like a couple of Tylenol taking the edge off a pounding headache. A church up the road is holding its annual “yard giveaway”, accepting donations of anything and everything that folks can pick through at their leisure on a sunny Saturday. Our barn will gladly give up its detritus to this cause, finding new homes for three antique school desks, half a dozen wicker lawn chairs, a woodchipper in need of a carburetor, a white farmhouse table and miscellaneous light fixtures. I fully expect to hear the whole structure exhale as it watches the truck disappear down the driveway, it’s tottering pile of memories wobbling precariously over the ruts and potholes left by the last round of soaking rains. We’ll stop for ice cream on the way back home, sitting on the tailgate like a couple of dating teenagers.

We’ve been busy since we arrived here twenty-six years ago and for as long as the land keeps asking for our time and muscle and effort, we’ll gladly oblige. What the seasons give us is more than ample compensation; it is, in fact, a sacred contract of trust and good medicine in both directions. For the next three months, the trees on the ridge will wrap their leafy arms around us protectively as our flock of orioles, in their smart orange and black tuxedos, play hide-and-seek between sips at the jelly juice feeders. We need only sit on the couch and be delighted; they ask nothing else from us. A mama raccoon tidies up the area below the seed feeders around 6:30pm each evening and we expect to see her young-uns in tow before too long. If you’ve not had the opportunity to observe any animal showing its offspring how to survive, you’re in for a treat and may never watch TV again. Living things saving us from ourselves once more.

In a couple hours, I’ll walk down the driveway to trim back the honeysuckles that want so badly to scratch the sides of our cars and have the weed whip in the other hand to lay down the hip-high saw grass and bedstraw threatening to tunnel us in forever. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of the stunning pileated woodpecker who frequents the grove of buckeyes that hug the creek banks and he’ll let me just gaze upon him in awe and appreciation. I don’t want to be greedy (feeling small as I stand beneath towering cottonwoods is enough, truly) but it’s no crime to hope, is it? In three weeks, the branches of nearly all our mulberries will be loaded with fruit and we’ll shake them loose onto a sheet spread out on the grass below while one of us tries to remember that recipe for mulberry barbeque sauce our niece gave us five years ago.

It’s my best intention to sit here on the couch a week from now and unspool another collection of thoughts but if that doesn’t happen, at least you’ll know what I’m up to.