“I miss a whole day of rain. And maybe, sunny day plans cancelled, freeing up space to dream again. We are the same people who love winter. Who want to go in, and meet people hidden by walls, and talk in low voices. Who need the kind of warmth that only comes, with the cold & the dark. It’s been a relentless, fully exposed summer, of no hiding. Almost like a training exercise, to be endured, with a few high points, like the river. I was married to the river, & had a ring to prove it, once upon a time. I packed babies in, and knew the private pools, & shallows, where sunlit water touched hemlock branches, protecting us, so that we could rest. Crossing first, a field of rounded stones, some slimy, between us, and the sonorous, shocking, cascades of raw healing. Thank you, Vermont. Your waters still can’t be tamed. That I can still meet no one, & drop into my turbulent silence here, is a precious gift. Too many things have gone down, to forget or forgive, yet the transformative power of the hill country keeps us real, & invites us to reexamine, with no forcing. The children are equally, our leaders. They mirror up, their bold honesty, & tell stories to reeducate adults. So I stop, and don’t get impatient, when my grandson says that scientists have taught mice to drive cars. I know his fresh thinking can only enhance my own stale habits. Ditto, when an even smaller grandchild decides to put modern art in its place. It’s about time. They don’t judge me, when I do things, that are odd. I might be hell bent on using scissors instead of a power tool to do damage to weeds that exceed my height, and weight. But they’ll find a way to chip in. When the shears fall apart, into two neat, useless pieces, they are merely quizzical, not annoyed. They’re ready to allow the universe to operate in new ways, & watch the magic shimmy out. Somehow, we managed to put up a trapeze, on the back porch, as if it had always been there. The circus, is a mind set, I get it. I am my own circus, responding to the extraordinary feats of others, while jumping through hoops, on galloping horses, without any reins. It’s remarkable, what I’ve done with no credentials. What I’ve taught my children to do, without words, and now their kids seem to glow with confidence, & perform miracles, routinely, with a sort of “ho-hum” nonchalance. Okay, they still leave the tops off felt tipped pens but I think this is just a matrix glitch, something better left to technology, to solve. Obviously, if the ink dries up for good, we’ll crush berries, and paint with feathers or wheat fronds. Just like all good artists, we’ll reconnoiter in a field somewhere. We’re practicing to do just that, making concerts under the mountains, as the sun goes out. Deep in the greens, refugees of the wars, including psychological, promoted or actual, we are trying to get back up. Some don’t realize they’ve been down. But I do. It’s been earth shattering for me, this whole, incredible deception. One by one, without malice, or selfish intent, I’m determined to hold onto my sanity, & theirs, if they cannot do it alone.”
