I’m in Love With a Great Lake: Everyday Magic, Day 946

I’m in love with Lake Superior, and the more I visit, the deeper I fall. Not only is this the greatest of the Great Lakes, containing 10% of all the fresh water on earth, but it’s wildly ancient, mysteriously mutable, and stunningly gorgeous in all its colors and moods.

Having just perched on the side of the lake in a cabin for a week, once again, I saw this inland sea turn pink, gray, navy blue, baby blue, black, brown, orange at the edges at sunrise, and purple in the center at sunset. Always in motion, the waves incessant, this lake calms to a purr of itself at moments, then roars into hard slaps of water on the lava rock of the shore.  The Ojibwe got it right in naming  this lake Gitchi-Gummi, which means “the shining blue sea water” because it’s truly an inland sea that surely holds many, if not all, of the secrets of the universe.

But the macro sings through the micro too, especially in the rocks which, depending on what beach you explore, range from cobblestone of similar size and shape, black flat ovals artfully spread among themselves, or the rainbow of agates threaded through many beaches. I found milky white nubs, green slant-specked squares, reddish ovals, and dozens of other variety. Coming through these precious sweethearts of time, compressed and tossed back out by their maker onto each other, I found treasure upon treasure, some shining, some quieting, some rough skinned and speckled.  No matter the rock, every edge tends to be rounded, smoothed, making each stone good to pick up and hold.

I love the sound, the light, the smell, the whole way of being there with this being of a lake that always seems more like a mythical animal, so alive and dynamic, hurting and healing, giving its all every direction across its 350-mile expanse and dancing in place. Every view is a good view, reminding me that this is usually true if we can open up our vision to see the periphery, depth, or height of our times and places. The gift of life, even and especially in these times of hollow-your-hope news, is so beyond what we think, and to some extent, do that we can only see a glimpse of ourselves, so look around, says the la

I look into the lake unable to fathom its average depth of 500 feet with its deepest point at about 1,300 feet. That it’s crazy cold (40 degree average temperature) and holds the bones of many ships and humans, not to mention other forms of life. That it cracked, yes, cracked, into existence 1.2 billion years ago because of the North American Mid-Continent Rift, an outlandish volcano, which left a half-moon-shaped scar from Minnesota all the way down to Kansas with all the lava-pressed rock to prove it.  That it’s home to over 80 species of birds, thousands of  birds, and so many other animals, like the three otters I saw swimming by some years back. That it’s utterly alive, alive, alive — a heartbeat of energy and presence. 

Arriving, I sat on the deck of the cabin and watched. Middling, I watched and walked. Leaving, I stood on the deck and took more photos of this beauty in action being, this freedom and depth lighting up with the sun and moon.  I’m deeply grateful for my time there, and already, and just a few days past, I dream of returning to where the Iron Range tumbles down to the sea, and the power of the life force sings in harmony and dissonance, waking us up to what is.

 

Equinox Quirks in East Lawrence: Everyday Magic, Day 933

Nothing like a brisk walk on the first day of spring in East Lawrence with a good friend. Along the way, we saw many more friendly sites, all illuminating the wonderful quirkiness of East Lawrence just on the cusp of leafing out and flowering forth.

First, there is a totem tree of sorts, complete with a glow-in-the-dark giant cricket, strange moppet-like figure living in the hole, and a kind of anime carving on top. It’s something new, I believe, just sprouted on a quiet street, and in the process, it reminds me of how the creative just a big plastic bug away.

As we move on, we find lots of gardens tumbling themselves into a few daffodils here, some hyacinth there, all happily unfurling because of the recent rain after too long a drought. Down Pennsylvania Street, we discover the cloudy days makes more than the vegetation pop. Here’s a lovely purple-to-electric-blue-trimmed home, still flying the flag of some Christmas lights, bringing whimsy and verve to a quiet street.

No East Lawrence trek is ever complete without stopping at the Wishing Bench, something that started with just a bench and a few ribbons, then carnival-Bollywood-exploded into all manner of color and texture. As we were sitting there, casting out our wishes to the air, a man with a colorful sign saying he was “homeless, not hopeless,” called out to us about how he sits in that bench wishing everyday. He’s even helped bolster some of the soggy wood around it, and he was now musing about improving his efforts with some nails. We didn’t have any nails or dollars to give him, but we shared the Wishing Bench magic, all of us affirming that the bench’s slogan — “You will not be disappointed” — is true. Adding to that truth are new items — a tea pot for one, plus many plastic, woven, knitted, and found critters from various dimensions of the galaxy. I already wasn’t disappointed.

Toward the end of the walk, we were taken by the peeling paint on the top of a stand-alone garage, almost iridescent in the cloud-light. Many shades of sky permeated the layers of time on the worn siding. It reminded me that this moment is composed of Wabi Sabi, the Japanese quality with no English equivalent that can mean the perfection of imperfection, or the beauty of passing memory, or simply, what’s alive and storied all along us as we age and change.

Returning, I remembered that we live in a Wabi Sabi world, and there’s nothing like walking through that world to remember that.

First Lightning of the New Year: Everyday Magic, Day 925

Spring doesn’t bounce in for months as a long-term resident at the inn we call Kansas. Instead, it struts its stuff in flashes, quite literally right now, like a famous actress who does occasional cameos in February and especially March, and sometimes on rare evenings even in January before vanishing suddenly for the main actors of snow, ice, and mostly cold, dry wind.

The thunder comes rumbles to east, the lightning flashes irregularly in the southwest corner of my window, and the air is full. I open the door and inhale that sweet sense and scent, just on the icy edge of the cold front on the other side of these storms. Today, it was positively balmy, in the low 60s even with no hint of how the temperature would start is slow fall from grace tonight. Tomorrow, there’s snow on the hoof, and I’ll likely be shivering in my big, down coat while frantically searching for where I put the mittens.

That’s the way of Midwestern winters and weather. Earlier this month, we had days we were thrilled to get out of the minuses, and today as I walked quietly out to the compost pile to throw out all our old banana peels, coffee grinds, and carrot nubs, I marveled at the slim crescent of moon in air that could be imported from April.

Right now the quiet fills in the long space between winter thunder and the slim purple flash of lightning, the first such storm of this year, but one that will become a one-woman show held over for many spring nights, reminding us these supposed four distinct seasons are approximations of general curves on the wild wheel. Now it turns brilliant, now it turns to ice, always traveling us back to a moment that defies easy naming.

The Peace of a Late Autumn Day: Everyday Magic, Day 916

It’s almost balmy although this late afternoon is quickly tipping toward dusk. The leaves are strangely still attached to trees around town but mostly in clumps the cold snap, hard rain, or big wind haven’t yet tipped over. Although we bought a frozen turkey to begin thawing for Thanksgiving, here I am sitting on the front porch with only a light sweater over my yoga clothes. It’s an unusual autumn moment, but also oddly sweet in its spaciousness and quiet.

One of my and maybe your ongoing problems with fall as well as spring — especially in these regions where we have four distinct seasons — is that a whole lot happens in the big social world. It tends to be when lots of places I work with hold events, classes, happenings, and celebrations. Unlike summer, when many of us are braving 102 degrees while a wall of cicadas makes us feel like we’re going out of our minds, or winter, when tiptoeing from house to car in an ice storm to get the phone is a treacherous journey, these better-weather seasons make too much possible. Add to this the weight of the school year shaping calendars, and things can get far too fast and furious to truly absorb the beautiful quiet and openness of changing seasonal cycles.

For me, this translates into big-gig time: September to mid-November, and March to May are the seasons where I’m working more than usualpiling miles on the car to stop in small towns to lead a book discussion or give a poetry reading while trying to figure out where the strongest coffee might be.  While I try not to calendarize myself into oblivion or a bad cold, let’s just say learning to balance self-care with the work I love is a dynamic story in progress.

There’s the chaos at times of my travels and talks, mid-day fatigue and late-night wakefulness seeking some kind of balance. Then there’s the chaos of the world, which seems increasingly like an alternate reality based on a dystopian novel we thought was too fictional to become true. I won’t recount the news headlines, and the small stories of big and little dangers sometimes hiding behind those headaches and headlines, except to say a whole lot seems beyond repair at moments. At the same time, exposed for how damaging it truly is in vivid and important ways from the men who have used their power to hurt women, to the incompetent judges being appointed for long stretches.

But then there’s this being brought to the forefront: sweet breezes and dark orange leaves as the day tips shorter. The southern horizon is lined with soft pink streaks between the waving fingers of the cedar trees, and to the west, the orange glow of the day’s ending is quietly dimming itself.  I join myself with that peace by watching and writing about the moment before it, too, slips into the future when it’s time to make dinner.

If this writing speaks to you, get a copy of Caryn’s new book, Everyday Magic: Fieldnotes on the Mundane and Miraculousbased on over 10 years of this blog. Details here.

Ocean View to Porch View: Everyday Magic, Day 868

Yesterday morning, I walked acrosIMG_1758s the narrow beach into the ocean, dipping my toes into the cold Maine waters until, scared and hesitant, I dropped in and swam like crazy to warm up until the sea carried me with ease.

This morning, I walked to my front porch, put my feet up, and stared into the Osage Orange tree and other things in my view, like my car that got strangely covered with bird poop while I was away. I let the chartreuse padded rocker (found years ago in a small-town Kansas thrift store) carry me into quiet.

In between, there were airports, a very strong cup of iced coffee, a narrow plane seat 30,000 feet off the earth with a view of the Jersey island (Long Beach Island) where I fretted as a teen, and IMG_1813surrealist naps between the captain’s garbled announcements. There was the ride to the Portland Jetway with an old friend/ Goddard student who shared the moving, drastic, and ultimate healing story of losing his home to a fire. There was a lobster roll and very salty potato chips at one airport, and a Philly pretzel at the other. There was the baggage carousel with finally Jerry’s suitcase to grab, the luggage left to me by my dearly-departed friend who still travels with me. There was Ken late at night and the beautiful and car-fumed air of the home airport, then the ride where as usual, I alternated between talking at high speed and staring into the blur of familiar highway sites. Then there was the house waiting for me, complete with cat vomit in the entry way, a very happy dog, my beautiful sons, a clean kitchen counter, and a whole lot of mail.

Balanced precariously on the ledge of these merging views, I recover from close to two weeks away and all the beauty and exhaustion that filled that time. I run to the garden in the morning in my nightgown to graze on tomatoes and consider what to plant for a fall garden. I nap deeply for hours, then find out it was just 10 minutes. I plant a big dinner while watching the many hummingbirds from this porch, then decide yogurt and fruit is best.

The view behind, the view ahead, and the view now hangs mysteriously together when I see a fast orange butterfly reminding me that just yesterday how a bunch of us in the ocean pointed up and laughed when we saw a black butterfly. Motion links us.