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.

Prevernal Wonders: Everyday Magic, Day 932

I love the prevernal season perhaps best of all: that space between the start of spring and before the leafing out of the big, green world. There’s such a brief series of moment between the last dregs of winter and first flush of spring, snow and daffodils, or sub-zero nights and thunderstorm afternoons. All show us that there is no line between seasons, just a two-steps-forward, four-steps-back, one-leap-forth, and a-crash-to-the-cold-ground dance.

Last night, I was acutely aware of this when we took a sunset walk across part of the field, up the hill, and through the woods, all the trees so dry that we were snapping off interfering branches as we went to make the trail more of a trail. Yet in the middle of this drought moment, there sky exhaled humidity, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel so thirsty. The clouds cleared, the sky darkened, and over the horizon of time and weather, finally some rain arrived at 4 a.m.

Having woken myself up from a nightmare in which I was the entire KU men’s basketball team, rushing around my house to lock all the doors against impending danger, I sat up in time to see lightning in the distance. I stayed up, convincing myself I wasn’t fragmented in all those star basketball players but just one woman watching the world change to rain.

This morning, the deck and gravel drive held shallow puddles, the top of the car was wet, and the grass around our house was amazingly and suddenly greening up, as if someone crayoned a black-and-white drawing of this world while we slept. Cottonwood Mel’s branches are  full of buds for the leaves to come. The one lone  backyard daffodil, stunted but in bloom will soon have lots of company.

This prevernal time in Kansas is famous for bringing us all four seasons in a day, so I don’t hold onto what sweet, damp, and shining weather is given to us at this moment, but maybe that’s one of the great meanings of in-between times. Change is coming, following an old pattern but unfurling in its own mysterious way. It’s outside of my control, but at least, I can still keep going outside, the air — whatever temperature it is — remembering me to who I am beyond my ideas about myself, and helping me remember what’s real.

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.

A Bright, Beautiful Day and Why I Blog: Everyday Magic, Day 923

The temperature is up to the 20s after days in the minuses that made us layer clothing and heavy food. The chickadees span across the deck railing for their bird seed buffet. The happy dog paces, wanting to go out and run with the sun. The blue of the blue of the blue winter sky lights up the edges of all the bar trees and frozen grasses, the brown hills in the distance, and the wooden floors inside the house. Such a moment reminds me of why I started this blog and keep at it over a decade later.

I started and persist for two reasons: to build more of an audience for my books, workshops, and other freelancing curves of work, and even more so, for my soul. Writing has always been a hybrid spiritual-emotional-artistic practice for me, helping me clear away the cobwebs on the ceilings and dust bunnies on the floors of whatever I think I’m doing, and land more in the actual time and place I am. I began writing as a teenager to cope with some traumatic times that overwhelmed me everywhere but on the page, and I continue writing decades later because of how stringing word to word connects me with something larger than my little thoughts or big anxieties.

Sometimes writing this blog is a way to share curiosities and wonders, such as the 100,000 snow geese on an oxbow of the Missouri river. Sometimes it’s to pay tribute to people and places beating in my heart.  Sometimes I’m tilting toward the light of how people show us the way through injustices or heartbreaks. But always I’m writing as an act of discovering, for myself most of all, what’s what, where, how, and why; I have doubt writing is a way of both knowing what we know in our bones, and unknowing what we thought we knew but turns out to be old scaffolding. Writing is an amazing road — in many ways like most other arts — into accessing much more of our intelligence and perceptions than our habitual thinking. In my case, I’m often much smarter and clearer on the page, and I can speak more with language from body and soul on occasion.

So when I look out the window and glimpse beauty, change, birds in flights or winter roosting in all the corners of the field, my first impulse is often to start writing something to tell you about it and to help me see this tiny fraction of reality really happening in real time. Thanks for joining me on the page or screen.

****Related to this post, I’m teaching two sessions of the workshop “Blogging for Your Soul and Audience” — one inperson 4-5:30 p.m., Sat., January 20 at Ellen Plumb Bookstore in Emporia, Kansas, and another online (via your own computer or phone) 4-5:30 p.m., Sun., January 28.  The cost for either is simply buying my book based on this blog, Everyday Magic: Fieldnotes on the Mundane & Miraculous. More at my events page (Note: for Emporia workshop you buy the book at Ellen Plumb Boostore). 

Hope on the Last Day of the Old Year: Everyday Magic, Day 912

I’m perched on this lovely porch on the last day of the year, at least the last day according to the Jewish year, which ends at sundown. The wind and crickets thread sound through the Osage Orange tree, leaning over the driveway with its heavy hedge apples (think lime green brains the size of grapefruit). A few hummingbirds dive-bomb each other on the aerial path to the feeder. I’m comfortable in a hideous chartreuse recliner with iced coffee within reach. It’s just another beautiful edge-of-summer day in Kansas for me, but for many it’s far more heartbreaking and threatening.

I think of people in central Mexico, working frantically to unearth possible survivors from collapsed buildings from the 7.1 earthquake yesterday. I’ve watched videos of people coming together in the streets, crying in each other’s arms, or staring at buildings that have sloughed off into big piles of concrete and steel.

I think of thousands in Puerto Rico, right now, enduring Hurricane Maria, which hit the island as a category 4 hurricane with sustained winds of 155 mph. I imagine the terror so many must feel right now as the winds batter their homes or shelters, bending palm trees horizontal and tossing cars across flooding parking lots. At the very least, they might be worried about having enough water and food, knowing how likely it is that they could face weeks or longer without electricity; at the most, their lives might be danger because of storm surges, crumbling buildings, and mud slides.

I think of millions in South Korea, North Korea, Japan, Guam, and many other places living with the searing threat of nuclear attack due to two immature and reckless leaders, one in North Korea and one in America, talking trash about the other and escalating a historic conflict. With rhetoric about destroying these countries and many more, those within easy reach of missiles bearing nuclear warheads must be living with overwhelming fear as the war of words builds.

Meanwhile, the fires in the west burn millions of acres of forest and change the faces of many a gorge, valley, and mountain. Ethnic cleansing in Myanmar has led to hundreds of villages being burned to the ground. People throughout various chains of islands and many on our mainland are still without electricity, or are busy with the sad work of stripping out of their homes all the water-logged furniture and family treasures.

Fire, flooding, earthquakes, hurricanes (Harvey, Irma, Maria), and war rage on, sporadically or worse, and much of it (excluding the earthquakes) due to the worst of human behavior: ignoring or denying the effects of climate change, and escalating the conflicts between tribes or nations to the point of no return.

It’s the end of the world as they know it for so many, human and otherwise. It’s also, as seems to have been the human habit, a time for the best of our beings to come forth. People in Texas made human chain to transfer elderly people out of flooded homes, thousands (or tens of thousands) of people driving to Texas or Florida to help with feeding, clothing, rebuilding, and reconnecting electricity for those in need. People in Mexico worked in the hot sun for hours, then all night, and still continue today lifting shards of concrete, digging with their bare hands, and listening carefully for one trapped beneath. I think of my brother-in-law in Florida, an electrician, who has worked long hours in the heat along with countless others to restore power for many communities. I marvel at the photos of humans throughout the Caribbean and Bahamas who lost everything, but also gave every ounce of their energy to rescuing others. A cruise ship ended its trip early, giving passengers the option of staying on to help evacuate islands in the path of Hurricane Irma, and over 70 vacationers did just that along with many cruise lines that sent ships and cash to the islands. Firefighters in Montana, Oregon, Washington, and other states worked themselves to exhaustion doing dangerous work to save lives and places.

At sunset, we cross over into the new year, but millions around the world have been forced to do this already, leaving behind all that was lost in the old year. For them, and for the blessings we can be when we reach out to help those facing the end of their worlds, my deepest wish is that we find hope in action that shows us what we’re capable of. Let us mend what’s broken, lift who and what is fallen, and act always on a love for life, and all that being and staying alive entails. L’shanah Tovah — a good and sweet new year — for everyone.