Singing to the Moon and Wind

Image courtesy The Graphics Fairy

Finally, March is here. If the old adage of “in like a lion and out like a lamb” has any truth to it, we’ll be in capris and shorts by the end of the month.

I just took Oakley out for a quick jaunt. The winds that tumble from the north carries the scent of green buds, damp earth, and grass with it. Oakley turned and faced into the wind, nose all a-quiver. Dogs have something like 44 million scent receptors as opposed to the paltry seven million that we humans have. If it was heady for me, it would be downright intoxicating for him.

In addition to the liminal winds, today also features a moon at her fullest. She’s hiding behind the clouds right now and on the other side of the world. At night when the sky is clear and dark and her polished face looks down on us, we sing to her.

To common ears, our music sounds as if a mildly insane woman and her dog howl loudly enough to wake neighbors and start their dogs and the resident coyote pack.

To the moon, our songs mean so much more.

We sing the primal songs of Oakley’s ancestors and contemporary cousins. The songs of reassurance, of community fill the air.

We sing the songs of the wise women, the craftswomen, and musicians who proceed me in my mother line. The playful, the joyful, the spontaneous  voices coming through me harmonize with his.

Wherever she is right now, the winds carried our songs to her, even though we sang beneath a daytime sky covered in thick grey clouds. We have sung in daylight before. We will again.

We have sung to her beneath star dappled velvet skies. On those nights I swear I have seen her look down at us and smile.

 

 

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Cricket Songs

A lot, yet not too much, goes on hear in the soybean field. Oakley and I go about our day to day routines and rituals of heat and humidity truncated walks, our early morning communes with The Great Mystery.

We were up about six this morning. I had to turn on the kitchen light so I could see to make coffee, and the sconces by the fireplace needed to be turned on as well so I could journal for the morning. Just a couple of days ago the glow of the candle had been enough to see the pen leaving its tracks across the page, but not this morning. By the time we were out the door, all was bright, heavy and humid. If we don’t get a storm I’ll be surprised. This unending string of days in the high 80’s and low 90’s will break this weekend. I look forward to open windows during the day so I can get the house aired out.

At bed time, unless it’s storming or oppressively muggy, I turn off the air conditioning and open the windows for a dose of fresh air and to listen to the sounds of the night. Some sounds like the squeal and growl of the trains slicing through the dark or the coyotes announcing their presence pierce the night all year long.

Others happen only between the height and end of summer. If the field next door has been planted in corn, the wind runs its fingers through the leaves, rippling the dark silk of the night. The crickets chant like a Gregorian choir in a never-ending canticle of worship to the darkness, the turning wheel, conveying gratitude to the Mystery for a bountiful harvest.

The songs of the dwindling summer remind us to get it done, whatever the sacred “it” is before it’s too late. Corn and soybeans and produce can all be harvested and stored in canning jars and the freezer for later use, but the song of the crickets remind us that time cannot.

 

 

 

 

Advice from a Disney Character That’s Actually Pertinent

I won’t post the link to “Let It Go” from “Frozen,” nifty song that it is. Elsa sang some words of wisdom, though, as she climbed that mountain. I love it, but for readers who have been subjected to its repeated playing by members of its intended demographic group, I’ll spare you.

We are coming up on equinox next weekend. Plans for a gathering to mark the turning of the wheel are afoot for a week from today. Time to let go of the summer. This will help.

I’m not struggling as much with letting go of Oakley’s former day care. We went to the party last weekend and exchanged contact information. I did what I could to help organize for the garage sales she’s holding to find homes for the equipment. I can’t roll back time and make it my version of right again. If you’ve been through the process of walking with a loved one down the path of a terminal illness, you’ll get it. The band of Denial, Bargaining, Anger, and Depression have finished their opening act and left the stage for Acceptance’s solo show. There is no good time for something like this to happen, but as things wind down and contract in the fall, it’s as good as any. The anger still flares now and then, but has settled into righteousness and outrage that what is legal and what is moral are two very different things. I have to gently remind myself of Karma and her mysterious ways, breathe, and get on with things.

The change of seasons, especially going into fall and winter, are good times to let go of stuff in any form, physical or otherwise. I’ll be using this week to sort out some clutter and make a run to a donation center. Perhaps an unsent letter burning is in order as well.

Let it go, indeed.