Listening to the Marsh Languages

•April 20, 2016 • 1 Comment

(I recently gave my Wednesday Writing group the poem Marsh Languages, by Canadian writer and activist, Margaret Atwood. Spend some time with it, I suggested, see where the poem takes you, what it stirs in you, then write. I read the poem aloud to them and I felt a quiet fall over the group. A week later I found my way out to the country for a solitary and ceremonial walk in the lap of a wildish place. I let the words of the poem whisper to me as I walked. Once I spoke it aloud to the soft, greening world. Mostly I listened. This essay is my response. I’ve left you a link to the whole poem if you’d like to read it first)

 

ShawNatureReserve-Wetlands 

“The dark soft languages are being silenced

Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue

Falling one by one back into the moon….”*

 

I went out to the Spring woods to listen for the marsh languages, to listen in for the mother tongue. The day sparkled with sun and wind and the twittering of bluebirds over the fresh greening prairie. The grasses only a short fringe now over the dark moist ground where they will be thick and three feet tall in a month or so. In the small algae-covered pond by the trail, one flat-backed black turtle dozed on the sunken log where I saw a crowd of them last year and the long sleeping water snake dull as mud. The forest floor was covered with wildflowers: Wild Sweet William, Bluebells, tiny white Dutchmen’s Britches, wild Violet, and purple Trillium. The language of flowers is mostly blue these early days of spring. The trees all in their soft clean Spring green. Once my father gave me a gift in noticing how varied the greens are this time of year that will all blur together into the same deep tone later in the season. The language of green this day was rich and dense with clear soft overtones, subtle and various. Thru trees the wild white Dogwood shimmered in the morning sun as it glanced thru from the east, rising, here and there the shocking pink of the Redbud. Overhead the sky was one long note of piercing blue.

 

I found my way up the trail and out onto the spread of prairie, down the white curve of gravel road to the wetlands, to the boggy marshes, the ponds and lagoons. I wanted to find my way to the low place of the land, to listen in there to see what I could hear. As I walked I listened too to the mothertongue of my own body, breath in my lungs, the vaguely creaking hips, the slightly aching joint in my left foot that had surgery last year, the beginning whispers of hunger in my belly as I had not eaten since noon the day before. Fasting I’ve found is a way to clear the head, hopefully the ears as well, for cleaner listening.

 

“Languages of marshes,

language of the roots of rushes tangled

together in the ooze…”*

 

As I walked I let the slippery words of Margaret Atwood’s poem, Marsh Languages, rise and fall in my thoughts: this cautionary tale of earth’s lost Mothertongue. At the first pond the tiny tree frogs known as peepers were calling as I approached but fell silent at my crunching footsteps on the gravel path. I waited. They tuned up again. Fell silent as someone else passed by. I walked on. Behind me I heard them calling again. An airplane flew over drowning them out. We make so much noise with our big feet, our loud machines. No wonder we can’t hear them, much less learn the language any more.

 

On a grassy bank between two lagoons I sat on a bench in the warming sun and listened. To my left a group of Canada geese were in raucous conversation about some goose issue that had arisen among them. To my right another goose drifted alone on the quiet water. Down the way, a great blue heron flew in and perched on the branch of a snag at the water’s edge. The wind played thru my hair, against my skin, thru the reeds and rushes along the lagoon, loosening the stillness. Now and again something breathed under water and let bubbles rise to the surface rippling around the lily pads, maybe the ooze itself sighing in its dim, decomposing dream-sleep. A few humans passed down the path chatting between themselves. We humans do so much better in our own language, compulsively chatting, its no wonder we think the other languages are gone, we don’t seem to know how to listen much anymore.

 

“The mouth against skin, vivid and fading,

Can no longer speak both cherishing and farewell.

It is now only a mouth, only skin.

There is no more longing.”*

 

Even my solitary, intentional listening, I realized, was full my own thoughts, my own interpretations, imaginations, translations . But the poet had warned me: translation was never possible…only conquest.

Even as I pushed my imaginal toes down into the pond muck to feel the roots of rushes tangling in the ooze, I sensed the subtle violation I did to the things themselves. I pulled back into myself and listened.

 

It was then I began to feel a longing arise in me, the familiar longing I so often find when I’m alone in the wild world. Its in my belly, breathing around my heart, aching in my throat for a song I don’t know how to sing: a longing for intimate connection with all this wildness; a longing to meet and be met; a longing for some nameless, wordless thing that sings in the warm core of my bones. This longing has always been tinged with grief for what isn’t, for what I don’t have, can’t see, or touch or feel or hear. A longing that seemed to be all about separateness.

 

It was then I felt it, felt more than heard it, the language of hunger, of longing all around me: The hunger for procreation, pollination, hunger to produce; hunger to green and flower and fruit and crawl out of the muck and to fly. The hunger of Life; the longing for life; The longing to pass it on, to press it deep into the lap of the mother, toss it into the wind. And as I sat listening into the hunger and longing in my body, the longing in the marsh life around me I knew the poet was wrong: there is still longing and it’s a wild holy hymn. There is still the wet kiss of suckle and skin. There is still the terrible cherishing that can’t help but whisper of farewell, tho on this Spring day burgeoning with new life, all that seems a long way and seasons off. There is still, hidden behind the layers of words I live in, a word for “I” that doesn’t mean separation. But its not translatable into any civilized tongue I know of. And the grief edge to this longing, the terrible possibility of farewell, is the way we humans are systematically working to forget there is any language but the one of conquest, the one we wield over the natural world with such unrelenting power, drowning out all the others, so we don’t have to feel the depth of our own longing.

 

I wake up in the mornings now well before first light to the voices of birds. The songs are faint, far off at first but soon fill the air around my house with vibrant singing. I float on the sound out of dreams into the waking hours: the long sweet chant of the robin, the warbling house finch, the fluting wren, the creaking hinge of the grackles opening the door of the day. My day begins with listening in to languages I will never understand in words, but only with my body as I sink into the sound like a cradle.

-wrensong

 

*from Marsh Languages by Margaret Atwood

 

gray birds – a typewriter poem

•December 29, 2015 • 11 Comments

It rained for days here between the rivers, the laces of creeks growing fat and brown and spilling over the streets, floating cars away. South of here, in Texas and Arkansas, the tornadoes came hard out of the nights ripping up what was left of Christmas. As if the year wanted to be done with itself, flushed out, scoured of all the shiny debris of the months behind us, the little gifts, the last errands. “Historic” they’re calling it here in Missouri, the rain. The floods not quite biblical, not quite as big as ’93. We all measure water now against that year. Still, the rivers are rising. At my house the roof is leaking, spilling water thru ceilings, down the walls. The world now outside is brown with mud, old leaves and wet brick, bare tree limbs. Leaden with sky quiet now, done with itself. North there is ice, east of here, snow. Here, the cold is coming.This strange new kind of Winter lying down hard over the country.

 

Just a pause then this morning before the week pulls me forward into a new  year.  Looking back at the week around me. My daughter drove down from Chicago with my grand kids to share a few days with her St. Louis family, an early Christmas. Driving home the wind tossed her car and another into a terrifying spin across the highway before they both came to rest on the side of the road, dented up but uninjured. I hold the gift of this so tenderly next to others who lost so much under those streaming winds. This kind of gratitude carves the heart out and makes everything go quiet. Is it luck? Grace? Then what of the others? Who gets to walk into another year whole, the house, the family in one piece?

So, in the early gray light a typewriter poem, one of those I can’t correct but is contented to live with its mistakes and odd spellings. Looking at what happens, and what is left for the cherishing.

SoIMG_0473

A Poem and a Conversation at the Edge – October , 2015

•November 5, 2015 • 2 Comments

The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall,
and the way forward always in the end
the way that you followed, the way that carried you
into your future, that brought you to this place,

-from Santiago, by David Whyte

Path in trees 2

In April my dear friend and fellow soul wanderer Ellen and I decided to design a retreat program together. We’d been talking about it a long time and suddenly the time was right. We dreamed of bringing together the Soulcraft practices we’d shared that were developed by Bill Plotkin and offered thru Animas Valley Institute; along with Ellen’s Shamanic Journeying skills, and my Poetry Depths discoveries thru Kim Rosen’s work. We imagined inviting people into a varied and edgy Conversation engaging soul depths, the natural world and poetry as Allies and guides into a deep encounter with Soul. We dove in, chose a theme, picked some dates which seemed a long way off at the time, found a beautiful retreat house on the Mendocino coast, created a brochure, and by June we’d sent it off to a couple of hundred people we knew. We called it Conversations at the Edge. We both felt great excitement and anticipation to be collaborating on this project and full of confidence that it would unfold just as richly as we hoped. The third week in June I left for a month in Scotland and Ireland.

Ellen and her husband and three now grown daughters have 150 acres off the grid in northern California. It’s a wild scruffy landscape of dry hills, manzanita, redwood, oak, bears and mountain lions, dear and fox. They power their place from a small spring that they’ve piped into huge holding tanks behind the house. They have a garden, a yurt for guests and a simple deck down the road on a point that looks out over the rolling hills and valleys where you gather for morning coffee or to watch the stars and the rising moon. Ellen was a midwife for her entire career until a few years ago when she got fed up with the medical field and turned her wit and creative energies to her passion for the land and for deep soul work. Everything in this woman is committed to the labor of soul: finding, birthing, healing, and wholing. In our weekly phone conversations which we’ve been holding for four years now we help each other track our own soul’s unfolding. Ellen is a brilliant and intuitive guide.

When I got home from Ireland the end of July the poem Santiago by David Whyte surfaced for me. I’d heard a friend give it in Ireland and loved it. So I pulled it out to spend time with: The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding then revealing the way you should take. I had the poem in my hand. I should have known.

But again and again I forget that once you set out on an adventure of soul, once you give a full Yes to the journey, you have already stepped foot on the road. We are calling our program Conversations at the Edge. We forgot that this would also call us to our edges, bring us to a place of stepping over, as edges are wont to do.

In our first phone conversation after I got home from the UK, we discovered that the retreat house we thought we’d booked back in April in fact did not have our reservation and the place was booked to others over the dates we’d advertised in our brochure. The road suddenly fell away “dropping us as if leaving us to walk on thin air”! We were stunned. We’d already sent out the flyer a month before. We already had one person registered. What would we do?

no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way:

As it was, Ellen was leaving the next day for a weeks training in the northwest and we didn’t have a chance to talk about it for another ten days. During this time, I pretty well settled on the idea that we would just cancel it and hope to put it together next year. I let go of my disappointment and even felt some relief that I could step back from the Edge this thing was pulling me toward. It’s edgy to plan a new program with someone you’ve never worked with to be held in a place across the country, to bring pieces to it you’ve never done before, to show up in your big self, grounded, open and new.

But then, as the poem let me know: the road catches you, ‘holding you up when you thought you would fall”. When Ellen got home she found another place to hold us, a beautiful property in the heart of redwood country and we were off again, full of excitement and anticipation.

no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way:
the sense of having walked from far inside yourself
out into the revelation, to have risked yourself
for something that seemed to stand both inside you
and far beyond you, that called you back
to the only road in the end you could follow,

 

In the weeks since then as I’ve moved closer to the time of leaving for California this poem has tracked my story along the edges as I’ve prepared my pieces, as I’ve sent prayers out to the universe for a good, full group of people to sign up. I’ve had to look at my own ideas of what it means to be a guide and a retreat leader, a poem carrier and colleague and friend. I’ve had to release again and again my own felt need to control how this goes.

and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise
that first set you off and drew you on and that you were
more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach:
as if, all along, you had thought the end point might be a city
with golden towers, and cheering crowds,

Here we sit with a little over two weeks to go and we only have 4 people signed up. Ellen and I both have gone thru days of despondency, wondering if we should cancel or continue, realizing we both had to acknowledge our ego’s wish to have a full group in order to validate our sense of ourselves. This edge, this revelation, this wish for cheering crowds. Gladly today we are standing together committed to this thing we have so joyously created and are trusting the Mystery is guiding this just as it needs to go. That we are stepping forward on the road however it takes us. That we are feeling the words of the poem:

 

to have risked yourself
for something that seemed to stand both inside you
and far beyond you, that called you back
to the only road in the end you could follow, walking
as you did, in your rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night became a prayer for safe arrival,
so that one day you realized that what you wanted
had already happened long ago and in the dwelling place
you had lived in before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise

that first set you off and drew you on and that you were
more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach:

From the road today we don’t know what the end point will look like or where the road will turn as we follow the beckoning of Mystery along the way. Its this edge we bow to now committing again to staying in the Conversation as long as it lasts.

If I continue to let this poem guide me, it will give me clues:

and turning the corner at what you thought was the end
of the road, you found just a simple reflection,
and a clear revelation beneath the face looking back
and beneath it another invitation, all in one glimpse:
like a person and a place you had sought forever,
like a broad field of freedom that beckoned you beyond;
like another life, and the road still stretching on.

Wendy in circle of trees kneeling

Epilogue:

A week has passed now since we completed the journey called Conversations at the Edge. It was a magical week for me with Ellen including the four days guiding four wise and courageous women in an exquisite landscape of redwoods and moss-draped oak, poplars and big-leafed maple turning gold against the deep green silence of that forest. Even a full moon conspired to join the Conversation that flowed with poems and deep journeys and wild wanderings and tremulous, tender stories. And as we turned the corner at what we “thought was the end of the road” we each found “just a simple reflection, and a clear revelation beneath the face looking back and beneath it another invitation… and the road still stretching on”

 

A humility and a wonder in this seeing of self in the mirror of the world. A reverent holding of the Mystery and the Conversation still going on. Ellen and I are invited to another Edge, the possibility of offering this program again to another group. And with this I hear the echo of the words:

“the sense of having walked from far inside yourself out into the revelation, of standing for something that seems to be both inside you and far beyond you, that call(s) you back to the only road you can follow..and that you are more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way than in the gilded roofs of any destination you might reach”.

 

Wrensong/Wendy Sarno, November 4, 2015

Conversations at the Edge – 4 days in a Redwood Forest

•September 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment

In October I will be co-guiding a 4 day program in northern California with my dear colleague Ellen Grossman. We’ll be bringing together deep soulwork with wanders on 300 private acres and all drenched in poetry. Take a look at the information below and email me (wendysarno@sbcglobal.net) or leave a comment if you’d like more information:

conversations screen shot Coversations flyer page 2

An Torr

•August 10, 2015 • Leave a Comment

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories. . .*

Calchaig Inn view

View of Bidean nam Bian from Clachaig Inn

In June at the solstice in Scotland the sun doesn’t even set until 10:30 at night and the twilight lingers well into the wee hours. It makes for long leisurely evenings, which we embraced after supper that day along the Coe River at the Clachaig Inn. The Clachaig with its popular pub, sits in a green valley below the hills and crags of Glen Coe one of the most beautiful and legendary glens of all the Highlands flowing as it does down from Rannach Moor to the south under the snowy bens of the Three Sisters and Buachaille Etive Mor to the west and the ridge today known as The Devil’s Staircase, part of the West Highland Way walking trail. At the north end of the Glen where the road crosses the river you turn right onto a one track road that follows the river as it rushes clear over the stones then bends to the right again to pass the Inn. On down the road past the wild purple rhododendrons and the blooming foxglove and the sloping pastures covered with small white daisies you enter a woodland and finally find a sign on the left to Signal Rock Cottage, our home for four days nestled under the pines where the Coe flashes and runs bright in the occasional sun. Behind you, up the road toward the Inn you have views of the surrounding peaks with their unpronounceable Gaelic names: Sgorr nam Fiannaidh,  Meall Mor and Bidean nam Bian.

Highland Cattle

Highland Cattle

This is MacDonald country and the reason I’ve come. One of the many branches of this wide spread clan had its center in Glencoe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and family legend has it that my ancestors came from here. In this Glen the MacDonalds rustled cattle and fought with various other clans, the MacLeods, the MacKenzies among them, and the infamous Campbells. Up the Glen there’s a place called Lost Valley where its said the MacDonalds hid their stolen herds. In those days these Scottish uplands were cattle country and the Highland Clans were cattlemen. Only later, after the terrible time of the Clearances, did sheep take over the hills and the charming Highland Cattle with their shocks of red hair hanging under their broad horns nearly disappeared. In Glencoe they remember the massacre of a cold February morning in 1692 when the Campbells betrayed the MacDonald homestead and murdered 38 men, women and children, the rest escaping into the snow to live or die as they could. Around Glencoe the memory of this is kept robustly alive thru myth and song and monument, and even a sign on the door of the Clachaig Inn that reads “No hawkers or Campbells”.

MacDonald Memorial Cross placque

MacDonald Memorial Cross in Glencoe

MacDonald Memorial Cross in Glencoe

Glen Coe, mountain and house

Glen Coe

Glen Coe, Ossian's Cave

Ossian’s Cave

The landscape of Glen Coe is as mythic as the history of the place with its mountains and deep blue lochs. The glacier-carved volcanic slopes rise steeply green up from the river valley covered in short grasses and heather and gorse. They become rockier and full of crevasses as they rise, folded and lifted full of caves. One called Ossian’s Cave is said to be the birth place of the great Celtic Bard. Place names make reference to ancient myths of the Fingalian race of giants and the pre-celtic hero Finn MacCool the Glen shares with Irish legend. The weathers move thru this place moody and changeable. The high peaks, snow-patched even in July, are often draped in cloud and seem to pull the rain down out of the sky until it lies heavy on the land. The cliffs spilling with silver ribbons of water falls. Wind whips thru the narrow glens and up the stony slopes and the mist can bite the skin as sharp as the midges down in the bogs. The only trees grow along the streams and in among the glacial boulders that litter the Glen. Once Scotland was mostly forested but no more, not in centuries. Now the rocky hills are covered with Oval Sedge and Early Hair-grass among other sorts making it look like a soft green velvet skin wrapped tight over the bony landscape. Of course the sheep. And in mid summer alpine daisies bloom everywhere.

An Torr woodland view

Interior of An Torr

Along the Coe River between our cottage and the Clachaig Inn lies a protected wood called An Torr and deep in An Torr rises Signal Rock on top of what is locally known as Tom a’  Ghrianain, Hill of the Sun. Tradition has it that this is where the MacDonalds would signal the clan and where they would gather for important news. It may even be the very place the traitorous Campbells signaled the start of the massacre. After supper our last night in Glencoe we decided to take the woodland trail back to our cottage. It was a lovely evening, warm and sunny with billowing white clouds blowing east. Out of the Inn you enter An Torr thru a metal gate where a sign shows a map with a jagged line giving directions to Signal Rock and the depths of the wood. Given the late sunset we knew we had plenty of time to find our way not knowing exactly how long it might take nor how to get to the cottage on the far side of the wood. As we came in under the old trees, a rare thing now in Scotland to find trees hundreds of years old, the slanting sun dappled down thru the canopy onto the soft grasses of the forest floor. The trail was well worn, rocky and full of roots. You watch your going. The gentle evening silence of the place began to reach me and I had to stop again and again to soak it in, to pull the beauty of the dense old forest into my heart’s memory. The trail grew steeper as we rose up the Torr and down again going deeper and deeper into the woods. I felt some anxiety rising as it somehow seemed wilder and deeper than I expected, and more hilly than was indicated by the sign or any view of it from the outside. A place to get lost in. And with no idea how long this might actually take us I was torn with the desire to linger and the felt need to keep moving. Was there a little breeze? I don’t recall. Or evening birds chattering? I think so. Mostly what I was aware of was the drape of boughs of the Scotch Pine, the green limbs of oak and ash trees we recognized and others we didn’t, the welcoming open understory and the floor of grass. The dappling light.

Isle of Skye clear cut

Clear cut

All across the Highlands now you pass vast stretches of clear cuts along the road. Bulldozed forests leveled and left to look like a battlefield, scattered roots and boles and dying trees still standing. I felt the same sick horror each time we passed one. It seems that after the wars of the last century Great Britain looked around and realized they were out of trees. They had no forests left to harvest for timber. They’d been used up in the centuries of ship-building and never replanted. Or cleared out for the grazing of sheep. Then the wars came and they were cut off from where ever they got their lumber. So after the Second World War they planted vast “plantations” of Sitka Spruce, not native but a fast growing tree good for things. Now, seventy years later, the trees are mature enough to harvest. My hostess at the cottage who has won awards for her “green” maintenance of her place told me, “You have to realize it’s a crop.” These mono-crop plantations were not meant to become a forest in the sense we may think. They were planted like corn, for human consumption. Only now, she said, is the country beginning to realize they need a new forestry policy and are beginning to plant woodlands with a mix of trees, forests that can survive in bio diversity for their own sake. And for ours. It will be a long time coming.

So walking in this mixed forest of An Torr is a rare thing in the Highlands where here and there you’ll find tracks of the old Caledonian Forest that are now protected. An Torr is not one of these but old enough to hold the earth and the stories that still whisper thru the boughs. Old enough to remember the MacDonalds, to give me the sense I walked the paths of my ancestors and to hold a bit of the story along with the stones and the trees. Once along the rooted trail, I turned my foot on a stone and fell hard on a log banging my ribs. It hurt for a week. I wonder now if maybe the land was claiming me with this wounding, as if to give me a hard smack and a gift. “Not so fast, woman. Linger. Listen”. I too have a story here now.

Signal Rock steps

Approach to Signal Rock

In time we reached the turn where the sign pointed toward Signal Rock and we climbed the last steep stones, set as steps up to the great rock now overgrown with small trees and shrubs, ferns and small vining flowers. On the far side more steps let us climb up onto the rock itself. The surrounding forest now gave no view beyond small glimpses thru the branches. Clearly these trees weren’t here when the clan built their signal fires here. Time and wild nature has reclaimed the place. Gladly, I think. This earth has a way of metabolizing our human tragedies and rooting something alive in their place. If Signal Rock signals anything now, it is this.

Signal Rock sign

Signal Rock back side

As we found the trail and our way down the back side of the Torr toward our cottage we passed thru a lovely open hazel wood, one of the sacred trees of Celtic mythology, and it was there we passed the Stag alone and quietly browsing the green grasses. A handsome Red Deer, a mythic breed, with his rack still dressed in the early summer velvet. He turned to observe us, cautious but without alarm. We paused and gazed at each other for a long moment. I didn’t want to startle him off so we turned slowly and moved on down the path where it bent to the left, and from there I looked back at the deer. He was looking back watching us, standing his ground there in the hazel grove full of the gloaming light glimmering against the dark forested rise of An Torr.

Red Deer Stag

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds

passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.*

The Scottish Highlands are stunningly beautiful, wild and rugged, elemental, looming, broody with weather and time. But its hard to take something that big into yourself. There are places that capture you sometimes along the many roads you may travel, that enter the imagination and make a place there for good. I think Glen Coe with its little forest of An Torr is one of these for me. Sometimes its better not even to try “to speak of these things” or make too much of them for they are like wisps, like mythic deer, easily startled, too easily vanishing if you stare too long. So you turn and go, aching from your fall on that beauty, trembling from the spark of patient wildness in a deer’s dark eye. Utterly glad.

-wrensong, Wendy Sarno

Wendy on An torr pond

Looking back toward Bidean nam Bian with An Torr below just beyond the pond.

*from Directions, by Billy Collins

Journal

•May 30, 2015 • 2 Comments

May 30                                                Saturday                                                                              Rain

   Soft     all

night  pattering

wetness    on the

leaves          restful

Slept late, lying abed listening, birdsong and rain, the slur of the ceiling fan, the quiet light. Past eight before rising. Feeling slow, liquid, quiet as this rain, a little watery sun breaking thru thick cloud, heavy branches dripping…this cave of green, glistening.

wet trees

Noticing Clouds

•May 29, 2015 • 1 Comment

FullSizeRender

The end of May. Season passing. I haven’t written a post here since early March. Suddenly its summer here in Missouri, school out, trees laden with green, gardens flourishing, snow-peas filling out in the vegetable beds, fledglings flown.

Noticing clouds. Remarking on clouds. Noticing my last post from March was a photo of clouds at sunrise. I’d forgotten that. Today again, noticing clouds, these attendant beings that move thru our world carrying our weathers.

In Annie Dillard’s wonderful little book For the Time Being she remarks about clouds, notices how artists and writers of centuries past have documented clouds. We can know what the sky looked like the day Constable painted that picture or the day in California John Muir wandered over the wild Sierras where the cumuli were “rising eastward. How beautiful their pearly bosses”. For some time now as I begin my journal page for the day I make note of the weather and the sky which I actually can’t see much of most of the year surrounded as I am by large leafy trees. The branches form a kind of window on the passing winds moving the sky eastward. The weathers come and move thru. Today for instance I write:

May 29                           Friday…

 

“Patches

Of cloud

Rain may be

Coming later

Windless now

Green upon green

 

Clouds like cotton-balls lit by rising sun against a baby-blue, a blue-bell blue sky. To the south fields of gray layered over paleness whisped, rising.”

 

Clouds have names my father tried to teach me. Cumulus, Cumulonimbus, Cirrocumulus, Stratus , Altostratus, etc. I never learned them well. Would it be better if I said Altocumulus than “cotton-balls”. Would you know what I mean?

The weathers of a day, the passing sky formations may or may not inform the way my day will go or the way I rise out of rainy dreams. Years to come if any of my descendents ever glance over these fading pages I’ve scribbled in for decades will know what the sky looked like at sunrise, that the air was still and the trees were lit with gold or roses or the pungent clouds in the east leaped up the sky like salmon in their homeward river. This will tell them it was a real day, a day on planet earth in a certain year in a season now shifting into the next. Wind blew or didn’t, the clouds brought weather or went their way dissolving into deeper sky. The way they have this morning, just now vanished.

Sometimes clouds build into wild violent, water filled beings, full of terrible winds bearing destruction in their passage, as in Texas this week. Clouds full of story that will be remembered for years. Sometimes clouds pass over thirsting landscapes full of needed water refusing to open, a tease from a stingy god.

I received a postcard poem from a woman in my writing group yesterday. Its about the swift passing of time. The last line says “How long have we got left?” That’s the thing about clouds, they move and change. We know that before Constable put down his paintbrush those clouds were changed or gone, as were Muir’s when he looked up from his diary, as are mine this morning. For the time being we have this day, this sky and then it and we will be changed, gone, dissolved into something else.

-wrensong

 
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