Holy Now

 "This mornin' outside I stood / I saw a little red wing bird / Shining like a burning bush / And singing like a scripture verse. It made me want to bow my head / I remember when church let out. / How things have changed since then / Everything is holy now."

- Excerpt from song lyrics to "Holy Now" by Peter Mayer

Burning bushes glow fire engine red at peak season, and are highly visible now in the West due to our warm and sunshiney October. When I was in Montana last week with Mom, we saw a few burning bushes as well as maple trees and highlighter yellow larches. On my walks I did not see any red wing birds, but we had a family of deer rest each day in the shadow of the house, just outside of the basement windows and easily observable from the living room. My sister calls it "deer day care."

My favorite vista was Mama deer sitting a cautious distance from her three little ones, back turned to them and huge long ears on a swivel to catch any possible danger. The youngsters sat with an eye on Mama, turning their heads to stare at us whenever they heard foot falls or voices from inside the house. Mama wasn't too worried about us but she did jump to high alert when shots were fired across the bay. The echo of their hunting-season clarion call carried, and Mama eventually sat under the rose bushes against the house while her babies retreated to shelter under the buck brush. 

The Mama deer, with her combination of devotion and "leave me alone" attitude, resonated with me. I remember the days with little ones, days full of miracles and minutiae, when I wanted to gaze at my children with awe but also to escape for an hour or two. I wrote a blog post headed by Peter Mayer's "Holy Now" when the kids were in elementary school. The beautiful lyrics capture how we can see everything as miracle, and the song lyrics reached out and grabbed me in the car yesterday, tying those early days with young children to this special time with my Mom.

Spending long, quiet minutes with people you love, with space to appreciate our shared existence, always feels miraculous to me now. I loved the time with Mom, soaking in histories, laughter, jokes, walks. On our last walk we saw the deer family out in another yard, and one little guy came close to check us out. We got a photo of her head lowered in our direction, bright black eyes staring unblinkingly as her soft ears twitched. Then a noise spooked her and her thin legs and shiny hooves scrambled for purchase in the landscaping as she bounded away.

It was hard to say goodbye to Mom, to the special quiet moments. I had to leave her in the Missoula airport, water bottle at her side and cane in hand, to wait for my brother. I wanted to ask the TSA agents to look after her, just as I asked them to watch over Aden on her first solo flight. Time and the people we love are precious and fragile, and every time together seems like a miracle.

Watch out for Buffaloberries!

While in Banff we purchased bear spray, as hungry bears ramp up their feeding prior to hibernation and one of their favorite foods - high-calorie buffaloberries - were in season when we visited. Both Aden and I listened carefully to the lecture on how to use the bear spray, and then I promptly gave the spray to Aden and told her to lead at all times. Good parenting? I think not (but Aden is truly the better outdoorswoman).  

Come to find out that we could not hike one of the routes we had planned due to the trail being in bear territory and boasting a fine crop of buffaloberries. On the Lake Minnewanka trail, hikers were required to have at least four people per group, with the front row carrying bear spray. (Sounds like a Formula 1 starting grid!) Group members could not stray further than 3 meters at any given time. Penalties of $25,000 Canadian would be levied if hikers were found breaking the bear rules. As I did not relish the thought of finding two or more strangers to hike and make conversation with for a 9-mile duration, we flexed to another trail.

The new route also had a plethora of buffaloberries trailside, their bright orangey-red skins glowing in the intermittent sunlight between bursts of rain. I clicked my hiking poles together periodically and we attempted to sing "American Pie" to alert any bears to our presence, but I ran out of breath on the climb and had to pray (in my head) for good luck and no bears.

Mama bears can eat up to 100,000 berries per day and their large male counterparts can eat twice that number, which raises the question of how any berries at all are left in Banff National Park?! But for better or worse, we saw no wildlife except for tiny squirrels carrying mushrooms to safe heights, where they either stashed the burnt orange fungi in the crook of a pine or sat nibbling, watching us with condescending bright eyes. We saw nests but no large birds, bubbling mineral pools but no fish. Disappointment vied with relief for primary emotion on our wildlife sighting.

We're still in the thrall of our trip, listening to our playlist and recalling the hikes of only a week ago. Fortunately the fall leaves are entering prime season here in Colorado and the calendar looks open for a nearby hike in the coming weekend. We couldn't pack our bear spray, so are left to hope that the berries are all "et up."

Real Readers (and Autumn, of course)

I'm reassured by the return of lower numbers to my readership stats, convinced now that real humans are represented by those digits. My small contribution to the whirlpool of today's media has softly drifted to the seafloor, where it lies mostly in obscurity. That's what I'm comfortable with, what I'm used to. Let us hope the bots do not rise again.

Moving on .... Autumn is a perennially delightful subject; my favorite season and one that blew into Colorado over the last two weeks, shaking golden leaves to the dried-out ground. We've had a dry September after an astonishingly wet summer and perhaps for that reason, the aspens down at this elevation rather missed the mark, achieving a dusty brown color as opposed to the brilliant yellows of the high country. The cottonwoods are similarly dodgy, but the ash and willow families are burnishing up nicely.

Autumn celebrates the end of growth, the dying of daylight and the return of colder weather. I always want to adopt it's mantra of flagrant, glowing delight in the face of darkness. In further celebration of leaf-peeping, I'm headed back to New England next week, hoping to catch the fall leaves of that splendid territory before they blow off or get snowed upon. I'm venturing north from Boston into Vermont for a day or two then making the happy rounds of family and friends in my old stomping grounds. I may even resurrect an old sweater or two out of sheer delight, though the modern lightweight tech fabrics are almost as worn, and much easier to pack.

In the midst of a truly topsy-turvy world, in which so many people are shocked and suffering, the ritual glory of dying leaves gives me some optimism that the world can keep on turning and evolving in spite of us. Someday the seasons might continue their peregrinations without us, and that thought, too, brings me some peace.

I hope wherever you are, my dear (few) treasured real readers, that you have some seasonal glimmer of joy in your day. Whether it be a scent, a taste, or a vision of a tree in flame, rest assured that I hope the best for you and I am grateful for you.

Annual Wave of Work

 Apologies to families and friends who look for semi-regular blog posts at this address: I've been drowning in the second annual "wave of work." The wave occurred last year at this time, magically drowning my sorrows at dropping William off for his freshman year at college. Again this year, I was swamped in new writing and swim curriculum work in the days after we moved William (with Aden's help) into his new apartment. The universe is looking out for me and trying to distract me from the "Find My" app on my phone.

The long weekend provided a respite of sorts, despite having to fit a few hours of work in each day. Rob and I hiked with the kids on Saturday and took them out to lunch, enjoying tales of new classes and jobs, catching up on drama from swim team and clubs. On Sunday I attended a Lead Sports conference centered on swimming. Watching Olympians swim (right in front of me!) to demonstrate drills and help young ladies with their stroke technique was a unique and fruitful opportunity. Many of our high school swimmers were there and their smiles and wild waving from the pool deck made my day.

Well, it made my day until the late afternoon sessions, when we got to hear Olympic medalists and training partners Lilly King and Annie Lazor speak to a small group of parents and coaches. They each spoke of their training journey and college recruitment process, diving into family support, odyssey through multiple coaches and training groups. Both women are unapologetically strong and fierce, tempered by maturity (now that they're in their mid-20s) and eager to help young female swimmers.

Their talk went over by a few minutes and afterward I walked swiftly to the front to wait in line for a brief chat and photo. I told them both that their friendship and mutual support at the Tokyo Games was my favorite part of the last Olympics, and how much I appreciated seeing that play out. Then I told Lilly that she had "wished" me a happy birthday when I turned 50, via a paid cameo video that Rob purchased, and Lilly high-fived me (possibly for being the oldest person in the room but hopefully because I loved her video).

When all is said and done, being productive and trying new things, while tiring, feels rewarding, good and solid. I'm grateful for work, work friends, and teammates, who tide me over between the golden moments when my family can all be together. I hope your fall is off to a good start, and that relationships bless and carry you through the challenging spaces in life.

Autumnal Paradise

A cold front blew in today, gusts of wind chasing multi-colored fallen leaves down the side streets in waves of natural confetti. The autumn has been spectacular here, prompting neighbors to post tree pics from their morning dog-walks, or just photos of the view out their front windows. Brilliant golds, plum purples, crimson reds and Halloween oranges change the light as it pours through our windows, casting a glow on items within and without.

The warmish October and the absence of storms that gifted us with such splendid scenery even spurred acquaintances to poetic raptures online: turns of phrases like "autumn flaunts itself" or "the neighborhood is lit" make me smile; I'm happy that  everyone I know seems to appreciate the rarity of this season, to hold it with gratitude. But "nothing gold can stay," as Robert Frost admonished, and the wind and rain projected for tonight will finally denude our beautiful foliage and signal the start of raking season.

What we love, we protect. I hope we so love our trees, our regular march of seasons, our livable climate, that we continue to push for its protection. The Conference of the Parties under the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change will meet for the 26th time, this year in Glasgow, from October 31 through November 21. Keep one eye on the news of COP 26, look for promises made and plan to hold our country to those promises. I want my grandchildren to see an autumnal paradise like the fall of 2021, to scuff their feet through fallen leaves, to jump into leaf piles with abandon. Nothing good can stay, but it can come back again some day.

Leaf-Peeping in the Rockies

 "Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree."  - Emily Bronte

"In autumn, the trees show us how beautiful it is to let things go." - Unknown

I went to Frisco last weekend to hike with girlfriends, and the Rocky mountainsides threw down golden carpets to greet us. Bold yellow aspen leaves shook and shimmied as a Friday afternoon storm washed the valleys clean. We went through our first snow of the season after emerging from Eisenhower tunnel into that same storm, and snowcapped peaks around us stayed white over the weekend as we hiked and chatted our days away.

On Saturday we climbed almost ten miles through a magical fir forest, punctuated by the resplendent aspens and occasionally a red maple or oak. We walked singly or two by two as we discussed our college freshmen, older and younger children, husbands, jobs, politics and favorite hiking accessories. Striding out across a meadow at approximately 10,000 feet, we encountered a young couple and we stepped aside to let them pass.

"No," said the man, "You have to turn around and see the view behind you. It's spectacular!" Dutifully we turned around and exclaimed over the postcard-worthy vision before us: mountain tops split by green, gold and amber, a sky of deepest blue and scudding white clouds. We took photos for them and posed in turn for our group shots. All the autumn hikers greeted us cheerfully, leaning in to the steep slopes and to awe. We encountered many groups of women enjoying the trail together and joked with them (and took more pictures) as we passed.

Later in the day we curled up with prosecco and snacks, somehow finding new subjects to discuss, and I thought about how my girls' weekends have changed over the decades. From dancing, dining and drinking at exciting establishments, returning late, exhausted (and possibly hungover) to young families and messy homes, we've shifted to exertion of a different nature. Without the urgency to seize and fill every independent moment, as I felt when the kids were younger, it's easier to appreciate life's golden moments. I'm not comfortable saying that I have moved into my own autumn, but I'm not unwilling to go when it's time.

Pumpkin Spice and Asphalt

Oh, these nippy September mornings! I shrug on a fleece to coach at 6am and delight in the earliest signs of fall colors on our oak and cottonwood trees. This morning, I added pumpkin spice creamer to my coffee and hummed a tuneless "it's almost fall" ditty as the house fan ran and Daniel got ready for school. The euphoria only lasted until a strong, black licorice-turned-bad scent of asphalt assaulted my senses. A peek through our open screen door revealed early shift workers out administering black tar to the cracks in our street, rushing to repair roads before our Colorado summer-fall turns to fall-winter.

The morning's themes continued as I dodged roadwork signs to pick up Daniel's new black suit at the tailors. Angling my car into impossible parking spots at Trader Joe's, where half the parking lot was blocked off in Tetris shapes for new asphalt, I swore several times and had to breathe deeply as a red SUV nearly backed into my little Mazda. 

Once inside TJ's, I indulged my craving for autumnal peace and bought orange and purple flowers, pumpkin spice yogurt, even a PS smoothie from Nekter, next door. The potassium-fueled drink helped me maneuver two heavy bags of groceries around cones and under yellow caution tape back to my vehicle, commiserating with fellow shoppers turned pack mules, forced to leave our shopping carts at the door.

As I waited to extricate myself from the parking lot maze, I dreamed of getting up into the mountains to see the aspen slopes turn gold. We shouldn't have to 'get away' to enjoy the season that's right here in backyards and neighborhood greenbelts, but with every locality tainted by toxic fumes and crazily busy suburbanites,  I see fall at this altitude in the onset of pumpkin spice and orange lawn decor. The mountains call me, as they do tens of thousands of other leaf-peepers, with whom I will share my hiking trails when we finally escape to the hills.

What will we crave in future falls, as weather, seasonal temperatures and natural disasters continue to flux and disrupt our routines? Will it still be flavored coffees, lattes and yogurts, or will we simply dream of cooler air and the outfit changes of healthy trees?  At the very least, I hope we're less reliant on cars, roads and resulting asphalt updates.

Steamboat Springs

Sunrays swim down
Through layers of branches,
Ripple from leaf to leaf.
Woody scents rise
Like mist from the Yampa
In a dawntime chill.

Berries stare, ruddy-eyed,
At latest fall design of
Aspen’s lemony lace,
Invite blue birds who
Shy from our footsteps on
Loamy Fish Creek Trail.

Children’s chipmunk chatter
Drowns in water sound.
Falls hurry over rocky outcrops
To meet boys, half-naked,
Daring and splashing below.
Goosebumps rise in icy snowmelt.

Minerals evanesce in
Harnessed hot springs.
As bubbles sprout on skin,
Salmon-like swimmers
Climb walls, shoot slides.
Water exhales steam into autumn air.

What is a Wild Specific Tangent?

Set me free, O God,

to go off with you today

on one wild, specific tangent after another,

immersed and amazed

in the wonder

and even terror

of your immense

creative beauty.

- From Earth Gospel, A Guide to Prayer for God's Creation (Sam Hamilton-Poore, p 62)

For a Type A personality immersed in the American can-do and must-have culture, the freedom to go off on a "wild, specific tanget" seems to dance just out of reach, yet I recently began to sense that I had to have that freedom or start gasping for air.

Most of my life I have lived linearly: followed the rules, planned for success to follow effort, and left the margins blank. A few years ago, the margins blurred and I started coloring life outside the lines. Just a hint, an aura, not a full-fledged rebellion. To be sure, full-time motherhood of three children and a life in middle-class suburbia does not leave an immense amount of room for healthy rebellion, but the need for creative freedom began to percolate.

The phrase "wild specific tangent" in the prayer above actually comes from a Reflection by Annie Dillard, which is quoted on the same page in Earth Gospel. Dillard writes, "The creator goes off on one wild, specific tangent after another, or millions simultaneously, with an exuberance that would seem to be unwarranted, and with an abandoned energy sprung from an unfathomable font." Witness that exuberance in the flaming leaves of autumn, the red glow of late peaches, the crazed bees preparing for winter. The world is not logical, not always connected in ways that we can see (though always connected) and not controllable. I pray for the ability to relax my need for control, to see the beauty around me, and to explore the wild, specific tangents that cross my path.

Hopefully this blog will give me the opportunity to do so, with partnership and support from like-minded others.