comfort

Strength and Tranquility – ND #40

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Strength and Tranquility – Photo: L. Weikel

Strength and Tranquility

Adding an extra leg to my journey, I took a detour from my usual walking route and paid a visit to an anchoring source of both strength and tranquility: the Tohickon Creek. In spite of the cold, I felt drawn to her soothing presence. It’s been a while since I had a chance to just be with her and listen to her voice.

Along the way, both coming and going, I encountered a number of deer. I didn’t even try to take any photos of them. It was as if they moved just enough to reveal their presence, grazing amongst the trees and weeds of the rocky hillside. Then, entering stillness again, they melted back into their surroundings.

Perhaps it was the rather specific amount of leftover mini-piles of snow sporadically strewn about the hillside that made me appreciate how well-suited deer are to blending into their milieu. Up until now I was pretty sure the white tails of our ‘white-tail deer,’ were more a ‘tell’ than a tool. But today? Today I was fascinated to see that the glimpses I caught of their tails resembled the random pockets of snow scattered amongst the dead leaves and other detritus of the forest floor.

Huh. I never noticed that before. And I’ve seen a lot of deer in my time.

Cormorant? – Photo: L. Weikel

Icy and Cold

When I got to the creek itself, I could make out a single large-ish sized bird standing on a boulder further down the creek. My gut tells me it was a cormorant, even though that’s not a bird I routinely associate with the creek.

The ice forming along the banks took on the blue-ish hue of the overcast sky. Even though the sun had set and snow crystals were just beginning to spit from the thick blanket of gray above me, I see hints of magenta and green in the geometric forms of the freezing water. Or maybe its my imagination as I view these photos now.

No matter. My beloved Tohickon worked her magic. My heart found peace.

I offered her some strands of my hair in gratitude for the comfort she unfailingly provides me when I need it most.

Serpentine Currents of the Tohickon – Photo: L. Weikel

 

(T+40)

Weird Week – Day 886

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Exquisite Spring Day – Photo: L. Weikel

Weird Week

This has been such a weird week already – and it’s not even Friday yet. (Well, it will be by the time this is read; but you get my drift.) And I have a feeling the weirdness isn’t done with us yet.

There’s been a dramatic acceleration of activity in many spheres. Notice I didn’t say a dramatic acceleration of movement or forward momentum. No. There’s just been a lot of activity – some of it constructive, some of it obstructive. And some of it just downright maddening and perplexing. Even a lot of spinning in place, one might say.

It’s hard to describe the shock I feel, in some ways, of dealing with so many people all at once in the span of four days. It makes me realize just how profoundly my baseline sense of ‘normal’ has changed in the past year.

I’ve literally engaged with people face-to-face (masked where appropriate, socially distanced in every instance) every single day this week. Tomorrow I have the opportunity and responsibility to engage further with more people and I’m simply agog at the thought.

Don’t Get Me Wrong

I’m not complaining. I’m observing. I always knew I was an introvert; that’s what’s actually made navigating the pandemic this past year relatively pleasant and comforting. I’m one of the lucky ones. I have space. I have direct access to innumerable expressions of Mother Nature and the ability to take a walk and enjoy them without a lingering fear in the back of my mind that I might not make it back to my house alive.

Yes, I’ve missed giving people hugs. Funnily enough, I think I’ve discovered that the circumstances in which I miss the gift of hugging most acutely are those that involve people who I would not ordinarily hug, but who I sense need them the most. What I mean by that is, yes, I miss giving my kids and my dear friends hugs. But I exquisitely miss the comfort and care that I sometimes feel can only be conveyed in a hug that transcends all words.

And the wordless expression of transcendent love and compassion are sometimes the precise and only gift that’s worth giving.

Buffeted

I find myself buffeted by the extremes of our existence. The yearning desire so many have to receive the vaccine that will protect them from catching a deadly disease – to the point that they burst into tears when they receive their inoculation(s). And then witnessing the casual indifference to the snuffing out of the lives of Black people by those we wish could be trusted to protect us – all of us – regardless of our skin color. As a mother – as a human – I just cannot fathom the relentless injustice and the disregard, time after time after time, for the preciousness of these lives.

I groused last night about feeling the effects of tree pollen. At least, that’s what I think was afflicting me last night. And yet…I stopped in my tracks when I looked at the exquisite beauty of the trees and clouds and grass I found myself driving past this afternoon. I almost drove right past this stunning hug from Mother Earth herself.

I’m glad I stopped in the middle of where I was driving and tried to capture the essence that overwhelmed me in that moment. It was a wordless moment of unconditional love and compassion. She was giving to me what I yearn to give to others.

More goldfinches amongst magnolia blossoms – Photo: L. Weikel

(T-225)

Tohickon to the Rescue – Day 341

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My Sacred Tohickon, 18 Oct 19 – Photo: L. Weikel

Tohickon to the Rescue      

Yes, I know. I can just imagine your reaction to the title to this post. “Good grief, how can this chick talk so much about a stupid creek?”

But here I sit, at the end of a day that started out as dark and wild as the day before it, at the end of yet another long week of astonishing ugliness and corruption being exposed to our wondering eyes, at the end of a week that brought sadness at a sudden loss of a person of great courage and integrity. Here I sit on my couch, the reassuring snore of Sheila percolating from under her favorite wolf blanket, asking myself what of this day merits my attention and reflection.

View upstream of the Tohickon – Photo: L. Weikel

What Brought Me Joy

And I have to answer: what I feel most compelled to share with you today is the bounty of joy reaped from fifteen minutes I spent beside the Tohickon Creek, on my way home from running some mid-afternoon errands.

Most of the day was overcast and chilly. Taking the ‘long way’ home yet again, as I did last week when I encountered the dazed young deer, I managed to make it to the covered bridge without incident. I proceeded alongside the magnificent wall of black rock rising up a steep hill to my left, emerald moss strategically highlighting the wall’s nooks and crannies. As I crested the slight rise of the single lane road and rounded the blind spot where the rock wall refused to yield and demanded the road meet its terms, sunshine suddenly spilled forth from above.

View downstream of the Tohickon – Photo: L. Weikel

The moment was magical and quite unexpected. It was as if the clouds surrendered, bowing to the warmth of the sun, when actually it was more a function of the wind’s insistence that they part. It didn’t matter to me what caused it. All I knew was that everything around me transformed in an instant. The brilliant oranges, yellows, reds, and spring-like greens on the trees were not only illuminated but doubled in their presentation, as it seemed all of it – everything – was reflected on the surface of the Tohickon.

Capturing the Moment to Share With You

Even as I try to describe this moment of “Ah!” my heart quickens a bit.

Suddenly surrounded by this palette of autumn flavors, I was filled with awe. Breathless with the wonder of it all, I pulled off the road at my favorite spot. All I could do was thank All That Is for giving me this moment.

Knowing and appreciating how truly lucky I am to have the opportunity to encounter such a moment in the middle of an October afternoon, I once again yearned to bring the beauty and inspiration home to you, my readers. So I jumped out of the car and even hopped onto a couple rocks that took me further into the creek so I could get shots both further up and down stream.

Sky and trees reflected in the Tohickon

Reflections on the Tohickon – Photo: L. Weikel

What delighted me most were the reflections. Oh my goodness, I was surrounded by the most exquisite works of art in the world.

In those moments, I was soothed. The peace and beauty and ‘eternal now’ of those precious moments wrapped themselves around me and whispered, “We’re here. Look, see, feel, listen. Take comfort. Share us.”

And that was the highlight of my day.

Trees reflected in the Tohickon

More Tohickon reflections – Photo: L. Weikel

(T-770)

Deep Thrum – Day 217

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Tohickon Creek – Photo: L. Weikel

Deep Thrum – Old Fashioned Cool

I’m sitting here on my couch, alone in my living room. The front door is open, and that usually means I can hear the nighttime sounds of ‘outside,’ which for the most part at this time of the year consists of bullfrogs. In a month or two, crickets and katydids will join the boisterous, gravel-voiced amphibian chorus. But for a split minute, there are no bullfrogs, no sounds at all filtering through the mesh-screen door that separates me from the wilds of the darkness outside.

Even Sheila is failing to provide her usual contribution of deeply resonant snoring.

As many of you who’ve been reading my posts for a while know, I savor silence. Every single time I give myself the opportunity to bask in it, I’m better for it.

And so it was a surprise when I closed my eyes and just sat for a few moments, pondering what I would write about tonight, that I recognized a comforting, lulling sound far in the background of my consciousness. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a real sound alright. But it is such a deep part of me and what makes me feel ‘at home’ that I rarely think about it consciously.

Deep Thrum of a Different Silence

I’m speaking of the comforting deep thrum of our whole house fan. This contraption, comprised of a small motor, a belt and a couple pulleys that turn the blades of the fan, and a slatted vent that opens in the ceiling of the hallway of our second floor, sucks air into the house from outside through our screened windows and doors. It pulls the air in from outside, creating a cool breeze, and circulates that air right up into our attic.

Most of the time, except when the weather is extremely muggy or relentlessly hot (such that it barely cools off at night at all outside), our whole house fan is a wonderful way to keep us cool. We have a couple room air conditioners perched in a smattering of rooms throughout the house, but we try to minimize our use of them.

Part of our desire to rely primarily on our whole house fan is environmental. It uses a lot less electricity. And it also just feels more natural, less of a subtle stress on our constitutions by jerking our bodies from cold to hot, muggy to dry.

It’s the Memories

Trust me, though, this is not a crusade. It’s not some holier-than-thou passive aggressive attempt to shame others who use air conditioning as soon as it gets a little warm or elevate myself because I don’t. Not in the least. I’m simply realizing that I love the whole house fan because of the memories, not least being the aforementioned deep thrum.

Yes.

I grew up in a stone farmhouse that was built in 1770. For a long time in my childhood, I remember the only means of staying cool in our home was via our whole house fan. That fan, too, was mounted in the hallway ceiling of the second floor of our home and sucked all the air up into the attic. It was situated right outside my bedroom, so I grew up with that deep thrum front and center in my consciousness.

Nearly every summer night I’d be told to ‘run upstairs and put the fan on,’ and it was always sweet relief to feel the coolness of the evening cascading into our rooms and throughout the house as soon as I turned it on. Not only did I fall asleep to its rhythm, I also realized I couldn’t hear anything from downstairs (like the tv or my parents having a conversation). This could feel disconcerting. I could either be afraid something would happen to them and I wouldn’t hear it, or I could let myself feel wrapped in a cocoon of cool, quiet thrum.

Always a Choice: Fear – or Surrender and Trust

I remember consciously making that choice a bunch of times. Was I going to give in to that fear? Or was I going to surrender to the comfort of the deep thrum.

I think I was in high school before my parents bought the first couple of window air conditioners for the house. One in the kitchen and one in their bedroom were the first to arrive. Eventually one in the ‘den’ where we would watch tv. But my parents still used ‘the fan’ most of the time. Just like we do now.

It’s a peculiar comfort, I suppose. And yet installing our whole house fan was one of the very first things Karl and I did when we bought our home (which is also old – not 1770 old – but more like 1840 old). Installing central air has never even crossed our minds.

All of which brings me back to an awareness of what I sense at this very moment. I hear (and feel in my very bones) the deep thrum. The thrum that’s both a visceral reminder of my childhood and a present-day comfort, calling me to come to bed so I may savor the stream of night air being drawn in to dance across our summer sheets and keep us cool.

Good night; sleep well. And don’t forget to whisper your sweet dreams to the full moon tomorrow night.

(T-894)