A Day of Rain

I sat perched on the toilet, watching the grey morning moving the trees around. The window pane gave a little rattle as silent tears of joy ran down the outside. A small oval of moisture clung to the inside, a telling of old seals giving way around the windowsill. The tree branches are still heavy with green and yellow leaves and they bow their arms gracefully, like ballerina dancers watching the audience of the waves on the lake. I keep thinking how grateful the earth feels for the rain, how it's soaking in the water to prepare for a long winter ahead. Walking about the property yesterday, I felt the immensity of my life growing up here. The land speaks to me of so many memories and I can hear the thump of my horses hoofbeats from twenty years ago. I see her chestnut flaxen tail held high like a banner, the wind remembering her snorts and whinnies. In September, there is a feeling of space opening up between the ground and the sky, where for months a heavy blanket of humidity has lain unmoving. The clouds like to fly high and change shapes often, sometimes spreading out like the sand on the bottom of Lake Michigan. I feel so thirsty for this place, so full of gratitude for the many secrets we share. Tracing my childhood around the land, I come upon a patch of clover still growing it's bounty of four and five leaf clovers. I never did tell my sister how I always got so lucky. I look forward to showing Little Son these secrets. I went back into the small fairy forest near my old fort in the cedar grove. To my amazement there stood a ring of rocks I had placed around a wild rose plant more than twentysome years before. The moss I had brought there to line my cathedral had grown as well, creating a blanket to sit on. I looked up to the top of the forest, where a lone sassafrass tree was turning brilliant shades of vermillion amidst the pine. Everywhere scents came to me, the slow decomposition of apples in the orchard, the wetness of fallen leaves, the crush of the grass beneath my tread. The many insects and creatures stirring the air, squirrels chattering like wind-up toys high in the branches. As I walked slowly throgh the forest, I felt something ease inside of me, something made of struggle, worry, fear, and cement. It felt like the weight of the city vanished right then and a few warm tears sprang up. Blinking, I looked up to see the ropey vines climbing the cedars in my fort. They had made an incredible sort of chair with a footrest near the root, and another crowsnest far up in the trees. I thought how small I must've been when I played here and climbed up for a lookout. We had a language then made of whistles. My father once taught us to put each thumb carefully over an acorn top leaving just a small triangle between the tops of our thumbs. If you blow in the triangle spot out comes this piercing whistle. Bending down I pick one up and put it in my pocket for later. Maybe I'll send it to my sister. Maybe I'll get it dipped in silver and make her a present for Christmas.
My own Mom is watching Little Son, so this is the first time in almost six months that I have been alone in nature. Our dog Zorra decided to follow me along my way and looks at me expectantly. I am glad of her company and call her to come lay with me in the field. Smoothing my poncho into a blanket, we lay together under a tall blue sky. She affectionately drops a heavy clawed paw over my arm, saying in her dog way "isn't this great? I'm so glad we are spending a little time together." It feels like a long time since I could hear the dog language. Even longer since I could hear what the wind was saying, lifting my hair and whispering secrets for all who cared to listen. My body feels stiff, so I stretch up to the clouds, over to the grass, in to the earth. Small ants have now invaded my poncho and I think to myself I probably invaded their home. I am probably sitting right on top of it. So instead of crushing their bodies or flicking them away, I let them run onto my fingers and I deposit them on the other side of my poncho in the grass. I look deeper into the grass to find a thatch of roots and small leaves, each spinkled with drops of dew. This is what I came for. This is why I needed to stay awhile longer and drink in the dew. To remember who I am.