Sunday, July 31, 2011
This is my painter friend Aleksei in Kostroma, Russia, in winter.
Our heat wave left us today, as rain came in, blessing us with coolness. I've been thinking about how people turn up in our lives and change us. Even our children can do this, and certainly our old friends. I tell myself not to worry about things going wrong, because along with the unpleasant surprises, there are often good ones we also couldn't have predicted. I didn't get to this blog until fairly late Sunday night, so I'm giving you a poem written last summer when we also had weather much too hot.
Two very nice things happened yesterday that I couldn't have predicted: Kaye Barley posted a blog I wrote for her MeanderingsandMuses blog on Why I Write Mysteries, and she gave me a very nice intro, which perked me up. check it out--for July 31: http://www.meanderingsandmuses.com/
Then my daughter and her two children went with me to see a children's play, "Little Red and the Riding Hoods" at our Snow Camp Outdoor Theater, about 45 minutes from where I live. It was a good outing. The children enjoyed the play and showing their mother around the historic site of early Quaker settlements in the Haw River Valley. Their mother shared some early memories of my mothering that I'd forgotten, like how I made her cinnamon toast to get her out of bed in the morning.
Now here's the poem. Enjoy. Look for those unexpected surprises that are good! Judy
THAT INNER CIRCLING SUN V. June 27, 2010
Without water the daylilies bloom, but
the pear tree begins to die. This relentless
heat tests all living things. I feed the
chickens weeds, put electrolytes in their
water, keep the dog inside more, spend
minimal time outside to water and pick
what few fruits the plants produce.
The chickens keep laying, the cucumbers
and blueberries ripen, the first figs.
I make leek and potato soup, gather
the ingredients for bread and butter
pickles, and water morning and evening.
I see gold finches perched swaying on
the orange and gold cosmos, eating seeds,
while bumblebees pollinate fervently.
We have too little or too much rain.
These violent weather shifts teach us
humility. I wake with words in my mind,
words I never say aloud: "Who will
take care of me?" I know the answer:
I will, and these helpers who appear
out of nowhere before I need them,
these emissaries, these divine messengers.
Something about me that I don’t fathom
makes them help before I ask. All I
have to do is my part. The Universe
will see to the rest.