A Tide of Swallows

As the poplar leaves shimmered in a late summer breeze and the willow stretched its long fingers towards the water, shading fattened fuzzy catkins near to bursting, I stood near a stand of ripe blackberries on a blanket of tiny pine cones defeated by gravity, not wanting to return to work maybe ever again. I completed the day successfully via a combination of skill and luck, hoping both hold in that balance until Thursday evening when my good friend arrives for a long weekend.

I took a walk as the sun was setting, earlier and earlier every day, and encountered a single crow, some late night straggler, as he sat quiet and still, facing the orange horizon as if in deep meditation on his existence. It was a thankfully slow-paced day today which gave me a chance to reset and recharge, a good moment before a very extroverted weekend to come.

When I woke up today the rain was falling, and as it pattered on the windowsills and cracked the parched earth with its tiny, gentle rivers, I felt the wet mist on my face, the air rich, heavy and alive and I once again felt at home. A very close friend arrived tonight and our happy little trio reunited for a weekend full of adventure and food.

We left the busy ring road that kissed the lake shore in favor of the shadow of tall trees, the hush of loam, and a quiet meandering path through the glistening spider domes and the dark green serrations of ferns, the red crest of a shy Pileated Woodpecker flashing brilliantly against the sun-dappled forest. Today we walked and talked about everything and nothing, in the way that only friends can do, and had a connective dinner amongst the First Nation carvings of Bears, Ravens and Wolves as we drank and laughed and ate far too much food.

The sea stack rose from the surf like some eternally slumbering creature, its back covered in a distant, misty, wind-swept forest, while on the beach hundreds of massive driftwood trunks baked in the sun and giant stone teeth revealed to us an impermanent tidal universe, a home for barnacles and urchins, and the stranding of teardrop jellyfish on the spongy wet sand. Today was our annual road trip tradition which involved an eight-hour drive around the Olympic Peninsula, egg salad on the beach, a sweaty hike in the rainforest, dinner at Lake Crescent with the world’s greatest dessert and a frantic rush Eastward through the darkness to catch the last ferry back home.

Walking along the tree-lined island road, we paused to pluck fat, dark blackberries from the spreading brambles as the thorns grabbed at the skin on our fingers; I watched both children stuff their faces full of something wild and precious during a time in their lives that will seem endless, closing my eyes as the sweet juice ran down my throat and remembering when I felt that way as well. Exhausted, we reduced our activity level today and visited more close friends, engaged in long conversations, took naps on the sofa, and gorged on late evening ice cream.

As we drove to dinner, the sun struggled with the approaching wildfire smoke – choked orange and glowing fiercely in defiance, until it could stand no more and fled from the horizon into the sea.  This was our last night with our good friend, one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and after one of the best visits with him we’ve ever experienced, it was a bit heart-wrenching to say one last goodbye.

The ash fell overnight like first snow on our steps, dusting everything in a fine layer of grey soot; the smoke tinted everything a sickly yellow-green as we struggled to breathe, enclosing the world in a sweltering dome of silence from which not even the sun could emerge.  It was back to work for me today, and surprisingly everything was calm and low-key, which gave me the opportunity to try to get my life back in order while also heeding the air quality issues and their effect on my health.

Under the apocalyptic sky, I paused in the crushing heat and ash-choked air to notice the single empty nut shell lying on the stone next to the basement walkway and it seemed a sign of life, a windfall for some past squirrel who sat in the roof shade and had his breakfast while we all dreamed of wind and rain. I’m having trouble sleeping, due to the weather or my return to work or my lack of healthy choices or my cessation of exercise, and it makes for long and confusing days.

As the air slowly began to clear of the ash and smoke from the eastern wildfires, three Stellar’s Jays landed on the balcony across the street, sat silently together for a few minutes, and then each went in a separate direction as if to spread their brilliant blue back to the day and their calming black back to the night. Soon I will begin a year-long project at work thanks to my accomplishments, which fills me both with pride and apprehension. 

Patches of faint blue hesitantly emerged from the haze of ash and smoke and the clouds once again moved freely across the late summer skies as if they were wiping them clean again. I’m suddenly feeling the urge to busy myself with autumn projects and spent most of the evening futzing around with various  plans.

I’m at the point in my life where hearing an unfamiliar bird call causes me to lose all conversational focus and shifts my senses to the unseen treetops and to the discovery of the wild unknown; my desire to flee into the woods with a camera or binoculars despite whatever is going on in front of me becomes nearly impossible to resist. We celebrated with close community today on Bainbridge Island, showering our mutual friends with gifts and love for the impending arrival of their first child and being surrounded by nature and filled with ice cream cake.

Transfixed, I stood in the grass with binoculars in hand, the moon blazing from the dark sky before me; Through the glass, I climbed those jagged, lonely peaks and strode across the deep blue seas to reach the dark edge curving from that brilliant waxing glow into endless space. It has become an unfortunate trait of a Sunday with nothing to do that I find everything to do instead.

The sun lowers and is caught in delicate webs that are strung from every corner and under every eaves; It lifts each slightly skyward in the last breeze of sunset as the season of the spider arrives. I was blessed today, after a very disruptive night, with a day of study and reflection near the wide-open windows as I prepare for my next work project.

The evening wind was cool and fresh, every cloud tinted a golden pink that slowly ripened into the full blush of purple as the weather shifted away from summer and left me with a sudden, surprising wistfulness, the stuff of fading leaves and the eventual coming of silence. It was another day of study today, learning and growing at my own pace alone with my hungry brain, one of my happiest places.

He sat resolute, a splash of neon green against the dull metal mailbox, filament antenna conducting a hushed symphony of the wind; but his thick haunches and serrated legs never tensed for motion because he somehow knew I would rather wait another day to get my mail than to disturb him.  Things are winding down at work in the eave of an intense ramp up and I’m finding myself falling back into structureless efforts and bad habits as if my child is grabbing all the candy he can before it is time for veggies again.

Once I began to take notice of nature more mindfully, I was surprised by the hidden seasons between seasons that embody a powerful energy of change – transitions between seasons when each hour might hold a mixture of what is ending and what is beginning or might take on either in a last display of ownership or a first grasp of identityl A routine laptop operating system update today caused me to have to spend over eight hours reinstalling and reformatting from scratch, but gave me time to slow down and take in the world around me.

When they cut down all the ancient trees lining our walkway, they left a single stump which soon became the domain of a colony of ivy, a colony that after what I can only imagine was a prolonged Ivymoot has chosen this moment in time to surge past the oppressive fence that separates our kingdoms and invade the forbidden lands in a quest to reach the opposite wall and create an impassable wilderness between the parking lot and the entrance to our home. It was my last day before the large project begins and I spent it doing all the bad things, which seemed like enjoyable things at the time, but in reality are just ways of escaping responsibility and choice.

Once again, the skies were hazy with smoke and ash motes rode impossibly small air currents like directionless white gnats, scribbling into our faces and covering the porch in a layer of silt. We spent the entire day planning projects for the next six months, an extended and exhausting catch up from summer’s sweet respite.

The bush tits are nestled up close in the protective labyrinth of a solitary tree, hidden away and isolated from all those on the busy city sidewalk who walk past their involved conversations distracted and unnoticing; and yet we all look to the sky, feeling a sudden chill as the rains fall and the cloud cover lowers, as we wonder in our own ways if the yearly Long Grey has begun. Once again, I stayed up too late and am paying for it today, though with a new routine in hand and a new dedication, I hope soon to be a better person to myself.