A Tide of Swallows

We have reached one of the two times in the year where breathing the air feels like drinking the most pristine, cold bottle of water after a long hike, so clean and pure, the taste of mountain air tumbling down from the snowcaps into the golden valley below. There was success on all work fronts today as some invisible barrier vanished, leaving me with the prospect of a good weekend ahead and a short holiday week to come.

A slow-moving river of black wings, a scattered murmuration of corvids flew in meandering yet unified nonchalance towards their evening roost, while far below them we turned away from the mountain bathed in rose sunset, from the hazy foothills kissed with the last breath of cloud, to head towards the approaching dusk and warm company. We played games all evening with good friends and I felt full of something other than the stresses of my current life, falling into sleep the minute my head hit the pillow.

There is something in the muffled quality of the air, something in the way that the sunlight shortens the shadows and peers low and uncertain through the shades, something about the way the door rattles with wind or the way the glass creaks in the morning cold, something in a million other unspoken and barely conscious changes that tell you without even venturing outdoors that it is late fall and that winter is approaching. Work began again and again has nearly defeated me and I’m yearning for some silence, lack of thought, and perspective.

My alerts chime and I silence them and the light fades and I continue typing, struggling with my imbalances, startled at the ease at which nature is lost to me, knowing that a quick breath of air on the porch barely substitutes for a real conversation but futilely hoping that I can somehow absorb the totality of it all in a matter of a few small moments. It’s the same story, the boss fights that dog me these days, this short week just intensifying their attacks.

I close my eyes and listen to the rain pouring down on the rooftop and into the street and when I open them, all light is smeared and the trees across the road waver in diffraction, and yet the water continues to overflow the drainpipes and wash away the last of the fallen leaves. I’ve hit a wall tonight and plan to cut my day short tomorrow to celebrate a break from everything and an indulgence in nothing. 

The south wind caressed the ripened guava and gifted the mynah’s wings with flight, then turned north along the coast, warm and wet and fertile, up the cliff-hugging highways, around the barnacled sea stacks and then inland where it birthed a sudden burst of greening, called song birds out of their nests, and coaxed forth the purple flowers that edged their way hesitantly from under the fence. Another long day gave way to the start of my holiday weekend, and not a moment too soon.

Only when all the other branches are bare, when the darkness falls heavy and complete in the mid afternoon, while other creatures plan for snow and the approach of winter’s sleep does the yellow tree burst into full neon sunshine, a soliloquy of lemon-lime in sharp, unforgettable contrast to the grey sky, heart-shaped leaves filling the air with every gust of wind. It was another fantastic and much-too-indulgent Thanksgiving with friends and a new baby celebrating his first taste of second-hand feasting.

When I walk alone I am never alone for my company is the wind, the scent of soil, the sound of trees, the dappling of sunshine, the darkening of clouds, the subtle blooms, the spread of moss, the wanderings of ivy, the round winter berries, the busying of insects, the hundreds and thousands of living creatures going about their existences – all part of a million minute experiences that are encountered along my path. I enjoyed a day by myself today, far away from work, where I could breathe and take notice, find some perspective and reflection.

As the twilight fell over the yellow bushes and grey, barren trees, the blackbird’s multi-note timbre rose from the wetlands, from behind the cold rain; I imagined him, king of the marsh, lord of creaking frogs, mists and green waters, his ruby epaulette flashing from between the reeds. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend walk near the lake today and returned home after a meal to the cozy comfort of togetherness and a long movie.

The rain falls heavily, slopping into the mud with the sound of oatmeal; the sky is white, the silhouettes of crows painted against it; all of us bird and beast and human retreat back into the comfort of our dens and burrows and wait and watch. It’s the last day of the Thanksgiving break and I’m grasping at time, needing change, happy for the quiet and yearning for more of it in the future.

In the narrow spaces between the dark hours as the winter draws near, the eyes squint and the skin pales and the sun, the dying god, gasps and lays flat, while in the wide boundary of night, the world is made of shadows and black corners and the reflection of house lights and Christmas decorations. It was a difficult re-entry into the world of work after such a perfect holiday weekend, but I am determined to strike a better balance even though this week has a handful of time-based challenges.

The Seattle rain in the winter months is a relentless beast; it wails me in on all sides, driving cold fingers down the back of my neck, seeping slowly into each fiber until it makes me its own and I become liquid and dissolve in a pool of bruise colors. I barely enjoyed a chai today while waiting on the car to be repaired, as I once again lose sight of balance and time and phone devices.

There in the shallows, framed by the bent bare tree stretching deep into the lake, among the tangle of crooked root fingers, the mallards and the coots were bathed in a single shaft of sunlight strong enough to crack the clouds. Day three of the too-much-to-do week had me visiting the dentist and again working late in the evening to catch up the time out.

After a long day spent without a break, I walked out on the porch and was greeted by the beauty of a grey, still world – the yellow tree blazing in the streetlight, a drip from the upper gutters falling slow and steady onto the rich wet soil. This was another day chasing down work monsters and realizing just how quickly it took to lose my perspective again.

On this cold, clear night in early winter as the moon is on the very edge of fullness and sits atop the black sky with sharp edges and blinding brightness, I spy the three stars of my childhood unmistakably titling upwards and welcome Orion the Hunter back to his Northerly grounds. We spent the first night of our busy weekend celebrating the fifth birthday of a special little kid, and somehow ate pizza and ice cream for dinner like the special little kids we are.

The tree soaked up the rain, its long gnarled branches covered in a soft tapestry of moss and lichen in rich greens and browns as the crow hopped along their length, excavating with his curved beak, water beading on his slick feathers, occasionally tilting his head to check with the soggy squirrel splayed flat far above him watching his progress.We had a very busy day today putting up our Christmas tree and dealing with all the positives and negatives of decoration before heading south for a laugh-filled game night with good friends.

From my perch indoors, I cupped my mug of tea, feeling the warmth spread through my hands, smelling the steam rise with hints of chocolate as I watched three crows land on the gutter across the street, huddled together as the night approached, conversing in short barks of corvid language before coming to an agreement and alighting north one at a time in a slow swoop above the bare trees. It was another Sunday of doing as Christmas approaches and another night of game playing and laughter warm and safe inside.

It was near eleven at night when I left the house and for the first time this year, the air hit me hard in the throat, freezing inside my nostrils, my breath visible, my cheeks flushing against the sudden winter. Work stresses have returned with a vengeance causing a late bedtime and a resulting lack of sleep. 

There was frost on the grass this morning, the advance scout of the deeper winter approaching, but by the time I had raised my head the sunset was soft pink, a blossoming rose of gentle silence. Work increased its pull on me today and I lost all boundaries and perspectives, resulting in another, later bedtime and even less sleep.

Even with my nose just above the water, I can sense the chill in the room, the bite in the air that I carried with me from my morning greeting, shivering on the porch in the muted sunshine, and it hangs on me, the faint scent of pine and the kiss of frost, comfortingly familiar. I regained my balance today, launching into an evening full of television and trying to ramp up for four holiday weekends in a row.