A Tide of Swallows

With the windows thrown open, the wind chimes sang a song of coming June, and the chipping birds and the hushing breeze laid the background for layers of life, both human and otherwise, fully emerged from the winter cocoon and beginning to fully shed their skins. A day of tasks and visioning led to an evening in which I took myself to a movie and drove home around the lake in the dark.

Our California Poppies, the neon-yellow cheerleaders of summer, worked their way nearly unnoticed out of the soil and now stand at the edge of the flower beds gently turning their faces towards the sun during the day and folding forward into sleep each night.   am also most likely heliotropic, as the last thing I want to do on a work day with the windows open is stay in the shadows of my machines.

The wind burst through the windows in a late afternoon flurry, and everything before it was blown asunder; the temperature plunged ten degrees, and I stood on the lawn with my eyes closed so happy to be in my element. Everything is now a distraction, both the excitement of road trips and the ever-constant spin of bad brain days, and I feel off my feet.

With the windows wide open, the 70-degree breeze rustled the knick-knacks, the feathers, the oracle cards as sunlight sneaked in through the smallest corner and warmed my right forearm in the bliss of early summer. This evening was filled with more planning, more tasks and a decision to donate the long weekend to play.

The bumblebees rolled round and fat, their furry striped bodies tumbled in the petal wells, bathing in pollen; behind them giant purple poppies spread their dark black, swollen cores skyward. The house smelled of baking bread and I rested my chin on her head and everything for the moment seemed right.

I spotted my first summer hummingbird in the garden next door, drawing perfect, graceful polygons in the air with tiny brush wings like there was no gravity, his small glimmering hovering spirit skating through a borrowed reality before vanishing in a streak of motion to wherever hummingbirds come from. The summer preparation began tonight and a three day weekend began to unfold, the two of us happy together.

We sat in a clearing surrounded by towering pines as the dogs juggled rocks, the donkeys brayed, the raven passed into shadow and the island pulsed with life, everything impossibly green as the wild again took back its domain. On the first full day of our Memorial Day weekend, we attended a birthday party on Vashon and I laughed more than I’ve laughed in a long time.

I kicked off my shoes and socks, happily tired from hiking through the forest’s tunneled canopy, over the sandy bluffs, and through the softly waving fields; I felt the grass under my bare feet, the ground under my body as I closed my eyes in the warm breeze and melted into the earth. The second full day of our Memorial Day weekend saw us planting flowers and hanging new prayer flags on the porch, holding long and profound conversations about change, hope and divination while walking together, and booking the remaining pieces of our summer vacations.

When the windows are open, when I am on the porch bathed in sunlight or caressed by breeze, in a chair by the edge of a lake, at the fringe of a forest, under a sprawling tree as the grasses dance, or walking through birdsong or sea mist or cherry blossoms, it is then, only when I am free to merge with nature that I ever I feel at home. The last day of Memorial Day weekend was full of visioning and deep discussion, both of shadow and light, good books and connection as we continue to move through our lives in search of meaning.

A week-long downturn in weather, the onset of precipitation and cooler temperatures makes me realize, as I document these daily changes and relationships, how much this lush summer is a direct result of the rainy spring and how much more I appreciate and welcome the variations. I was reminded that Ravens can’t stand for the party to end, for it to be time for sleep, for it to be time for work, for the play and the delights of the senses to be over and this was in evidence today as I tried to deal with reintegration after the three-day weekend.

Each afternoon I see him, that tuxedo cat poised on the sunny red brick with his head stretched forward and his eyes closed, and every evening I watch him pass between worlds, melting into the twilight on tiny padded feet. The last day of May has arrived and I find myself trapped between the competing states of intense anxiety and small bursts of excitement.

This afternoon, the crow tumbled through space in a shiny black blur, daredevil diving through the updrafts, catching himself at the last moment with caws of delight, while a mile away and several hours later, a dozen of his cousins chased a bald eagle from their roosting lands with equal skill and bravado. My feet are tired from being feet and my fingers are tired from the accounting of dollars, but my heart rushes towards the distractions of the coming weekend.

I’m developing an unhealthy relationship with the tuxedo cat next door who stares at me as I talk to him with the soft, blinking eyes of a cat who approves of my message and yet always remains flirtatiously out of reach of my affections, like, well, a cat. Today was my wife’s, the love of my life’s birthday, and after showering her with candy and flowers, we had a lovely dinner and a spiritually connective and expansive evening together.

On the deck, under the canopy that creaked and popped in coming warmth, the hummingbirds appeared in a buzz of motion to stab long tongues into sugar water, a flash of impossible ruby feathers shimmering in the light, while beyond them in the field of tall grass and pussy willows, violet-green swallows tucked their wings and swooped low and mountain bluebirds perched atop fence posts, tilted their tiny azure heads and sang to the sunshine. After a fulfilling morning spent crystal shopping and path-working, we drove to Puyallup to spend the afternoon and evening with a very good friend, the sort of relaxed, no-effort, be-yourself relationship that fills my heart and takes me away from the weighty press of what I imagine wrongly as normal life.

One’s indulgence in nature should never be seen as an escape or a procrastination but rather an investment in one’s spiritual well being and a reconnection to the larger world of the soul, a center of body and heart as a counterpoint to a society that overemphasizes the brain. Spent the afternoon discussing the reality of our lives and the evening playing video games, which seemed like the perfect mix.

I had this moment as I felt the cooler air and heard the whishing sighs of the yellow tree, as I smelled the fresh earth enlivened by recent rain, where I realized that I seldom have sense memories that remind me of Ohio where I spent the first 30 years of my life; all my memories now are of the Northwest, the sea breeze, and the towering pines. I crashed today in my routines and in my desire to step away from life and now must pull things back into balance.

As the early summer sputters between clear-skied hot nights and the final grips of spring cast in grey shades of overcast, I settle into the routine of open windows and short-sleeved shirts in an all-too-brief impermanence, in an anxious need to soak in every last moment. It was another very busy evening as I juggled three projects at once in my leisure time, spiked not surprisingly by some intense moments of insomnia.

Today, neighborhood sparrows held a meet up and gathered in vast, chatting numbers in the nearby bushes and tops of trees, until one adolescent brown-flecked bird landed on the wire next to my desk and peered in at me as if to wonder why I have not chosen to be wild like he was. This was an odd sort of day, fragmented by car maintenance errands and plagued by the usual poor and badly-timed transportation options back from the Subaru dealership to my home, though the sunshine and heat made my slow return to work more than somewhat worth it.

I was shocked to discover that the sparrows from yesterday were actually house finches who today lined the wires outside my window in a sea of tilting pink heads and scruffy fledglings, joining the crow across the street in scolding the tuxedo cat from his daily hunt – so loud that I left my house in repeated attempts to convince him that being pecked on the skull wasn’t a cost he should pay for his feline desires. This is one of those Thursday evenings where I’m nearly caught up on all my projects and actually have some space to breathe.

Now at the halfway mark, standing in a sea of tiny purple, white and pink flowers that have popped like fireworks from the green over the last week, whose mingled sharp scent accents the rich, damp earth, I realize that pausing every day like this has changed the way I view everything in nature and has slowed the passing of time, turning seasons into gradual migrations rather than the stark delineations fraught with expectation. At the end of a successful week, we walked to dinner and enjoyed a far-reaching discussion that didn’t stray once into the world of anxiety of adulting.