 Maybe it was yesterday’s recollection of my yearlong affair with the sunrise; maybe it was the robin launching its daily window-barrage at first light; maybe it was anxiety over a mild cough that began yesterday (Do I have COVID? Who have I been near? Where have I gone? What have I touched? Have I washed my hands enough?). In any case, I uncharacteristically launched out of bed at 5:15am. A rosy glow blossoming in the east urged me to throw on bathrobe and slippers, slip into the open air, and hustle out to the pond to meet my old friend face to face, on our familiar meeting ground. The air at dawn is unlike other air – suspended, anticipatory, quiet, fresh, gently rousing, gently rising. As the sky blossoms, lifts into light, you feel compelled to stillness. You hold your breath, pay attention. So much unspoken knowledge emanates from the nakedness of the dawning day. Let your heart and mind open; drink it in. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 250: 163 words, TOTAL = 40,993; 19,007 remaining
0 Comments
 sunrise photo culled from "a year of getting up to meet the day," a yearlong blog from 2010. (Adirondacks, New York State) During my year of sunrise watching, I’m not sure I ever considered the misnomer. The sun does not rise; it is static (relative to us). It is we who revolve and rotate in and out of its range. And yet, we continue to think in terms of the sun’s hopeful uplift each morning. This morning the sun’s brilliance hit my face blindingly at about 7:02. Briefly I wished the sun would move out of the way, then I thought, “no, the entire Earth will dip a tiny bit lower and to the right, moving my house with it, so the sun will soon stop blinding me.” It took about 13 minutes. How weirdly disorienting it was, to picture the ground beneath me, the globe upon which I ride, shifting in space to change my relationship to the sun. Somehow, I don’t think “earthroll” will ever replace “sunrise.” It feels unstable, like something that might cause motion sickness. Our illusion of groundedness is more comfortable by far. Just another example of how we cling to delusions, even when we know better. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 249: 180 words, TOTAL = 40,830; 19,170 remaining  Another snow dusting in central Maine. It’s always a point of pride, somehow, to get snow in May; April 28th is close! While outdoors remains marginal for some recreation, I have begun to accept the world of online exercise. “Yoga With Adriene” is one favorite. A friend also connected me with Lee Mullins, the founder of a fitness organization in England called “Workshop.” That means I might tune in to a session recorded in Austin, Texas or Zoom into live workouts broadcast from Mullins’s London home, where his dachshund, Teddy, periodically bounces onto the screen, tail a-wag, holding a red ball hopefully in his mouth. We’re hearing talk of eased restrictions, but I’m trying not hang my hopes on an unknown yet-to-come. Best to find worth in the here and now, where “here” might mean anywhere on the planet. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 248: 139 words, TOTAL = 40,650; 19,350 remaining  Our house is under siege. For three days now, a robin (female?) has been obsessively barraging the windows from every direction. This is not your average bird- flies-into-a-window situation. I’ve seen the kamikaze slam and drop, heard about bloodied grouse and shards of glass sprayed over living room sofas. This is different. First this robin (we assume it’s one robin, surely they haven’t all gone mad) woke us at dawn, flapping, bumping, skittering at the north-facing bedroom windows for at least an hour. Later she came after the east-side kitchen windows. Yesterday her barrage came from the south, smearing and speckling the plate-glass door. Finally she hit the west side. Today she almost caused an accident with her assault on the tiny bathroom window, inches from where I sat. Briefly, she perched on the sill, peering about with her beady little bird eye. What does she want? Jonathan speculated that she might be a (very insistent) visitor/messenger from the spirit world. Should we let her in? I vote no. Not sure what to do other than leave her to self-destruct, naturally select herself out of the reproductive pool. If she procreates, it could turn into a Hitchcock movie. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 247: 198 words, TOTAL = 40,511; 19,489 remaining  I started a weekly online writing workshop on 4/17, taught by a former faculty mentor. I’m struck, not for the first time, by the similarity between writing workshops and self-help/spiritual workshops. Make a list of things you are passionate about. Write ten apologies. Imagine your childhood home; identify a specific location associated with a memory. Now go deeper; write for ten minutes, expanding your thoughts/associations/memories. How serendipitous that this class coincides with finishing Dan Harris’s book about meditation and self-awareness/mindfulness. Harris is a skeptic, lifetime agnostic, hard-nosed, driven TV news anchor. After a crash-and-burn catharsis of stress and drugs, he sought healthier ways to manage his intensity, and had the professional connections to get insights from the top gurus in the world – including Deepak Chopra and the Dalai Lama. The writing is funny and engaging, his story intriguing, and his discoveries totally compelling. Go deeper; expand your awareness. Maybe I’m ripe for an internal overhaul, the 100,000-mile tune-up. In any case, this book reached me. Lots to explore here, in my head and in my writing. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 246: 176 words, TOTAL = 40,313; 19,687 remaining  Jonathan bought a 1992 Ford Ranger for $1 about 15 years ago. He agreed at last to let it go – a donation to MPBN. I excavated the archeological layers today. “Don’t just toss stuff. There’s valuable things in there,” he said. Jonathan’s valuable things kind of make me love him more.
My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 245: 187 words, TOTAL = 40,137; 19,863 remaining  Another day of staying home, the sun has arced its course, traversed the soaring blue-deep dome with quarantine in force. How was your day? What did you do? The question seems to scold. I ate, I walked, I tied my shoe; the day and I grew old. Without a job or task in line or friends’ reflected gaze, I cannot seem to self-define my self has bled to haze. In isolation’s empty hours our steam-vents jam and groan. The inner self erupts and cowers when trapped too long alone. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 243: 108 words, TOTAL = 39,950; 20,050 remaining  On a draggy day, I decided to thank someone for something I regularly feel, but rarely share. Kate, dear furry friend, elevates me when I’m feeling irrelevant. Our friends, who had unexpected lab-shepherd puppies just over 14 years ago and bestowed Kate upon us, surely had no idea the place she’d carve out in our lives. “Jonathan and I are increasingly grateful for this intensely devoted companion who shares our days, thanks to you guys. Her back legs wobble and occasionally collapse, her breath could wilt an acre of forest, her hearing is 90% gone; rising demands heaving effort, and lying down involves a painstaking maneuver that ends with a house-shaking whump! Nevertheless, once we're on the move, she trots, ears up, brings us sticks to throw, shadows our steps. She eats with wolfish enthusiasm, even if she has to be woken for dinner. Mostly, though, she makes us feel beloved, protected, tended to with the intense commitment of a shepherd. These long days at home, she stands when I stand; waits at the bottom of the stairs if I go up. If I lean over to stretch my back, she's in my face, maybe seeking a neck rub, but mostly, it seems, making sure everything's okay. Many dogs relish love and scratches, but in Kate's case, it truly feels that taking care of us is more important to her than getting something from us. We’ve never had a dog so thoroughly committed to our well-being. Kate turned 14 in February, as you probably know. We are happy she's sticking around, ever-watchful to be sure her days aren't a burden to her. We will miss her terribly when the day comes for her to go.” My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 242: 285 words, TOTAL = 39,842; 20,158 remaining It snowed again last night, just enough to leave a white dusting in the scooped bowls of matted grass that give our fields a blown desert look. This morning’s air was bracingly fresh with an icy wind. I love when it flings my hair about, though I should have worn a hat. I’m not longing for summer. Heat makes me dull; chill awakens me. Plus, the bugs. Soon we’ll have to screen the windows; by the time the lilacs bloom, clouds of blackflies will make sitting still outdoors impossible. Last weekend’s tent sleeping was frigid, but survivable. Spending the evening by a roaring campfire, staring mesmerized at the crackling flames and dancing sparks, was magical. An open fire does more than warm; it tranquilizes, elicits contemplation. Today’s fire in the woodstove is nice, but not the same. To be in the presence of this living, breathing, elemental force is heavenly, way better than TV. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 241: 154 words, TOTAL = 39,557; 20,443 remaining  Jonathan and I watched the first two episodes of “Ozark” last night, having heard rave reviews for quite some time. It’s gripping, well-written, and well-acted; also disturbing. I woke up from intensely vivid dreams this morning. Jonathan and I had just moved with our young teens to an unfamiliar place (like the family in Ozark). The house was huge, shabby, and unsettling, semi-furnished with some stranger’s things – worn beds and bedding shoved into rooms at odd angles. The walls had been roughly coated with spiky sweeps of spackling. The ambient light was gloomy, and I can’t remember any sense of space or distance outside the windows. At the end of an upstairs hallway where there should have been a door leading to a back stairwell, the wall had been coated over hastily with plaster. I still can’t shake the adrenaline-surged sense of threat and imprisonment that loomed over that dreamscape. I’m not sure I should continue watching this show. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 240: 159 words, TOTAL = 39,403; 20,597 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
June 2023
Categories |
RSS Feed