Yesterday morning…
Outside it’s still dark. The wind howls and rain periodically slaps against the windows. There’s an occasional splintering sound and then a muffled thud as branches and trees snap and tumble to the ground. By the flicker of candlelight, I write in my notebook. The glow casts odd, long shadows across the page, highlighting the pen point as ink emerges onto the page. My writing feels more important this morning, like it’s linked to centuries of candlelit compositions, imbued with historical weight. I write and write, filling pages.
Earlier this morning in the kitchen, the beam of my flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating motes of dust. I thought of April Pulley Sayre’s wonderful book, about dust (Stars Beneath Your Bed: The Surprising Story of Dust) and wondered about the origin of these small lit specks. Were they intergalactic? Prehistoric? Had they traveled vast distances, perhaps in some previous wind storm, to settle at this time, in this place? I watched them swirl in the light, enjoying their erratic motion, wondering.
Now, I sit in my circle of light, head bent over my notebook, the calm in this raging storm that surrounds my home. It occurs to me that too often I might be the storm in the calm, generating my own circle of agitated weather. Today, I revel in being the calm center. The gale blows steadily outside, a constant roaring hum with intermittent louder bursts of frenzy. In the rare lull, the sound of pelting rain emerges. Outside the darkness lingers. Inside the candles flicker and shadows dance. Dust settles. I continue to write and wonder what we’ll see when day breaks.
Early October Snow
But this morning, I heard echoes of one of my children’s toys called a Jibba Jabber. It was a weird looking long-necked creature. You were supposed to grab it at the neck and shake it. (Odd concept, really!) When you vigorously shook it, it made “jibba jabber” sort of squeaky talking sounds that you were encouraged to interpret into some demented sort of conversation. My kids loved it and shook it all the time, so its head wobbled back and forth and it talked and talked and talked.
Recently, I’ve been turning to Nature with a bit of desperation, seeking solace from the ever-increasing barrage of disaster and tragedy. In particular, I’ve been looking at the clouds and the sky a lot. I’m captivated by the changing light and the shifting clouds. There can be such drama in the sky at one moment, and utter tranquility at the next.
This fall I’ve been intrigued by the bountiful crop of buckeyes along one of my running routes. Often I bend down and pick one up as I run by. Are these seeds or nuts? Do animals eat them? Can I eat them? I find their glossy mahogany sheen irresistible and I smooth my fingers over it as I run. I’m stunned by the beauty hidden within their prickly exterior capsules. This feels like a metaphor to explore. Beauty hidden within an ugly exterior…how often we miss the hidden side of things… the rewards of time, aging, maturity. What I see or discover or think leads me to new thoughts or questions, which often leads me to research, which helps me to form connections, to see patterns. I may write something about it. I may not. But jotting about it preserves the moment so that I can revisit it whenever I choose.
Yesterday when I was running, this spider web, drenched in morning dew, caught my eye. After my run, I drove back to try to capture it in a photograph. This is no easy proposition as the camera wants to focus on the background, not the small blot of spider or its silken strands. I did my best, but overall was uninspired by the resulting photos. Then, getting ready to leave, I glanced down next to the web and saw a small cluster of weeds. Some were bejeweled with dew drops. Others had lost their petals and seeds and blazed like stars. Unexpected beauty in the weeds.
It wasn’t a productive writing week. Thank goodness for Laura Purdie Salas and her Thursday 
Nix the comfort zone 