Friday, October 03, 2008
18 Months, To The Day. . .
. . . I'm back.
It's a long story, best told in bits and pieces, as in, never cram all the back story into the first chapter of the mystery.
So, this morning, I wake up and it's raining. The light bulb goes on. The one in my head, not the one in my DIY ceiling.
I start to think: I hate rain. . . but then the aha moment: Rain means I don't have to water the plants 24/7, like I have all summer. All 76,000 native plants. The nightmare of busted hose bibs, duct-taped hoses, broken timers and haywire sprinklers is finally over. Aahhhhh. Rain.
Outside, the sky is low, and thick. And then I hear it. . . honk, honk, honking . . . louder. . . and more . . . and then my ears are filled with honks and quacks from thousands of unseen geese and ducks, heading south, broadcasting from deep within the piles of gray heavy clouds.
I realize it was exactly one year ago that I stood outside here in Salem and looked up and heard tens of thousands of ducks and geese flying south. Winter was coming, and in the house, Mom was dying (and I didn't know it yet) and Dad was losing his mind (and I didn't know it yet) and the year to come would be called Bewilderment (and I didn't know that, either).
Back then, the year yet to come was as opaque to me then as that year, now passed, is today. I could tell you the events, and I will; but time, unlike the unseen ducks, did not broadcast its passing, and the meaning was hidden in the mysterious gray clouds.
And so I am back doing my daily blog entries, listening for my voice, watching for the translucency of clouds.
It's a long story, best told in bits and pieces, as in, never cram all the back story into the first chapter of the mystery.
So, this morning, I wake up and it's raining. The light bulb goes on. The one in my head, not the one in my DIY ceiling.
I start to think: I hate rain. . . but then the aha moment: Rain means I don't have to water the plants 24/7, like I have all summer. All 76,000 native plants. The nightmare of busted hose bibs, duct-taped hoses, broken timers and haywire sprinklers is finally over. Aahhhhh. Rain.Outside, the sky is low, and thick. And then I hear it. . . honk, honk, honking . . . louder. . . and more . . . and then my ears are filled with honks and quacks from thousands of unseen geese and ducks, heading south, broadcasting from deep within the piles of gray heavy clouds.
I realize it was exactly one year ago that I stood outside here in Salem and looked up and heard tens of thousands of ducks and geese flying south. Winter was coming, and in the house, Mom was dying (and I didn't know it yet) and Dad was losing his mind (and I didn't know it yet) and the year to come would be called Bewilderment (and I didn't know that, either).
Back then, the year yet to come was as opaque to me then as that year, now passed, is today. I could tell you the events, and I will; but time, unlike the unseen ducks, did not broadcast its passing, and the meaning was hidden in the mysterious gray clouds.
And so I am back doing my daily blog entries, listening for my voice, watching for the translucency of clouds.
