Grey

Not the tight squeak when negotiating a cold powdery snow, nor the slurpy sucking when the melting snow turning to mud is reluctant to let me go, nor the soft wetness of a fresh fall, and not even the satisfying, loud, crack as ice gives way under my feet.

No. Today as I make my ascent, the condition of the firma terra seems undefinable.

Why do I need to label anyway ?

Young or old, rich or poor, fat or thin, right or wrong, winner or loser, black or white.

What about when it’s grey? I think, glancing upward.

Here in Belgium the grey skies go on forever, and I don’t mean expansive like Texan skies. I mean as a measurement of time. Greyness doesn’t budge, hanging around for weeks at a time offering only occassional glimpses of the sun as a reminder that yes, the sun does in fact still exist!

Winter or spring, stay or go, do or die

And do what exactly ? What do you do when you don’t know what to do ?

I guess I try to make sense of the nonsense, to measure the unmeasurable, to find some order in all the chaos, to figure out where I belong.

Love or hate, saint or sinner, success or failure, Winter or Spring.

When are things going to change ? This “in-between”ness hangs like a wet, grey, wool blanket. Suffocating, heavy, itchy.

I follow the cries over my head and follow a murder of crows as they land on a tree. Why are they called a murder? Are they also killing time, plotting their next moves, waiting for something to happen?

Raptors circle nearby. One is chased by several of the fearless crows. The other, spotting movement in the farmers’ field suddenly dives. The first one tries to catch up. Too late.

The farmers field is covered with piles of brown dirt, evidence of the awakening of moles busy building galleries this way and that.

Maybe It’s only my perspective that things are at a stand still! Movement and developments could be going on that I cannot see from where I am.

What if the long and short of it is that there is no this or that, them or us, ending or beginning?

What if the “in-between”, the grey, is What Is?

What if this either/or way of thinking keeps me from seeing What Is?

I keep on hiking upward.

 

A-maize-ing Grace

(excerpt from Saving the Fig Tree till Last: the diary of an American Adventurer in Southwest France, available as a kindle e book on Amazon.com)

In the here and now in the south of France there lives a field of Maize. Stitched in between the other squares- the rows of sunflowers, the field dotted with bales of newly-mowed hay, and other leafy green crops, this Maize in the middle of this quilt of farmer’s fields rests on top of gentle hills. On a clear summer day their view of the Pyrenees is spectacular.

Planted in neat rows, the stalks bask in the hot sun, enjoying the feel of it on their faces. Cool water from a giant sprinkler splashes on their leafy arms, keeping them refreshed. Sometimes the handsome French farmer comes by, tickles their leaves with his tractor and gives them extra treats to eat.

All in all, la vie is very happy here for this field of maize. Why wouldn’t it be?

People inside the cars and trucks pass by quickly, glance out their windows, and are so amazed they exclaim “Well, would you look at how high the maize is growing!”(Of course, they say it in French). The stalks, upon hearing this praise, stand a little straighter and beam with pride.

A picture of everything that is healthy and wonderful about French country living, the tall maize in the middle, draped in shiny deep green leaves talk amongst themselves. Each time one laughs at a joke the ensuing breeze makes their bracelets of silky threads shake and glisten in the sun.

The white and airy Queen Ann’s Lace who grows wherever she chooses glances over and sadly shakes her head. She can see that on the very fringe of society-on the outskirts- the stalks are not thriving. Some are only a quarter of the size of those in the middle. Many are disenfranchised from their neighbors, isolated, droopy and have a sickly yellow color.

How can this be? They are in the same field and in the same neat rows. They all have the same opportunities and access to sunlight, food and water.

Or do they?

Some, under the shade of a bordering tree, do not get the full sun. Others gaze in from the perimeter watching those in the middle drinking their fill while the sprinklers don’t make it all the way to them. They glance over at the water dripping from a hose nearby and cannot figure out how to get to it. Those on the edge are closer to the grasp of the threatening weeds. Living on the edge, these stalks of maize can hardly grow and thrive. They are just trying to stay alive.

The farmer doesn’t seem to notice.

Some in the middle are kind to those less fortunate on the outskirts. A few really mean ones laugh and ridicule their inability to produce beautiful golden ears like theirs. Many congratulate themselves and each other for being smart enough to be planted in the middle and for growing well. They boast about their glorious reward waiting for them when they leave this field.

The Queen Ann’s Lace gives an encouraging smile to the down and out, waves at the friendly Maize, and turning away, resumes her Being.

She knows they all share the same Destiny.
This field of Maize will soon become animal feed. Her nickname is “Cow Parsley.” And she wonders which lovely, creamy colored and gentle cow will soon enjoy her and think she is delicious.

Winning

“Welcome!” exclaim the two small Juniper plants in unison.

“Why, thank you!” I respond appreciatively at their well rehearsed performance. On either side of the path in the highest part of the Woods, they bow repeatedly and exageratedly offer grand, sweeping gestures. Their irony is not lost on me. They were often the plant used to make traditional witches brooms .

Yes Bienvenue, ma petite! says the nearby old Maple. I see you are limping he adds, his sonorous voice familiar somehow.

“Oh this …yes, it’s nothing really.”

“Did you come here for healing ?” he inquires gently.

“I always come here for healing of one kind or another” I admit, grinning. 

“But my guess is you already know that!”

“Oh yes!” he chuckles. “Say, you are pretty smart for a Human.”

 “Well, we are not all the same you know!” I retort playfully.

“And what about us Forest dwellers? Do you think we are all the same? Say….all of us Maples for example?” he asks.

“Maybe.” I admit. “You do all look more or less alike.”

“Do you know how many species of Maples there are?”

“I will say 40.” (for sure I know this is one of the favorite games the Woods likes to play with me called Let’s show her how little she knows)!

“Not even close!” he says proudly. “There are over 135 different species of Maple trees!”

“Wow! I never would have guessed!”

“Now…. how many different kinds of Pine trees do you think there are?” (Clearly he is on a roll)!

Always up for a game of trivia I announce “Okay I’m going to go out on a limb on this one (his bark crinkles up in acknowledgment of my clever pun) and say 150 as there seem to be more pine trees than Maples!”

“Well I hope you like being hung out to dry on that limb! There are actually around 125 species of Pine trees. It’s just here in this forest where Pines are the majority!”

“Now what about these little guys here?” He asks, gesturing to the twin Junipers.

“15?” I respond, with absolute confidence that I am wrong.

“67!”

“Interesting!” I admit outloud (while wondering what this has to do with me).

After a few minutes he continues “Do you still think we are all the same?”

“Well, aren’t you?” I argue. “You may each look a little different but come on, and I sincerely mean no offense by this, Trees are Trees more or less, right? I mean, you stand around, clean the air, and so on….”

“And you are just like all Americans- all Humans for that matter?”

“No. (I have to laugh at this one). Not many think of me as “Normal”.

“Ok, now this is getting good!” He says, grinning broadly. “I do wish I could pull up a chair and put my feet up to listen to this. Please do describe what “Normal” looks like.”

“Well, I begin…”I think in American terms the norm is being married, having a career, a house, cars, material possessions, kids, pets, vacations, stability, success…

“I must say that does sounds great!” he concedes.

“You would think so, right? But no. Many are miserable. Even their beliefs don’t seem to bring them comfort. What do you think is wrong?”

“Ma petite…” he sighs, his voice vibrating on the breeze just a moment before continuing “You know, we have some here who just like to be miserable. The Black Walnut tree is a good example. He sees only the dark side of everything. If you are not one of his accepted few and get too close, the negativity and judgment he sends out through his roots, bark and leaves is so toxic that you can become ill, or even worse. He is a real nutjob who really enjoys being bitter. Staying far away is the only way to keep his bitterness from spreading to you.

Frowning slightly, he continues “But who decides what is “Normal”, anyway?”

“Well, it’s kind of confusing but it seems to be some sort of consensus by an elite, I’m not even sure if they are a majority. And most of the time those who make the most noise about what is (and isn’t) Normal choose to act like the Walnut Tree rather than be positive and encouraging. If their “Normal” is so wonderful than why are they so hateful? I don’t know. But I can tell you, when you are not included in their narrow definition you can really end up feeling like you are some kind of loser. 

And often they quote from the Good Book and tell you what the Creator says is right and wrong, good and bad, Heaven and Hell, Normal and Abnormal. Who can argue with that ?

“Well this is a huge subject and we sure can’t talk about all of it today. It would sap me of all my strength!” He chuckles as I roll my eyes.

“But I do want to go back to the first point you said in your definition of “Normal” he says.

“Please do….” I wait patiently as he chooses his words carefully.

“Ok you said marriage. Do you know that most flowering plants are bisexual?”

Say What?!

“And some in the Forest are asexual, like our Poplar friend over there,” he gestures waving at a slim tall fellow who waves back.

“Many strawberries choose to not cross pollinate and instead become single mothers. There are many species in Nature who just clone themselves and others, like the clownfish for example, change their sex at will! And tell me, just how how would the blueberries propogate without the loving attention of the Bees?

That’s right! I said it! Inter-species dating! Shocking isn’t it?! 

Oh you should see your face right now ! This is priceless!” He concludes, doubling over and slapping his trunk, clearly enjoying himself.

After struggling to stifle his laughter and barely composing himself, he continues “These are just a few examples. Here in nature, heterosexuals, bisexuals, hermaphrodites, asexuals, transsexuals, and even exchanges between species is considered Normal.

Only in a Human world is a “Normal” relationship defined so narrowly.

“Wow! I had no idea!” I find myself saying, while trying to wrap my head around the significance of this lesson.

“One other scenario I want to postulate before you go and this concerns the Creator….” he says finally (and continues after I nod in agreement, as I am clearly speechless), “If you want to know about an artist you could read a book about him or her, right?” I nod again. “But then you would be reading the words of Others. A better way to get to know an artist might be….”

“to see their art!”  I interject.

“Exactly!….and to understand the Creator?”

“What is ‘I could begin by understanding the Creation’, Alex for 200?!” I scream excitedly, hugging his thick trunk, feeling like I am starting to win in this impromptu Into the Woods edition of Jeopardy.

“Tres bien  ma petite!” and The old Maple beams down at me proudly.

His smile follows me all the way home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flying with Cupid

I picked up the group of women of various ages and drove in the funeral procession.  I heard them talking about their Nana and how she had lived such a great, long life.  I thought about the amazing last 24 hours I had experienced with this limo and decided to share it with this family…

….It started with a wedding yesterday in the afternoon,  a couple beginning their lives together.  After the reception ended in the evening I had cleaned the limo, taken it back to the garage and gone home to get some sleep. I was tired. I had been working a lot lately.

I hadn’t been asleep long when I got a call to do another run.  It was for Life flight.  I had heard of these runs but had never driven one.  It would involve picking up a team of doctors at the private airport, driving them to the hospital and waiting while they harvested organs from someone who had died, but  and then driving them back to the airport where they would fly out and take the collected organs to someone who had been waiting on a transplant list, and had gotten a call in the middle of the night, just like I had.

I didn’t feel like going.  It was a 2 hour drive just to get to the small airport.  So I knew right away that I would be working all night and might not even have time to get some sleep before the run I had scheduled in the afternoon.  But really, as a driver there is not much choice.  You don’t get to pick and choose which runs you will take.  And it was always feast or famine.  You were either scrambling to find work, calling different company owners and letting them that you were available, or you were so busy that you had trouble finding enough time to get a few hours sleep and a shower.  If you said no to a job, you might find that you were not called when a really good run came up.

So I knew as soon as the phone rang that I would have to go.  I quickly got ready and grabbed my bag that contained my toothbrush and other toiletries so that I could freshen up, just in case I didn’t have time to make it back to my apartment before my afternoon  run.  I had just started driving in my car to go get the limo when my cell phone rang.  I assured my boss on the other end that I was, in fact, in my car and on my way.

During the 2 hour drive to the airport I wondered what the circumstances were surrounding the death of the donor.  I thought about the sadness and grief and shock felt by his friends and family. But of course I didn’t know if it was a man or a woman, the age, or any information.  It could be a child.  I then thought about the recipient at the other end who had been waiting on a donor list, maybe for a long time, and the hope that he (she?) must be feeling.

When  got to the airport I found Wayne, another driver, already there with his limo.  We waited in the darkness, on the very quiet runway in the middle of the night, for the small airplane that was bringing the team of doctors.

People have often asked me why limousines are used in these kind of jobs when it seems extravagant and a waste of money.  But the truth is that limos made the most sense.  First of all, a limo is bigger than a taxi so it can hold more passengers and the doctors arrive in teams.  Second, the limos wait at the hospital, usually for hours, while the organs are being “harvested”, but also need to be ready to leave immediately because time is of the essence.

I found out that two flights were coming in.  We saw the lights of the first flight  in the distance, approaching the runway.  Wayne took the first group.  I waited only another ten minutes and then my group landed.  I quickly drove them to the hospital.

Wayne’s car was already parked and he crawled in the back of his car to get some sleep while he was waiting.  I tried to do the same but I have never been able to relax in the back of a limousine to the point  where I could fall asleep.  I end up thinking about how someone could just press their face to the tinted window and see me and that thought alone keeps me awake.

After reading a book I brought with me for a little while, I got out of the limo to stretch and walked around a little in the hospital parking lot.  I encountered one of the pilots, also waiting for the doctors to come out and return to the airport.  We talked and I found out that the leer jet he was piloting was headed for Miami, about an hour of flight time from where we were.  He asked me if I had ever been on a leer jet and I told him no.  He asked me if I wanted to go on the flight to Miami and back.  After some quick calculations and a phone call to make sure it was okay with my boss, I agreed that I would like that.

We ended up waiting for about five hours before the doctors came out of the hospital.  I had found out that the two groups we were waiting for were a heart team and a lung team.  Wayne took the first group back to the airport.  A short time later the physician that I was taking to the waiting jet walked out of the hospital.  The rest of his group had left earlier with Wayne.  The pilot, Bill, asked him if it was okay with him if I rode along with them for the trip to Miami.  He said he didn’t mind.

I parked the limo at the airport, after dropping them off at the plane, and ran to join them for takeoff.  I climbed into the small plane.  I glanced over at the doctor and could see that he was really tired.  My eyes then traveled down to the red and white igloo cooler, beat up and looking like one that you would find a construction worker eating out of during his lunch hour, that was next to him.  It looked like it had been carelessly tossed there and was sitting cockeyed on the seat.

I felt really excited to be on the flight and I had to remind myself to just be quiet and not bother the exhausted physician.  After being in the air for a little while the doctor began to talk to me.  I found out that he was a cardiologist and what he was carry in the lunch box was a heart!  He was from India.  With his thick head of hair and boyish grin he he gestured out the window to me at the lights of Miami as we were descending to land.  “My house is right down there” he said.  He then told me how his wife would be mad at him when he got home because he had to cancel plans with her and had missed celebrating Valentine’s Day with her because of this flight.  And, although I had so many questions, I simply listened.

As we were landing I thanked him for sharing his time, thoughts and space with me.  I was so overwhelmed with the realization of what I had just witnessed.  I had been flying with Cupid, a cardiologist,  who had spent his Valentine’s Day evening and  the next morning, taking a heart from someone who no longer needed it, someone who probably never suspected he would be giving this gift of life so soon, as his last gesture of giving, to someone waiting, hopeful for a new chance of living.  I was lost in my thoughts and  emotions of all of the people involved in this drama on the return flight.  It was still dark as we were descending and circling to land.  I looked over the pilots shoulder and wondered how he knew where the air strip was.  I couldn’t see anything but darkness.  A glance at the clock on his dashboard told me that we only had a few minutes before we were landing.  Then, I caught my breath when all of a sudden two lights on either side of the runway lit up and quickly spread, coming on two at a time as if rolling out a magic carpet to show us the way back…..

…As I shared this story of the events that had transpired in this limousine with the women, there was not a dry eye in the group.  They all agreed that Nana would be pleased to play a part in this very dramatic 24 hours that began with a wedding, the transfer of the gift of life from one person to another on Valentine’s Day, and ended with the funeral of a woman who had lived a long meaningful life and was loved by many.

I’ve often thought about this night, and wondered about the deeds of anonymous heroes that go unsung, those who play dramatic roles in the stories of  life and death that are going around us all the time, while we sleep, while we are unaware.

I will never forget this night, the night I was flying with Cupid.

The Myth

I am posing for a winter version of a picture I had taken in the summer when all of a sudden I hear a definite “Ahem!”  Of course I immediately straighten up from the tree I am leaning on.

“I know what you are thinking” he says gruffly.  (I am not surprised at all by this.)

“You are wondering if I am alive.” He states simply.

After a slight pause he continues “I am…..As you can plainly see.”

I don’t respond right away.  I don’t want to be rude.

Just as I open my mouth he says “You want to know how this is possible.”

I just nod.

“Ok, come closer. I promise I won’t bite!’ he says, chuckling, causing fresh, white heavy snow to tumble to the ground. (I am not really scared.  I love grouchy old men.  I know their ferocity is usually just an act!)

I lean in with anticipation. I am a sucker for a good story.

He continues….

“Roots are overrated” he states simply.  I wait, knowing he is just getting started and has his own rhythm for this story he has probably told thousands of times.

“Only 10 percent of my nourishment comes from my roots. The other 90 percent I get from the air and my environment.”

“Listen closely. This is a story you are supposed to learn from” He says.

(Of course I found out long ago that I should listen to the Trees when they talk to me, but this Tree is different.  It’s as if he can read my thoughts as I haven’t even said a word yet).

“No, it doesn’t matter what happened.  It happened a long time ago. Now, let me give you your lesson before I forget ….”

“I know you think of yourself as a Tumbleweed but I think you should consider the Moss for a minute.”  He lets this sink in.

(Um…. ok, whatever that means!)

“Moss has no roots at all and despite the myth, (and yes, you Humans often make up stuff to explain what you do not understand), Moss is not a parasite!

“See this moss?” he asks, displaying the furry green neon carpet creeping up his arms proudly, as if each tattoo clump represents a major milestone in his life.

I admire his branches appreciatively.

“One of the important tasks of this moss is to give me some nitrogen. I’m not so young anymore.'” he admits quietly.

Clearly disappointed at my non-reaction (interesting I admit, but what has this got to do with me?), he rolls his eyes impatiently and continues.

“Stated in another way” he continues “Moss is homeless like you, Moss has no traditional roots, Moss-not a taker but a Giver!” “My quality of Life is greatly improved by my interaction with the Moss.”

“You see, Humans often have such a narrow way of thinking.

“One’s worth is not measured by dollars or accumulation of stuff.”

“Your  true value can be measured by how much you give compared to how much you take.

“Oh…and one more thing… “Moss is hardy, yet paradoxically fragile.  Moss cannot live in a polluted environment, so be careful and pay attention. Surround yourself only with the positive.”

“You’re welcome!…. And now I’m ready for my close up.” He states flatly while posing exaggeratedly.

(And of course he says all of this without giving me a chance to say a word!)

As I place my hands on him and the picture is taken he cries out in perfect timing “ I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

“Never gets old!” exclaims one of the holly bushes.

And all I hear is laughter as I venture into the Woods….

(Moss? hhmm……)

Love Skid Row

Still Waiting

The details may differ but the dreams are all the same :

….. Wearing my costume (never call it a uniform), I am waiting on guests (not customers). Yes, I am a server in a themed restaurant and create the Magical experience for visitors from all over the world. Usually at a large table, I always struggle to get the details right : Starting with the man with the red shirt, working my way around the table clockwise, sauce on the side, no onions, medium rare….

Can we share a meal ? Yes (though they prefer that you don’t) Saved money for forever to come, Parents fighting, kids crying, No, I strongly suggest you do not start off with the cookies and cream milkshake and the mozarella sticks. (It’s not a good idea in this heat. Trust me on this one)….You want it anyway ? OK….Clean up in car 300……

Can I remember every detail ? Can I get the timing right? Even if I do will they leave me a good tip ? Heavy trays, fractures in my feet, I need to take 2 weeks off ? Not even possible. Bills to pay, kids to feed….

Long,long, days, do what it takes, barely time for a break, uh oh nearly dropped the tray!, So exhausted, only 3 hours of sleep after working my other job last night as a limo driver , oh no I made a mistake, yelled at by the Chef, burned myself, customer mad, dirty diaper left on the table for a tip, beeper going off, Call home!, kids left unattended fighting with each other, not enough of anything….

Don’t forget to smile…..

Will I remain a server forever ? Is this how I see myself, despite all the other things I have done in my Life ?

I know how I have ended up where I am-homeless and jobless, squatting illegally in Belgium. I can see how the consequences of my collective “every-choice-I-have-ever-made” mixed with luck (good and bad) have led me to being the Tumbleweed that I am.

What I can’t figure out is how so many people I know have ended up in precarious positions, people who hands down made better decisions, folks who have worked hard, been on career paths and way before retirement were laid off, or had their positions eliminated. Suddenly lost their retirement, savings gone, most have learned to remain silent, blend in with the walls, disappear….

Why ?

This is an easy one to answer. When you lose everything, when you are chronically unemployed or under employed, when suddenly all the rules change and you are left out of the game at first you are shocked and embarassed. This embarassment over time turns into a shame that you cannot wrap your head around.

Worse than that, neither can friends and family.

What ? You have no job? But you are so capable ! And you’re educated !(looks at you quizically)Why so many companies would be thrilled to have you ! Perhaps you should consider taking one that you are overqualified for. Can’t you just get a job at Subway ? (Do you just not want to work ?) Something must really be wrong with you…..

Oh they do not say this one out loud (Well, at least not most of the time) .

They don’t need to. You are already thinking it yourself…..

The Climb

Driving,horizontal unrelenting sheets blow in from the West.

Will the tears ever stop?

 

In the middle of nowhere and yet not far enough away

Bad news continues

Is there no ending in sight?

Orange Alert !

Be prepared! Watch Out ! Floods Ahead !

But at this point no one listens anymore

Who can live in a constant state of Panic?

 

“Enough already !” I beg, while the damp of Uncertainty takes up residence in my bones

How long can a Heart stay in the shadows before it breaks completely?

 

“Remember, you can always go to the Sanctuary!”

Who is this unlikely voice of Hope? It’s a fancy magpie in the Poplar!

As he hops, showing off his fluttery black and white sleeves, I follow his gestures.

 “Oh yes.  I have a choice!”

Why is forgetting so much easier than remembering ?

Of course it does take effort and I know what I have to do :

 

……Choosing to walk away from the gloom and doom voices of Bad News of Today and Worries of Tomorrow, I first pass the two big fluffy barking, black dogs and then say hello to the two soggy, scruffy and completely adorable donkeys, cross over the little bridge, trudge through the mud, and then hike by the roaring waterfalls (who are no doubt enjoying this inundation).

After this, I continue to climb higher. I know I am getting closer when I begin to see blueberry plants, clustered together, trembling in the cool wind and cheering me on (Which I think is nice of them. They seem to know that rising above the heavy weight of Negativity also takes time). The practice I gain from each venture helps me arrive just a little bit earlier.)

I push back the misty curtain and enter the highest point, letting myself in as quietly as possible.

…….I am still sitting on the couch, sipping tea and contemplating my departure when something outside the window catches my eye and I strain to see what it is, while holding my breath in anticipation. I don’t want to miss a thing!

Through the pounding downpour, on the other side of the pasture and across the swollen stream four deer are making their way up the steep bank!

“Oh, I know where they are going!” I say out loud while snapping my computer shut, and leaving my phone behind, before quickly slipping into my boots and jacket.

As I turn to leave, a tiding of magpies suddenly takes flight, seeming not to care that the skies are grey.