I hear loud crow
caws in the wee morning hours. As I look out the window, a flicker lands on the
roof slope. The yelling crow lunges; the flicker flies off. None of us have had
an ounce of caffeine (yet).
Someone at an
academic institution composes an unambiguous, generic rejection note with four
passive voice sentences in the single paragraph. The correspondence lacks a
salutation, an addressee, and a signee. I wonder: Who rejects whom? And why is
it such a passive affair?
I’ve just
journalled half a sentence about finding equanimity in adversity. Out of the
corner of my eye I see a dark familiar form lumbering overhead, in flight. As
it passes directly over the top of my cottage – northwest to southeast – I see
it is a heron, low…low enough to perch on the roof. Some people believe herons
are a symbol of balance, progress, the ability to evolve.
The sapsucker
has returned now, too, to the well-polka-dotted tree lining the pond at the
local park. Gone all winter. Back. I quickly, repeatedly, snap a few photos. I
forget, for a minute, to just stop my “capture-the-moment” activity so that I
can take it into my heart. I remind myself that next time I will just watch.
I read this
email from a loved one: “So the morning
after Ray Bradbury passes, it's announced that where we once built space ships,
there shall be another retail project. We used to reach for the planets. Now we
reach for ourselves.” (R.A.M.) I am stunned at the profoundness of this
statement. The poignant truth of it. I want to write essays and books and
chapters and volumes about it. I find only silence within.
My hands are
resting on wet grass. Wet-leaved trees above begin to make a crackling sound in
the breeze; no rain falls from the sky yet the tree rains anyway. I hear these
words: “Join with the earth. Not a fight, a collaboration toward wholeness.”
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
