When I got home from babysitting in the afternoon yesterday, and after I apologized to a beloved for being obnoxious for getting my “sooner is better than later” mindset mixed up with her availability (something I perseverated over all day long until I said I was sorry,) I sat in a shady spot on the back steps and listened to the wind.
It was quite windy and very warm, blowing in from the south-south-west, yet still refreshing on such a hot day as yesterday when we were in the mid-90 degrees Fahrenheit.
My neighbor has a very large, very old now, maple tree that marks the property line and casts lovely shade over both back gardens. The wind was tossing the aged branches and new leaves all about. I knew I was listening to the wind, and I also knew that it was the tree that was “translating” for me. As I was quiet, the tree was talkative, the wind insistent, and I “heard” the message of stormy weather on its way.
Of course, being a lover of metaphor, I was thinking cultural, economic, and political storminess, which is (as Jesus is quoted as saying in the gospel of John) “already coming and, in fact, has come.” (John 16:32)
Actually, the wind and the tree were being much more literal.
The wind stopped, and there was a hush. A bumble bee headed for the hedgerow, the birds grew quiet, the wind changed direction. The breeze rose from the west-north-west and with it, I heard a rumble of thunder. I walked around the house to look at the sky in that direction (because it was bright blue and cloudless over my head) and it was dark gray with rolling clouds. Luna and I hurried to the greenhouse to close the door. While there I tucked the comfrey down inside the cold frame (it volunteered there and I haven’t had time yet to dig it up) and pulled the cover down over that, too.
We made it into the house just as the raindrops began to fall and the one big bolt of lightening of the whole storm split the sky. It was one of those lightning bolts that look like the ones Haphaestus forged for Zeus in the D’Aulaires Greek Mythology book I read to my children when they were young.
The storm passed, the clear skies returned, there were no rainbows, only quenched gardens, and a summer sunset predicting more heat today.
Luna and I will be heading out the back door to open the cold frame and greenhouse again; to free the comfrey, and water and feed (with liquid seaweed) the tomatoes and eggplant that will grow there all summer. I have coreopsis, bergamot, and echinacea, and lots and lots of basil waiting to be potted on in the shady corner of the vegetable garden. I will do these grounding things as I listen to the birds, and the wind if there is any before more storms usher in blessedly cooler air late this afternoon.
Courage my dears. Listen to the wind, remember that it always brings home what is done elsewhere. Listen to the earth, remember that it holds us steady if we are rooted surely. Listen to the water as it flows and falls, water remembers with us. Listen to fire as it crackles, lights, heats, and transforms everything it touches, remember to carefully tend it as sacred. Love one another.
