I was driving past Beaver Lake. I normally wasn’t there at this time of the morning. The fog was dense. The heron was there. I was grateful for this moment of serendipity.
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The day was perfect. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, cool temperatures. I had just come home from dance class, and sat on the front porch, rocking in my favorite chair and enjoying the moment before it dawned on me that it would be a perfect day to drive up to the Parkway. Sections that had been closed since Hurricane Helene had just reopened. I prepared some snacks and jumped into the car.
As I drove higher and higher, I felt an overwhelming sadness. I saw evidence of the destruction Hurricane Helene had wrecked. I was grateful for the crews that had worked so hard to reopen the parkway. I was sad for all the downed trees and destruction. Both can be true all at once.
I parked at the trailhead to Black Balsam. I bounded up the rocky path, and relished in the pristine air. I appreciated the silence. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I had grown to noise. I loved the lack of it. Silence is beautiful. Silence is restorative.
I don’t know what they were, but the bare trees with bunches of red berries were striking. The sun over the horizon was invigorating. The red leaves rustling in the wind. All were almost too beautiful to take in. Almost.
I sat on a rock and just was. I looked out over the mountains. I listened to the wind blowing. I felt the warmth of the sun. I appreciated the land that has been here for ages and will continue to be here for ages to come. I was content. I was happy.
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I love when it rains. There’s something about inhaling the clean air, pondering the metaphor of renewal, and the practicality of knowing I don’t have to water the garden. As an added bonus, after the rain I pick all the downed flowers for an inside bouquet.
This morning, three beautiful pink dahlias lay in the mulch, their stems snapped by the high winds during the night. I brought them in and marveled at how different, and how spectacular, each bloom is. Three perfect dahlias.
Dahlia one, as large as my spread hand 
Dahlia two, pink petals almost transparent 
Dahlia three, with perfectly curled petals -
The JAC TSA agents were unexpectedly kind and friendly, especially for 6:45 am. Which seems like an impossibility for me. I struggle in the morning.
As I was retrieving my scanned bags, I noticed a speck of color on the stone wall. I stepped closer, and was delighted to see dozens of tableaus, all in miniature. A car being pursued by giant dogs. A crowned frog waiting to eat a watermelon slice. A campervan headed towards a massive rubber ducky.
I took out my phone, and noticed the “no photographs allowed” sign. I looked around, saw an imposing TSA officer walking towards me, and asked for permission to take a photo of the wall. “Be my guest!” he boomed, smiling. A delightful way to ease into an early morning of travel.
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There are evenings I glance out the window as the sun is setting and my heart skips a beat. Tonight was one of those nights. I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of cotton candy skies. The layers of pink and blue, reminiscent of the bags of layered cotton candy at state fairs. Just like real cotton candy, the skies are sweet, indulgent, and never last long.
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After a month in a boot, nursing a broken foot, I was finally able to place weight on my foot, and the first thing I did was go to the garden. I longed to be outside, digging in the dirt, reconnecting with the earth.
Four hours in, I considered stopping. I was tired. I was sweaty (so sweaty). I was hungry. But just one more weed to pull.
I suddenly felt pain on my left calf. Had I landed upon a briar? I pulled my pants leg up, and a wasp flew away. Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.
I feel sorry for bumblebees. They sting you, then they die. I do not feel sorry for wasps. They sting you, and sting you, and sting you. Over and over again. This was my sign to leave the garden for the evening. This was not a point of delight.
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I stared at the x-ray and momentarily couldn’t understand who I was looking at.
Was this my bone structure? Or my mother’s? Or both?
My bottom teeth have moved, and I’ve noticed speech changes. My dentist referred me to an orthodontist, who took all sorts of x-rays. When the technician showed me the profile view, my stomach lurched. This was the face of my mother as she lay dying. The hollowed cheeks, the sunken eye sockets.
I remember the first time I looked at photos from the last days of Mom’s life. And thinking, “That’s not what she looked like.” I was diligent to take photos every day that I visited Mom. I regret not taking more photos of me and Dad, and his death came so quickly. I vowed not to make the same mistake with Mom. As I took the photos, I remember thinking how beautiful she was, and how I cherished each moment we had together, whether she was cognizant of those moments or not.
And later, when I looked at those photos, I was shocked. I didn’t see a beautiful octogenarian. I saw a skeleton of a human, wasting away.
And now I wonder, is it better to have a physical representation of a loved one, like a photo? Or better to have an image in one’s mind, encapsulating the feelings and emotions around the experience? After revisiting photos of Mom’s last weeks, I prefer the latter. I want to remember her as a beautiful soul, irrespective of what her physical representation was.
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It’s the end of July. They shouldn’t still be here, but they are. I’m not sure if that’s cause for delight or for concern.
During the month of June fireflies appear in western NC. They start glowing just before sunset, and generally find their mates (and stop emitting light) 30 – 45 minutes later. That’s part of their magic. They only appear during one month, and during that one month only for a limited number of minutes each day. It’s easy to remember, because June is my birthday month. June is the month of fireflies. June is the month I go to the porch, just before sunset each evening, with a glass of something cold – ice water, iced tea, or wine.
However, it’s the end of July and they’re still glowing. Not as many, yet still a respectable showing. I’m delighted, as this truly is one of my favorite phenomena. I’m concerned, as fireflies shouldn’t still be glowing at the end of July. What has caused this?
And yet, every evening, just before sundown, I mosey to my front patio with a glass of something cold. I sit in the glider that was Mom’s, and I listen to the increasingly loud sound of crickets. The chirping is a lullaby. Monotonous. Louder, then softer, then louder. The sound oozing into the humidity. Occasionally, a bat swoops above my head, quickly from one side of the house to the other. I enthusiastically hope that it is eating all the mosquitoes that like to eat me. I cannot imagine a more magical evening. How am I so lucky?
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I was weeding the backyard, trying to address all the unwelcome plants that sprouted while I was out of the country. Plants formed a small jungle from waist high to taller than me. I heard my neighbor yell from across the street, “There’s a bear next to you!” I wondered if she could be speaking to me, as I looked to my left and saw no animals, then looked to my right, and saw no animals. “By your trash cans!” Oh, they were behind me. Gulp. I slowly, slowly stood up and started backing up. I was able to make it to the first landing of the deck stairs before the bears noticed me. As I paused, the mama bear stepped towards me. I looked into her eyes, and she into mine. I didn’t say anything, but intuited towards her that she had full reign of the yard. I continued to slowly step up the stairs, wondering if bears could climb stairs, and hoping they couldn’t. I think they probably can.
As I got further and further away from her three cubs, she relaxed, and I continued to back away. Once on the deck, she seemed satisfied I wasn’t a threat. The three cubs played, tousling with each other and ducking in and out of the greenery I had planned to weed. I marveled at how stinking cute the cubs were, and how majestic the mama was. I was thankful I could observe closely, yet far away, from above on my deck.
I watched them play, then watched them burrow their way through the tall shrubs/weeds. Did they exit? Did they hunker down? I couldn’t tell for sure. I stayed on my deck for almost an hour, looking for signs of them. I finally made my way down to the backyard, simply to retrieve my garden tools.
Weeding can wait until another day.
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A lovely respite in the afternoon.
LoriLoo 