nature – Divine Ready

The hawk’s call is distinct, not very melodic. It’s a rather shrill, hoarse keening that’s hard to miss. Hence, it usually gets my attention, often when I’m at work, most recently on the day after our first real snow of the season, the kind of snow that creates a silent winter wonderland, a silence that allows a hawk’s cry to really stand out.

I heard it and got up from my desk going from window to window looking for the producer of the command for attention without success. This happened several times before I finally spotted her, all puffed up to protect herself against the frigid cold, feasting on her prey beneath a snow-covered pine.

It was a day when I hadn’t wanted to go to work. There was the snow, the cold, the violence over the past weekend: the shootings at Brown University and Bondi Beach, the tragic murder of the Reiners, all requiring a large dose of compassion as sorrow and outrage take their own course while we try to process what isn’t really possible to process. The pile-on to what we are already trying to hold is heavy, wearying for the heart.

There are friends and family who are on challenging health journeys or are worried about someone they love on such a journey, those who have lost someone dear, others who have lost their livelihoods. How does one shine the positive light and healing energy in so many directions? How do we disburse it proportionately?

The hawk in the snow was a reminder for me that nature’s rhythms not only carry on but show the way. Any given day or moment, some of us will be stronger than others, able to carry a little more weight, called upon to stoke our own embers so we can spark or keep the flame going in others. The same has been done for each of us by friends, family, doctors, nurses, or brief encounters with someone we don’t know who was put in our path to offer just the right words or deed in a timeless dance of sharing the load and carrying the light.

May you find and receive what you need to have the love and capacity, the strength and compassion, and most of all the spirit and heart to keep the dance in motion.

Happy Father’s Day to all good fathers and grandfathers!

When my Grandpa Wilson—Clifford—comes to mind he arrives like a seductive sax in a jazz riff that rises above the noise during brunch rush. He was always there, but until a minute ago, I didn’t notice him.

My whole world turned upside down when I was seven, and in the turning a new cast of characters entered, including Clifford and Grandma Wilson—Mildred—and their dog C’est La Vie. We moved that year a few blocks away from them and got our own dog, Cooper. Most afternoons Clifford would pick up me and my brothers and Cooper in his white four-door Chevy and take us for walks at Good Templar Park less than a mile away. C’est got pride of place in the passenger seat while the rest of us sat in the back.

Over time, my brothers dropped out unless there was a big snow and they wanted to sled Dead Man’s Hill. With nothing better to do, I was steadfast. Clifford usually parked in the cemetery where we often walked before or after we set out for the adjacent woods. I learned about different grave markers; an ivy wound tree stump with a child’s winter cap atop and a single blade pair of skates leaning against belonged to a boy who drowned skating. The big armchair where I liked to sit was where Loie and Hal Naylor were laid to rest, the engraving on the back, “Pals.” Clifford showed me where my mother’s grave was, something no other adult had thought to do.

Most of our time, though, was spent walking in and around the woods. There was a creek that ran cool all year where I wanted to be timed standing in my bare feet to see how long I could take the cold, my version of a polar bear club. From the creek, we climbed a hill that was covered with Lily of the Valley in springtime. When we reached the top, Clifford would find a spot to eat an apple and take a nap in the sun on a slope that faced west with a view of the Fox River. I would climb a favorite tree and survey the meadow and the walnut trees, jumping down when I saw him coming with the dogs.

We didn’t talk much, Clifford and I, but a lot of healing took place on those walks where nature and steady presence were good medicine. They still are and so is a seductive sax that rises above the noise and catches me by surprise.

Tag: nature

Clifford on My Mind