I watch the winds whip at the stalwart pines amidst sheets of steely rain from the safety of my perch. The sound of windchimes creates an oddly calming musical chorus punctuated by deep rumbles of thunder and quick, bright flashes of electricity.
Oh yes, a storm is coming....
Earlier in the day, I stumbled from my bed to peer out of the sun-filled back window. A herd of deer "called" to me, asking for fresh apples. Six days ago, there was white-out snow pelting my car, yet today, it's blisteringly hot and oppressively humid. The air, so thick that when you breathe it in, you can feel it press hard against your chest like the night nurse after my last craniotomy.
I gave him the finger, too.
Walking in untied sneakers down the stairs, still in my pajamas (butterflies magically flitting hither and tither across the smooth sky-blue fabric), I filled the hem with apples from the glazed garden pot in the pantry. One of the fawns tentatively approached as I tripped my way outside into the heat. She was gaunt. Half-starved, even. The others seemed to hold back, enjoying the shade provided by the pines, as the thin one took her fill.
Two nights ago, a young stag I'd encountered before returned. That's very unusual. But I noticed his markings; he was one of the babies born in my lily-bed from a previous year. It explains why he trusted me. Trusted me enough to come back again. That happened in October, too. Another stag, but of a different nature.
It was brutally cold during the full moon cycle last weekend. Below freezing. In May. During a pandemic. Hell freezing over came to mind more than once....
In the present, the rain has finally stopped and the wild winds have died down. The light is an eerie greyish-pink as night struggles to set in against the Sun's hold over the sky. I opened all the windows in the house to let the fresh air in. There's still a breeze blowing and every once in a while, the prayer flags I tied outside yield and bow in a dance set to the music of the chimes. It catches my eye and I feel a little sense of joy knowing my wishes for the world are being released.
Three retrogrades this week alone and I find I can't sleep. Even when it's cold, I'll sit out in one of the white-washed Adirondack chairs, watching the stars shift and shimmer. The moon is at 90-degrees now challenging my ability to see the last of the eta Aquariids, whose celestial position was at 22:47 this year. Synchronicities seem to follow me with the same regularity as the tides....
Ah, how I miss my ocean! This year, the beach house will remain empty. By the end of every summer my hair loses it's color, except, of course, for the dark roots. My skin turns a deep golden brown and freckles sprinkle across my cheeks and over my nose. I'm inevitably thinner, too, being an avid ocean swimmer. Once I go in, I only come out for sharks, darkness, or because I'm utterly frozen (and starving) after swimming in the deep Atlantic with the mink whales near the hook of Massachusetts, my blue umbrella now imperceptible. And the house, a mere blur.
The light on Cape Cod is unlike anywhere else on the planet. The private beach behind the house curves along the coastline, stretching into a hazy impressionist-like painting dotted with brightly colored umbrellas. But it's not just Cape Cod that I miss. It's Boston. And, Fenway. Sitting on the third-base line. The smell of popcorn and peanuts and beer scenting the evening air as the lights come up on the Green Monster, CITGO flashing in the distance as I wax nostalgic about my son's first Red Sox game on the 4th of July, fireworks lighting up the night sky. I miss walking along the Charles on a sunny day, watching the waves part like the Red Sea for the Harvard rowers heading back to the boat house. The Back Bay skyline rises up behind it, with the Pru and Copley calling me home. I even miss the traffic on Storrow Drive.
But I can't think of any of the above without my heart audibly breaking inside me. It's funny how flesh-and-blood feels like glass when it breaks, tiny shards lodging under your skin, resting there. Reminders of your past, as well as the pain awaiting you in future.
Darkness descends in my world....
The night sky calls out to me. Maybe I'll catch some of the last Lyrids as they streak across the velvet pitch. If I sit still long enough, the herd will bed down along the treeline while I'm there. Of course, that means I can't up again and is at least part of the reason why I rarely go to bed before dawn these days. My faithful furry companion promptly waking me every two hours once I do, just to keep me on my toes.
This is the first summer I won't see the ocean. It hasn't fully set in yet...the reality. I think I fell in love with someone because his eyes are reminiscent of the cold Atlantic.That's not the only reason, but the pull to him is akin to an incredibly strong current, threatening to drag me out to sea. Luckily, I know how to swim.
My Cancerian heart would have it no other way. And, my Scorpio soul heartily agrees. Neither are at home unless connected to water.
It's strange to be ocean on the inside yet appear as fiery as the Sun itself on the surface. The summer residents of Cape Cod believe my feet turn into fins in the water, a silvery trail of minnows forever encircling me, jumping into the air to sparkle for a moment in the sunshine as we go. Not even broken bones stopped me from swimming out beyond the sandbar, to the fishing boats.
No, I don't give up. Nor do I give in. I think that's called integrity....
#OceanEyes
Oh yes, a storm is coming....
Earlier in the day, I stumbled from my bed to peer out of the sun-filled back window. A herd of deer "called" to me, asking for fresh apples. Six days ago, there was white-out snow pelting my car, yet today, it's blisteringly hot and oppressively humid. The air, so thick that when you breathe it in, you can feel it press hard against your chest like the night nurse after my last craniotomy.
I gave him the finger, too.
Walking in untied sneakers down the stairs, still in my pajamas (butterflies magically flitting hither and tither across the smooth sky-blue fabric), I filled the hem with apples from the glazed garden pot in the pantry. One of the fawns tentatively approached as I tripped my way outside into the heat. She was gaunt. Half-starved, even. The others seemed to hold back, enjoying the shade provided by the pines, as the thin one took her fill.
Two nights ago, a young stag I'd encountered before returned. That's very unusual. But I noticed his markings; he was one of the babies born in my lily-bed from a previous year. It explains why he trusted me. Trusted me enough to come back again. That happened in October, too. Another stag, but of a different nature.
It was brutally cold during the full moon cycle last weekend. Below freezing. In May. During a pandemic. Hell freezing over came to mind more than once....
In the present, the rain has finally stopped and the wild winds have died down. The light is an eerie greyish-pink as night struggles to set in against the Sun's hold over the sky. I opened all the windows in the house to let the fresh air in. There's still a breeze blowing and every once in a while, the prayer flags I tied outside yield and bow in a dance set to the music of the chimes. It catches my eye and I feel a little sense of joy knowing my wishes for the world are being released.
Three retrogrades this week alone and I find I can't sleep. Even when it's cold, I'll sit out in one of the white-washed Adirondack chairs, watching the stars shift and shimmer. The moon is at 90-degrees now challenging my ability to see the last of the eta Aquariids, whose celestial position was at 22:47 this year. Synchronicities seem to follow me with the same regularity as the tides....
Ah, how I miss my ocean! This year, the beach house will remain empty. By the end of every summer my hair loses it's color, except, of course, for the dark roots. My skin turns a deep golden brown and freckles sprinkle across my cheeks and over my nose. I'm inevitably thinner, too, being an avid ocean swimmer. Once I go in, I only come out for sharks, darkness, or because I'm utterly frozen (and starving) after swimming in the deep Atlantic with the mink whales near the hook of Massachusetts, my blue umbrella now imperceptible. And the house, a mere blur.
The light on Cape Cod is unlike anywhere else on the planet. The private beach behind the house curves along the coastline, stretching into a hazy impressionist-like painting dotted with brightly colored umbrellas. But it's not just Cape Cod that I miss. It's Boston. And, Fenway. Sitting on the third-base line. The smell of popcorn and peanuts and beer scenting the evening air as the lights come up on the Green Monster, CITGO flashing in the distance as I wax nostalgic about my son's first Red Sox game on the 4th of July, fireworks lighting up the night sky. I miss walking along the Charles on a sunny day, watching the waves part like the Red Sea for the Harvard rowers heading back to the boat house. The Back Bay skyline rises up behind it, with the Pru and Copley calling me home. I even miss the traffic on Storrow Drive.
But I can't think of any of the above without my heart audibly breaking inside me. It's funny how flesh-and-blood feels like glass when it breaks, tiny shards lodging under your skin, resting there. Reminders of your past, as well as the pain awaiting you in future.
Darkness descends in my world....
The night sky calls out to me. Maybe I'll catch some of the last Lyrids as they streak across the velvet pitch. If I sit still long enough, the herd will bed down along the treeline while I'm there. Of course, that means I can't up again and is at least part of the reason why I rarely go to bed before dawn these days. My faithful furry companion promptly waking me every two hours once I do, just to keep me on my toes.
This is the first summer I won't see the ocean. It hasn't fully set in yet...the reality. I think I fell in love with someone because his eyes are reminiscent of the cold Atlantic.That's not the only reason, but the pull to him is akin to an incredibly strong current, threatening to drag me out to sea. Luckily, I know how to swim.
My Cancerian heart would have it no other way. And, my Scorpio soul heartily agrees. Neither are at home unless connected to water.
It's strange to be ocean on the inside yet appear as fiery as the Sun itself on the surface. The summer residents of Cape Cod believe my feet turn into fins in the water, a silvery trail of minnows forever encircling me, jumping into the air to sparkle for a moment in the sunshine as we go. Not even broken bones stopped me from swimming out beyond the sandbar, to the fishing boats.
No, I don't give up. Nor do I give in. I think that's called integrity....
#OceanEyes
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