The starlings have noisily invaded the leafless deciduous trees along the eastern bank of Dixon Reservoir. I listen as their rabble rousing concert echoes across the meadow. Then without warning they stop. I look up, confused with the silence. Suddenly at some unknown signal they begin again, filling the sky now with their gossip of which garden or park they will invade next. When they go silent again, a group takes flight filling the air with their black wingbeats. Some consider the starlings to be invasive and destructive but the truth be, it’s nothing compared to man!
Fully awake now and with my spirit refreshed, I move on to a local coffee shop. I share my story of the starlings with Adrianna while she makes my mocha. With her smile, our conversation and a warm mocha I begin to warm up. I live a good life!
“We are between stories. The old story is no longer effective. Yet we have not learned ‘the new story.’ We are talking only to ourselves. We are not talking to the rivers, we are not listening to the wind and stars. We have broken the great conversation. By breaking that conversation we have shattered the universe.”
Thomas Berry
I talk to birds. I also listen to birds. The above quote made me think about my old story which said I could only talk at birds and they could only talk at me. Having a conversation was impossible. I’m realizing how that story is evolving for me. Although birds and I do not speak one anothers language, I wonder, is there a conversation going on?
Conversation happens between humans without words. Many will attest to having conversations with their pets. So, can there be a conversation with all of creation, without words? When making eye contact with the cottontail, is that a form of conversation? Can there be a conversation going on between the wind and trees as they dance together. Is the sweet scent of honeysuckle a form of conversation with all who will pay attention? And, could it be that just paying attention and observing creation is a form of conversation? I do not have a solid answer to those questions but at this stage of my life, I am experiencing conversations with creation at new levels, a conversation that goes deeper than human words. Maybe, this is the new story!
I’ve discovered the power words have to tell a story from my experience of journaling, reading books and writing and reading blog posts. Words have the ability to touch something within the writer and the reader. I’m seeing words as lovely seeds within each of us that make these stories. And, these stories come to fruition only when they are nurtured to life through our actions of writing them and sharing them. This blog post would not exist unless I write it and post it. Whether it’s content is good or bad is irrelevant. So at this time in my life, I’m comfortable to sit before a blank page in my journal or sit before a blank monitor and ask for words to share. It’s all a creative pursuit. Have a great week!
Sun setting behind a sunflower at Reservoir Ridge Natural Area
“The old Lakota was wise. He knew that a man’s heart away from nature becomes hard.” Luther Standing Bear, Oglala Lakota
I’m aware of how much more time I’m spending in nature. Seems the morning and evenings are always calling me. I took this image last night. But, this morning I took my latte, camera and journal to Red Fox meadows. A red fox scampered across Taft Hill Rd just as I turned into the parking area. Then as I parked the car a red tailed hawk rose up from the grass in the meadow but I did not see anything in its talons. I began to journal and listen. After about 5 minutes the fox came out a wooded area and into the grassy meadow. They were too far away to take a photo so I watched with my binoculars. They just sat there soaking up the sun and seemingly with eyes closed decided to lay down. Even I was enjoying the sun’s warmth. There were blue jays off to my right in a grove of trees having a rather loud discussion about something. I’m pretty sure it was not politics. I then watched a doe slowly walk out of the wooded area but staying close to the trees. I next had a short conversation with an elderly couple on a morning walk, both with canes. They lived nearby and said they were hoping to see owls. He was 88 and she was 83. Then as I started to leave a mother with two boys pulled up. I told them about the fox, deer and hawk which seemed to set expectations for some adventure. As they moved on the youngest told me, “Thank you Mr. Kind Man.” I believe, as does Luther Standing Bear, that nature can soften the heart!
Words take on different meaning in different times, cultures and how they are used. My belief is that placing them together in a paragraph to create a story, express an idea or concept is a form of art. Sometimes in my attempts to use words to express myself or an idea the words work and sometimes they don’t. It is rewarding when I read your words on your blogs and through comments you leave on this blog. So often I find my feeble attempts at expressing myself are found in your words. For that I am grateful! Thank you!
This is the last of a series of short stories about a pen. It was an idea conceived by Faye White after making a comment on one of my posts. We have agreed to come up with four stories about a pen and it’s travels. For me, the pen in these four stories has a encounter with someone and it’s task is to empower those who use it to bring their ideas, thoughts, dreams and visions on paper. I intend to post each story on four consecutive Sundays. I also encourage you to visit and enjoy Faye’s story here. Leave us comments to let us know you stopped by, we’d appreciate it.
Eric’s body moved slowly as he pulled himself out of his comfortable bed. Each morning his body reminded him of the hard work he had put his body through for the past 84 years. He definitely had slowed down but he made sure he did his morning stretching to take care of this body of his, after all it was the only one he had been given. Today he would work in the front yard, trimming the bushes along the sidewalk and cleaning up any trash that may have blown in the yard. The yard had become a haven for him as he would wander in thoughts about Eva. They had enjoyed 62 years together so he had plenty of memories to recall. Some brought smiles, some brought tears and some made him laugh out loud. They both were the tricksters and each had caught the other off guard many of times. They also enjoyed working in this yard together. In fact this garden was inspired from a dream she had one night. It was all she could talk about until they joined in together and created this paradise he now so enjoyed.
He could feel the sweat beading up on his back as he knelt down along the corner of the yard to pick up some trash. That’s when he noticed something bright and shiny under the potentilla bush. Only after he reached down and picked it up did he recognize it to be a beautiful silver and gold trimmed pen. To him it looked like a very expensive pen, something he could never afford to own. His mind raced with thoughts of who the owner was, what they looked like and where they lived. Could it be a neighbor? Or, was it a stranger walking by who had dropped the pen? How long had it been there? He put it in his pocket and continued on with his task at hand.
After working in the yard the warm shower felt good. His spirits were high after the hard work and the yard was looking awesome. Even Tom, his neighbor across the street, had come over and commented about how great the yard looked. He started bellowing out an old familiar song in the shower. He smiled as he remembered how Eva would shout at him when he sang that song, pleading for mercy, which in turn prompted him to sing even louder. After his shower she would shake her head and mumbled how they could sure use the money he wasted on those voice lessons. Even though she did not like his singing, or that song, she kept a smile on her face. And that smile was one reason he sang, he wanted to see that smile. It was also a special way they communicated their love for one another. He missed her.
Later that evening as Eric sat down in his favorite chair he remembered the pen he found earlier in the day. He picked up the pen and held it in his hands, studying it. It was beautiful to him, a piece of art. He opened the drawer to the lamp table next to his chair and pulled out a small tablet and began to write with this fine pen. First he wrote his name. Nice. Then he wrote down Eva’s full name, “Evangeline Marie Sutter.” He found it a pleasure to write with this pen. So what else could he do with this pen besides write down names? He felt this pen would be nice to write letters with but he hadn’t written a letter in years. If he was to write a letter who would he write a letter to?
Susan? Now there was a name he’d not thought of for a few years. Susan Follett. He remembered the curly red hair, the freckles and those matching cute dimples that helped her smile radiate to the world of her physical and inner beauty. They had attended school together since the third grade and graduated as seniors together. She was the first girl he had been attracted to and the first one he had asked out. He remembered that date when he took her to the county fair. A flood of memories were now flowing through his mind. Holding hands. The first kiss.
After graduation, World War II would lead them off in different directions. Attempts were made to keep in touch after he enlisted in the Army and went to war but distance and circumstances kept then apart. Through friends he knew she had married and started a family. He wondered how she was doing and where she was. As he held the pen in his hand, he made the decision to use this nice elegant pen to write her a letter. With the help of his granddaughter they found where she lived. He sat down and wrote “the letter.”
He wasn’t sure what would he say? Would she write back? It didn’t matter, he was wanting to meet up with this friend from the past, a childhood sweetheart. With pen in hand he shared about his family and his life over the past 60 some years. He let her know Eva had died 14 months earlier. He also told her about finding the pen, how thoughts of her had inspired him to write her. His life was good and he was hoping hers was also.
That letter started a series of welcomed letters between Eric and Susan and eventually a meeting. Through the letters he found that Susan was living in a small town in North Carolina and had been widowed for about 4 years. She still lived in her own home and had children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren living nearby.
It was now nine months since Eric wrote that letter. He now stood next to his great grandson, Devin,who he had asked to be his best man. Tears were starting to well up in his eyes as he watched Susan walk up the church isle, holding tightly to her grandson, Daryian. In his eyes she was a beautiful bride. They knew there was no promise of how long they would have together but they were committed to sharing this renewed love for the rest of their lives. Eric was glad he’d found the pen and written “the letter.”
