This maple that stands at the edge of the cornfield at the big curve in the road, this one, newly aflame with the deep oranges she lifts to the sky each autumn, is an old friend. I’ve known her for decades now, walked beneath her branches, explored the old farmhouse she sheltered all its life. I remember the tire swing that hung from one of her limbs and imagine the laughter of children playing there on a day much like this one. Their family had a barn, too, and cows that grazed where the corn grows now. And right in the middle of the cornfield, there’s a tree with thick branches that folks call the hanging tree. This maple holds all these stories for me and more. I always look her way as I slow for the curve. She comforts me, and I imagine we’re radiating love to each other, feeling a connection somehow. I round the curve and the cornfield gives way to woods, and she is behind me now, marking the invisible point that tells me my journey’s ending. that I am almost home.
The Great Yes always provides. Today it is berries for the birds’ journey south. Sometimes it is help when none seemed at hand. Or hope when all seems lost. Always a light dawns to quench the darkness. Openings appear. Faith rises in response to surrender. Answers flash into view. Don’t allow life’s maze to trick you to despair. The world is far more wondrous than we know. And forever there is this certainty: The Yes provides, and we are known and loved.
Standing in this spot six months ago I could hardly remember that the bleak and frozen landscape could give rise to this, to trees luxuriant with leaves and seeds, to velvety grass, to a field of tasseled corn, to moist warm air, filled with birdsong and the fragrance of summer. And now, standing in this spot, it’s hard to imagine that in a handful of weeks it will again return to sleep beneath heaped blankets of shimmering snow. Yet here is the vision of it, clear in my mind, and of springtime, and autumn as well, the seasons blending into the whole of this now, where crows call and the air is perfumed with summer.
After the rain, I took a tour of the gardens. The air is still very warm and moist and feels as if it’s licking my bare arms with a big, wide tongue. Everything glistens. I smile at the bright upside down flowers floating in the peppermint patch. The promised thunderstorm skirted around us again. I watched the radar as the storm patch separated, some going to the north of us, some to the south. All we got was a speckling of rain. I pouted. But then I thought that I should be grateful for what is, and careful what I wish for, and the little flowers beamed.
Hey, pretty petunia, old friend. It wouldn’t be summer without you, you know. Why, I remember when I was only three how you lined the path to the dirt-floored cellar where Aunt Maybelle kept her wringer washer, your scent mixing with the fragrance of soap as she washed clothes, and how kittens played their games of hide and seek beneath your blooms. That long you’ve colored my summers, over half a century now. And still you’re with me, smiling outside my kitchen door, the neighbor’s cat curled beside you, loving your purple, sharing your sun.
As I strolled through the gardens this morning, greeting the inhabitants, admiring their lush greens and fine forms, I found myself pulling dried leaves blown from the hillside by the night’s strong breeze, trapping them in the garden’s greenery where, to my eye, they marred the scene, looking quite out of place. It was almost an unconscious motion, a tidying up that seems to be second nature to me now. One crumpled leaf, just above eye level, jolted me awake. This was no leaf. This was cool leather wiggling in my hand. Startled by its motion, I flung it down, where it landed on the lily leaves and let me study its decorated wings. Later I learned it ‘s called a “blinded sphinx moth.” Some gifts come with such special names and colors, and every one is a delight and a surprise.
“Wow! Thunder! Lightning! How ’bout that, campers!” I wrote in my journal as I sat down to begin this letter to you. “And now the rain and the scent of it and the sploosh of tires on the road, and still, thunder rolls off to the west. “
I remember watching storms on the Saginaw Bay as a child. Of course we watched stars on clear nights as well. But the thunder storms were something special. Let me tell you about them.
Sometimes I’d be asleep and my dad would come into my room and wake me to ask if I wanted to watch a thunderstorm. Then he’d carry me out to the enclosed sun porch overlooking the Saginaw Bay and sit me on the big swing between him and my mom, and they’d snuggle up against me, and we’d rock and oooh and ahhh at the show. When the lightning flashed, you could see the boughs of the poplars and cottonwoods whipping in the wind and the white caps on the waves on the Bay. It was wonderful.
I was never afraid of storms, having been introduced to them in such a cozy, secure way. What a gift that was, I think, looking back. I learned that storms had great power and were to be respected. When a tornado ran through a nearby town one year, we went on a drive to see just how deserving of respect wind could be. Dad showed me how lightning could cleave the broad trunk of a tree.
But respect for potential danger is different from fear. Fear blinds you. Respectful awareness lets you assess your situation, take stock of things like possible shelters or exits or the location of helpful tools. And you make that assessment in a flash, your brain being such a magnificent piece of work, then go back to paying attention to whatever drama is unfolding before you, ready to respond with action, or with ooohs and ahhhs.
So, I was thinking about that scene of snuggling with mom and dad and watching the storm when a soundtrack began playing in my head. (Sometimes my mind just does that.) It was the cast from the Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway hit “Carousel,” singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” If you’re of a certain age, you might remember Elvis Presley singing it, too.
“When you walk through a storm,” the lyrics say, “keep your chin up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark.” Do that, and keep hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone, they say. I think they’re right. I smiled, even if it felt sort of schmaltzy to have that old song play. Fact is, there’s a lot of encouragement in the song. It reminds you that storms are always followed by light and a world where larks sing.
My mom and dad packed a lot of warmth and comfort in their hugs. I have so much that I’d like to give a piece of it to you, as a present, just because. Fold it up and put it in your pocket, and the next time you face a storm, hold it in your heart or your hand to remind you, “Chin up; you are not alone.”
What if, in mid-winter, you threw open your door, and instead of soggy leaves and drifts of snow you found yourself face to face with a world drenched in green and swept with flowers? If you weren’t so accustomed to this knee-deep technicolor summer that crept in almost without your notice—leaves, stems, buds, blades, blossoms— or if, suppose, you would be leaving in the morning never to return, if this was your very last chance to drink in the sight of these red-veined purple petals, wouldn’t the wonder of them seem a gift, a blessing? Wouldn’t your eyes spill over with thanks? Wouldn’t you feel that everything that brought you to this moment was destined, and worth it after all?
