Woke out of a whirlpool of a dream, saying aloud, “The world is too breathtaking and gruesome”. Giddy, as if with solstice precognition. Pillows thrown aside, bedlinen crumpled, the water glass on my bedside table cloudy.
Well, it is, but right now peacefulness comes from knowing the ongoing fraught dramas are none of my making.
A friend came around and dug out an overgrown clump of wild ornamental ginger. My small brown foxy terrier The Chub sat looking on sadly because this has been her private ‘jungle’ for hunting frogs and big rain spiders. I’m wondering if I can put in a mulberry tree — it is too close to the house for another fig tree.
The season’s wheel slowly turning towards autumn and winter though our hottest months are yet to come. But the summer is burning itself out,grasses bleaching, foliage darkening, sap falling, the juiciness going out of the summer.
End of year rituals: great joyous festive lunch with friends up from the coast, much laughter and conversation. I put acid-blue hydrangeas all around the house and set out white candles in glass with LED lights around, very pretty. Shining glass, white candles, a sheen on everything in the cool interiors. Outside the day blazing, not a breath of wind and the cooing lament of turtledoves incessant as cicadas thrumming from trees. In the evening, the flickering light on old walls and starlight gentle in the garden.
In search of daily illumination and acceptance. From Tom Gardner’s Poverty Creek:
Finishing up the run this morning, cresting the ridge above the pond into a sudden blinding sun reflecting off the ice. As if the light were alive, preparing to speak. And then turning ordinary again as I came down the ridge and the angle changed and the light pulled back into itself. My right calf is still a little stiff from where I strained it last week doing mile repeats in the cold. Just enough to not let me out of my body. When Emily Dickinson writes about Jacob, she never mentions his limp, even though that awareness of limits is everywhere in her work. Instead, she writes about his bewilderment—Cunning Jacob, refusing to let go until he had received a blessing and then suddenly realizing, as “Light swung . . . silver fleeces” across the “Hills beyond,” that he had been wrestling all night with God. He had seen God’s face and lived. The limp is what we take away. It means there must be a way back. It almost goes without saying.