Silence

Spring Arrives Tomorrow – ND 102

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Approaching Thunderstorm – Photo: L. Weikel

Spring Arrives Tomorrow

It’s quiet tonight, and I even have the front door flung wide open to take in the sounds of whomever might still be awake. The peepers were in full throat earlier, but the only voice I hear now is the wind’s, sighing through the tops of the pine trees across the way. Perhaps all the creatures fell asleep when they hunkered down during the thunderstorm that rolled through earlier. Spring arrives tomorrow, riding the coattails of the lightning that lit up the sky tonight.

As much as I love the peepers and tree frogs, though, I’m rarely disappointed when silence is the prevailing theme for the evening. In this moment, I feel like silence is an especially rare gift that those of us lucky enough to have it should receive with gratitude – and awe.

Daffodils Amid Ice – Photo: L. Weikel

Life Bursts Forth

The warmth of the past two days has caused a virtual eruption from within the soil. Croci and daffodils bloomed in a cacophony of color yesterday. With so much of our attention on the war and carnage in Ukraine, it seems almost weird to witness Nature’s relentless surge toward expression.

Weird, but are any of us truly surprised? I doubt it. We all know, if we’re honest, that humans may end up killing ourselves. But Nature will almost certainly survive. (I’d say it’s certain, but I don’t want to jinx it. Never challenge our species in the whole ‘who can make things worse’ category. If anything, ‘We’re number one!’ when it comes to that. Woohoo!)

Full Virgo Moon

Last night, the moon reached her peak fullness. A neighbor had a lovely full moon fire in the middle of her forest. It was gorgeous to witness as we wrapped up an early evening walk. At first it seemed risky but it was clear she had built it just so and neither a tree nor a leaf budding forth was in danger of being singed. In fact, the flames licking upward caused deep orange shadows to dance on the bodies of all the trees serving as sentinels.

A moon cycle comes to its apex. A season of introspection and rejuvenation ends.

Let’s envision skies that are quiet and peaceful rippling out across the world. A new season. A new way of being.

And precisely as I wrote the words of that last sentence, the eerie, unexpected bray of a donkey echoed throughout our little hamlet.

(T+102)

Luxury – ND #81

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Cloud Owl in Flight – Photo: L. Weikel

Luxury

While taking a walk early this evening, the tranquility of our lives, in this moment, was squarely in Karl’s and my awareness. Our greatest discomfort was how much colder it was tonight than it was a few days ago. We had the luxury of walking in silence, feeling awe as a hawk flew right across our path seemingly to get a better view of us, and delighting in a flock of over two dozen robins hopping around on the neighbor’s lawn.

Of course, we were thinking about the upheaval of the lives of Ukrainians who, quite possibly, may have taken a walk similar to ours less than a week ago. But now they’re refugees. Or quite possibly guerilla soldiers, dedicated to defending their country and willing to lose it all rather than succumb to Putin’s regime.

Even though we were, indeed, walking in silence (at least initially), I know our thoughts turned toward Ukraine at the same time without us having to exchange a single word. We just stopped, looked into each other’s eyes, and sighed.

Hawk on our left – Photo: L. Weikel

Target Practice

We sighed because all of a sudden the sounds and silence of nature were shredded by the rat-a-tat-tat of a rapid-fire weapon. I don’t know enough about firearms to know whether what we heard was an automatic or a semi-automatic – but I do know it’s not the type of gun that hunters use to shoot deer. Ah, there it was again. Across the hills from us, another burst of staccato gunfire. And then more. At least another six to ten bursts of bullets echoed through the countryside as we made our way up the hill.

Other than being used for target practice, we all know, deep down, what those types of guns are designed to ‘hunt.’ And the images of Ukrainian grandmothers arming themselves with Kalishnakovs and AK-47s springs to mind unbidden. What were they doing last week at this time?

Hawk taking flight and crossing before us – Photo: L. Weikel

Looking Up

At the same time that we hear those gunshots slashing at our peace, we look up and toward the west, only to find a massive cloud owl taking wing across the sky.

It could, of course, be a harbinger of death on the wind. Or it could be a symbol of protection. My first reaction when I saw the Cloud Owl was a sense of gratitude and familiarity, the appearance of a cherished friend and ally. To me, the Cloud Owl looks like it’s speeding off, intent upon fulfilling a mission. So I thanked it for appearing to us and asked it to bring protection and comfort to whomever needs it.

Cloud Owl in context – Photo: L. Weikel

 

(T+81)

I Love the Anticipation – ND #52

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Last Night’s Sunset – Photo: L. Weikel

I Love the Anticipation

I’m sure I’ve written about it before, but I love the anticipation of a major snowstorm. There’s a slightly different feel to the prospect of getting ‘snowed in’ since the pandemic began, but the magic persists in my heart. Standing outside in the darkness of the night with only the faint hissing sound of snowflakes as they race each other to the earth, I feel connected to everything.

Can you tell? I just came inside from taking the pups out before bed. Pacha wanted to scamper about and play in the falling snow while Brutus couldn’t do his business fast enough before heading back inside.

I’m sure he’ll play with Pacha tomorrow. (She makes it irresistible.) Just like cavorting on frozen puddles. It took me a couple of times showing them how I slide on the puddles, but eventually Pacha realized just how much fun that could be. And yet again, Brutus ‘likes’ it, but mostly seems to only join in because Pacha eggs him on.

Moments before Brutie’s legs slipped out from under him – Photo: L. Weikel

Blizzard Up the Coast

Here I am, waxing rhapsodic over the prospect of a ‘major snowstorm,’ (“Kenan”) when along the coast (literally) they’re facing the arrival of a full-on blizzard. Yes, it’s true: I would relish that experience. I know I should probably be more ‘adult’ and pragmatically consider the ramifications of such a weather event. But I think I have an idealized notion of experiencing a blizzard from reading the Little House on the Prairie* books.

The idea of snuggling up all warm and toasty in front of a fire, reading books, making stew, and reveling in the muffled silence of the outside world is compelling. It also neatly dovetails with the rest of the messages I’ve been receiving this week, especially the one brought by the Rune Isa (Standstill). Truth be told, I’m still working on integrating that message.

Not Even That Much

Sadly, though, it seems we’re not even going to get that much snow in the grand scheme of things. Maybe 6” or so? Ugh, I just checked the Weather Channel again and it’s down to a predicted 3” – 5”. How disappointing. Hardly the 24” – 30” they’re calling for Boston to receive.

Maybe I’ll post this and go back outside all by myself. We’ve kept the Christmas lights up for just such an occasion. Well, brightening the dark nights no matter what – but also making the snow look like stained glass during storms like this.

I’m realizing how many little things about this time of year bring me joy.

I definitely feel a need to listen to the snow. No human voices. Just Nature.

Lights in the snow – tonight – Photo: L. Weikel

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(T+52)

In For a Landing – Day 1020

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Snowy Owl Coming In For a Landing – Photo: L. Weikel

In For a Landing

A line of thunderstorms came through our area just as the sun was contemplating setting. Besides billowing harbingers of potential mayhem and torrential downpours, one scenario depicted in the sky was a snowy owl coming in for a landing.

I’d actually just completed closing Sacred Space following a session with a client when a deep and prolonged rumble of thunder rippled out across the sky. Stepping outside, I got goosebumps when I took in the scenario unfolding above my head.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter whether anyone else can see what you see. Not if the magic of a moment infuses with you awe. Or hope. Or maybe even the tiniest sliver of a sense of being part of something much greater than the superficial illusions that we normally chase and often cherish.

Besides these clouds, there were a few rainbow moments that, oddly, appeared to be less a rainbow and more a multicolored bar. I couldn’t manage to get a photo of it fast enough, but the traditional colors of a rainbow made a brief appearance in the sky sporting the sharp, clean, rectangular edges of…a flag. Or a banner. It seemed more a statement than a wish.

I was so frustrated that I missed the shot.

Speaking the Truth – Photo: L. Weikel

An Evening Chorus

The last several nights have been deathly silent as I wrote my posts. Those moments when the rain wasn’t falling and tink, tink, tinking on the metal casing of our window air conditioner, the air was still and close. The atmosphere was super-saturated (my skin’s assessment, not a meteorologically defined status statement) and no self-respecting insect, plant, or animal wanted to exert an ounce of unnecessary energy in pursuit of movement or song.

But tonight is different. Perhaps this shift will last and the weight of fearing to embrace change will lift from our psyches. It’s up to us to give our true selves permission to sing, just as the voices of the katydids, crickets, and annual cicadas are nearly deafening this evening.

We’re being pushed to question the way we’ve been doing a lot in our lives. What beliefs do we hold onto until our fingers bleed? Where do we place our faith? How do we know what’s true? What approaches to life are we so sure about that we’re willing to build our reputations on them?

What principles do we believe in so passionately that we’re finally going to risk finding our voice and speaking out?

Conversations – Photo: L. Weikel

(T-91)

Just Some Critter – Day 981

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Oddly Orange Waxing Gibbous Moon (extended exposure) – Photo: L. Weikel

Just Some Critter

I’m sitting here on my couch, laptop at the ready. Our thick wooden front door is open, leaving only a screen between the elements and me. Curiously, at least at this very moment, the only sound I hear is the intermittent buzz of a single insect. It’s not even a cricket. Just some critter hanging around the hostas or maybe sitting on a leaf or nestled in a crevice of our shagbark hickory.

Perhaps I’m noticing that the only sound is this single random buzzer because I was just outside trying to capture the eerie creamsicle-colored beauty of the waxing gibbous moon. I definitely wasn’t planning on writing about the moon tonight. In fact, I was pretty sure I was going to share photos of a hawk that screeched at us relentlessly for a good ten minutes on our walk last night.

But as I was getting the photos in order, my eye caught sight of something bright and colorful peering in at me through the living room window. At first I assumed it was a lightning bug. It’s kind of weird how often I see a lightning bug at the very same spot, blinking at me as it clings to the screen. It can’t be the same bug, either – I see one in the same spot year after year. I can’t explain it.

But it wasn’t a lightning bug. It was the moon – and a noticeably orange one at that.

Can’t Capture It

I’m sorry to say that no matter how hard I tried, I failed to capture both the rich pumpkin hue and the surprisingly large appearance of her this evening. It was the color that was most surprising, though. It’s startling to see so much orange when she’s so high in the sky.

While I was standing outside on the lawn in the dark, fiddling with my iPhone, I was at first serenaded by an army of bullfrogs. (Yes, that’s the technical name for a bunch of frogs.) Their voices were impressive – and in the blackness of the night, it was easy to imagine them each weighing a good 35 pounds or so.

But then, right while I was attempting to photograph the moon, my most treasured neighbors called out to me. All of a sudden the three donkeys that now graze on the hill behind our barn let loose with their otherworldly sand people (a la Star Wars) sounding voices. (Click the links – the donkeys really do sound like that.) I struggle to express how much joy their noisy, bizarre, cacophonic iterations bring me.

And of course by the time I switched to a mode in which I could record them all three of them abruptly went mute. I swear they were messing with me.

Weird – at this very moment, even the scritchy noise of the bug that’s not a cricket has stopped. Only silence so profound that I can hear faint ringing in my ears prevails.

Waxing Gibbous Moon (regular exposure) – Photo: L. Weikel

Refuge – Day 972

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  • Monarch on Echinacea – Photo: L. Weikel

Refuge

Right around noon today I unexpectedly encountered several minutes of profound peace. I rediscovered a place where the air is sweet and vast, and if you time it just right, wraps you in a cocoon of silence. Before today, I don’t think I would’ve called it this, but – it’s a place of refuge.

One of my daughters (in-law*) belongs to a local CSA. Tiffany is generous and makes a point of sharing her bounty with us. I (well, we) reciprocate in some small measure by picking up the weekly harvest when she can’t make it and occasionally massaging the kale. (Yes; that’s a thing. And I guarantee it’s the yummiest way to eat kale you’ve ever tried.)

Today was my turn.

After gathering up our allotment of precious bounty: red onions, cucumbers, carrots, kale, parsley, cabbage, summer squash and zucchini, I turned my sites on the vast fields where we get to ‘pick our own.’

Lots of Pollen On These Two – Photo: L. Weikel

Loose In the Fields

The CSA administrators essentially let us loose in the fields to pick our own raspberries and cherry tomatoes. We’re not entitled to pick as many as we might like; just like any good thing, there are limits. Indeed, getting to the fields late can mean you may not even be able to eke out half a pint of either, at least when the yield is only starting to come in.

We’re also welcome to pick from a variety of herbs, which I didn’t do; and I think okra may be in season as well. (That’s an interesting vegetable that could merit a post of its own.) But one of the best parts of the field is being entitled to pick the flowers they’ve cultivated.

Is It the Acoustics?

The acoustics of the fields are remarkable. Technically, it’s not actually the fields that cause the amazing acoustics, it’s the palisades, the massive stone edifices that tower over the fields that create almost a fishbowl of sound. When other people are picking their veggies or flowers, even if they’re chatting with someone quietly, right beside them, it’s guaranteed you’ll be able to hear every nuance of that conversation.

I have a feeling that’s why most people, if they don’t immediately enter a meditative state, reflexively lower their voices to a whisper when engaging in ‘pick-your-own.’ Because voices carry so easily and crisply, when they’re not there at all, silence bounces off of silence and it’s as if we’re in a sound-proof booth.

The totality of the experience is hard to describe but easy to lose oneself in.

Early Season Jewels – Photo: L. Weikel

Reverie

The coneflower, also known as Echinacea, was a mecca for the pollinators. Oh my goodness, it was such a delight to see all manner of bees, butterflies, and other winged ones imbibing.

At one point it dawned on me that I was the last person standing in the middle of that field. The only sounds I heard were the sudden screeches of crows that were hounding a red-tailed hawk. Hawk didn’t take the strong but silent route, either. It scree’d its indignation right back at them as it took up residence in a massive oak at the edge of the field.

Almost all the flowers were covered with pollinators. I couldn’t bear to pick the vast majority of them. And indeed, when one of the employees came out to the field (not sure if they were looking for me or what), I shared with them some of the other prizes I was harvesting – my photos.

The Spirits of this Place know that the manner in which these vegetables, fruits, flowers, and other plants are being cared for is sacred. The reverence creates a palpable refuge for all Beings seeking nurturing, nourishment, and peace.

(T-139)

My Ears Strain – Day 923

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An Old Ent, Pondering – Photo: L. Weikel

My Ears Strain

I’m sitting here in my living room all by myself. Oddly, I’m truly alone. Spartacus is upstairs in bed with Karl, which is not all that anomalous on its own. No, what’s wigging me out just a bit is the absence of all three of our cats. I’ve no idea where any of them are. The night is quiet. In spite of the front door being flung wide open, my ears strain to hear a sound – any sound.

The stillness of this evening is so complete that even the massive, dying, pine trees across the road are failing to utter even a sigh. I squint my closed eyes. Surely a tree frog or a cricket will give a high sign of life.

Most of me revels in the blanket of silence. A smaller part, though, noticing the lack of any sound, wonders what life would be like in a cataclysm. What if everything changed over night?

Sheltered Life

At times like these I’m confronted with the shocking truth of just how sheltered a life I lead. I cannot imagine the circumstances of those living in so many regions of the world – and so many places within our own nation. If I’m honest with myself, I turn away from truly permitting myself to imagine what it’s like to have my apartment building bombed.

I turn away from even the simple act of contemplating what it must be like to have my home imploded by a tornado or devoured by a wildfire.

My thoughts, when I permit them to even skirt around those circumstances, always seem to gravitate to the irreplaceable items. Of course, that doesn’t even count the possibility of losing a loved one (human or other sentient being). I guess it all comes down to our impermanence.

The ‘irreplaceable’ items – meaning the photographs and journals, primarily – provide context to our every day lived experiences. They also provide a window into our history. Without context, we’re free agents. Free to make things up as we go along.

But do we?

I don’t know.

(T-188)

All Talked Out – Day 758

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Last night’s sunset – Photo: L. Weikel

All Talked Out

There’s something about the silence that holds hands with the darkness of winter nights. I know it’s not yet technically winter (we have 12 days to go), but you might be forgiven for not realizing that fact if your only barometer was listening. It’s almost as if the world is all talked out.

Most of the leaves on the deciduous trees have fallen to the ground or been blown far and wide, so there’s barely a rustle now when a wind kicks up. Crickets and katydids have been gone for weeks and peepers and tree frogs have burrowed deep in the mud in their attempts to escape getting nicked by Jack Frost.

Of course, the silence is what’s speaking to me this evening. I find myself remembering writing with the front door wide open, a cacophony of wildlife from insects to four leggeds to winged ones sharing the night with me.

I’ve written before of my comfort with being immersed in quiet. Winter (or pre-winter) nights are simply the best for contemplation and reflection. Sometimes I have to reel myself back in, realizing I’ve been surfing the edge of presence and now have 15 fewer minutes in which to write a post.

No Tree Yet

Truth be told, the only thing I’m missing right now are the lights of a Christmas tree. That’s actually a most excellent excuse to leave the house this weekend, as it won’t entail going inside anywhere to secure one except to pay. The exponential increases in infections are not to be ignored. We’re being careful, but every day things feel riskier and riskier.

The fact that we’ve not bought or put one up yet this year has us running a bit behind schedule – at least in comparison to recent years. We’re actually pretty much on schedule with the way my parents bought a tree, though. We’d always get our tree ‘right around Carol’s birthday,’ which this year will be this Thursday. (Yes, this is the Carol of Carol’s Chocolate Cake.)

So maybe this year’s Christmas tree hunt will harken back more to my childhood than that of my own kids’. And no Karl, it will not bring back the good ol’ days of melting tinsel on the Christmas tree’s lights.

Wind Chiming

Aaah. Just as I’m writing about the silence of winter, the wind chimes Karl and I gave each other for our anniversary are nuzzled by a baby blow of cold. Just enough to magically ring but one single note over and over, carrying it down the yard to the barn and back again. “Ding…ding… ding.”

How is the whispering wind managing to kiss the chimes ever so precisely as to ring only one tone out of five?  Somehow that single note only heightens my realization that I’m all talked out.

(T-353)

Jinxed? – Day 642

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Fresh picked owl flowers – Photo: L. Weikel; Flowers: T. Dollar

Jinxed?

Last night I gave it yet another shot, making one more post 1:00 a.m. ‘Perseid run.’ Far exceeding the previous evenings, my view was vast and so expansive that it made me feel like I was reclined at the base of a star globe. But as bombarded with bazillions of stars and planets and satellites as I was, I wondered if perhaps this year I was jinxed.

Quite honestly, I think this is the first year I’ve ever experienced not seeing a single meteor during the Perseids meteor showers. Of course, I’m not counting the times I didn’t actually go outside to look. (That may seem obvious, but I don’t want it to sound like hyperbole when I say this is my first time without a single sighting. It’s actually pretty rare not to see at least one ‘shooting star’ in a summertime night sky. So…yeah. I’m feeling a little deprived.

Once again, though, I cannot rave enough about the overwhelming sense of tranquility I felt when I reclined on my blanket and pillow. Yes, I allowed myself that indulgence last night. The heck with it. You all know the…let’s call it ‘pensive’ mood I was in after writing my post for the evening. So I parked my car on the grass just off the side of the country road near my home where I go to sky gaze (the farmland that provides me with an extreme, unfettered view of the sky) and just allowed my eyes and soul to drink it all in.

Crystal Clarity

It was a really cool scenario, though, as I drove through the ‘tree tunnel’ toward my meteor-gazing destination. As my car emerged from the protection of a canopy of trees overarching the road, a layer of fog about four feet tall suddenly blanketed the land all around me. Regardless, I pulled my car over and spread out my blanket. I might not be able to see any deer or foxes or coyotes or other fauna that might be sharing the evening with me, but the view UP was crystal clear.

Curiously, especially since this was where Karl and I heard our pack of coyotes yipping away when we sought a glimpse of the Comet Neowise a couple weeks ago (another viewing fail), this night there was a blanket of silence accompanying that blanket of fog. Nary a cricket, nor a katydid – not even a single trill of a screech owl broke the silence.

The peace was glorious.

Mars

As I lay there allowing my vision to expand and grow soft so as to drink in as much of the cosmic real estate that I could, my attention kept being drawn to a noticeable (for its size)  orangey-red celestial being. Pretty sure it was Mars, I nevertheless whipped out my Sky Guide app and verified that yes, indeed, it was Mars.

I then followed the ecliptic as it arced across the sky and very clearly identified Jupiter and Saturn once again as well.

I’m sure I should be able to take much better photos of the night sky than I’m managing at the moment, but here is my photo of Mars from last night:

Mars – 13 August 2020; Photo: L. Weikel

As I take the time to reflect upon my last few forays into meteor-spotting, I guess I really shouldn’t consider myself jinxed – even if I didn’t see a single meteor this year. Maybe it was better for me not to feel like I’m jumping into hyperspace at the moment. (Although wouldn’t that be the coolest experience?!) Maybe the tranquility was the point. Maybe the silence was essential to helping me re-set.

One word to the wise should you choose to embrace this experience: spritz yourself with bug spray before you go. The high pitched eeeeeeeeeee of a mosquito’s voice as it seeks to plunge its needle-like proboscis into your tender flesh is a most unsavory interruption to your reverie.

(T-469)

Quiet – Day 608

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Photo: L. Weikel

Quiet

The wet wool blanket mugginess of the day most definitely influenced the timing of our walk today. There was no way I was interested in stepping foot anywhere while the sun beat down on us. Eventually, of course, every sun must set, and lucky for us, we no longer had to dodge the raindrops. We could walk in peace and quiet.

We’ve noticed dramatically fewer planes in the sky lately. And it’s a blessing when we walk and managed to avoid encountering any cars. A blessing and an experience that’s rarer and rarer.

As we rounded the last few corners on our trek today, we noticed how much quieter everything is right now. Even the insects sound diminished – almost as if they’re whispering.

Quiet is Disappearing

The eerie silence of our walk this evening (especially the insects seeming to hush themselves) made me think about an article I’d read recently that I wanted to share with you. It’s on the art of listening to silence, which some of you might know is a particular delight of mine.

Reading this reminded me of just how precious and rare it is to be able to find anywhere where we can ‘be’ and not hear one single human-made noise.

This is seriously tragic.

Quiet Parks International

One of the heartening discoveries I made in the article I linked above is the fact that there is an organization dedicated to encouraging parks to become ‘quiet parks.’ What a gift to the world!

Just for curiosity’s sake, I challenge you to spend some time outside and notice whether you can ever actually achieve some moments without even the smallest human-generated sound tickles your eardrums.

It’s a real ear-opener.

Rawr (chomp chomp)- Photo: L. Weikel

(T-503)