My Daughter and Rock Walls


On August 17th, my daughter Rachel took a fall and hit her head on a rock. There was more to it than that actually. She was rock climbing near Fort Collins, Colorado with some rock-climbing buddies, apparently leading the route up the rock, when her attempt to place a piece in the rock failed, and she fell the six feet she had reached to and the additional six feet below her last placement. Her head struck the rock wall at the end of the fall, but she did not suffer amnesia, and finished the route despite a raging headache. She was not wearing a helmet. The week before she had taken a twenty foot fall, banging her back against the rock wall as swung back and forth. She was wearing a helmet that time.

The voice message on my cell phone said, “Mom, I don’t want to scare you but….”
Her voice was thick and low and pain- filled. My stomach tightens and I am filled with fear of what the next sentence will bring. My mind races and I realize that she is well enough to call, and I listen poised and tense, yet already knowing that she will be alright. Someday, I half expect, I will be caring for her, or grieving for her. Someday, she will fall over the edge that she lives on and there may not be a thin rope to catch her.

I really do love the concept of climbing up rock walls. Like a little child putting his hands all over his father’s face – fingers exploring his mouth, searching the crevices of his ears and the holes in his nose, feeling the contours of his face in a joyful intimacy – is a person on a rock face. So small compared with the looming height; so fragile compared to the solid mass.

Having a relationship with the natural world means experiencing its’ beauty, strength and grandeur; being out there and in it, like swimming in the rain. One becomes part of the water around them and one with the water that falls from the sky. Typically humans retreat to warm dry places when it rains, but there is a joyous connection that happens when we join nature on nature’s terms and sacrifice our comforts. Many people sweat and endure sore muscles to climb a mountain peak, not only for the view from the top, but for the challenge and experience of joining the mountain in its’ day, seeing it’s hidden parts, walking on its’ shoulders. Rock climbers take the challenge and thrill one step further to places that seem forbidden places, the same loves driving them perhaps.

“David and I are responsible, “ I think to myself with a rye smile. We set this kid on this path, and just never dreamed that she would run so far and fast on it. We started her hiking and backpacking and wilderness camping at a young age; we planted in her that wild love of natural things, that natural love of wild things. I would not change all that. We watched her fly from rope swings into lake water or river water with great glee when she was still young. However this element of danger is increasingly present and I wonder about what drives it and how it will end. I really don’t know.

In my most instructive book, God likens Himself to a rock, I suppose because rocks are solid and immoveable, and yet I find several places where God is moved by humans. I read, “Fall upon the rock and be broken,” and I hear Jesus’ words as an invitation to let our hard hearts to broken apart on His chest. He is safe to bleed on; He can bear it all because He is strong and solid as well as compassionate. This picture that I have of my daughter dangling on the end of a rope, smashing herself against a Colorado rock, I have to combine with my picture of Jesus being the Rock there in Colorado that she is smashing herself against. I have to picture Him holding her, broken and hurting. It is not only my imagination, it is my prayer. It’s the only way I can get through these fears that she will destroy herself.

Finding Mom

Finding Mom

It’s been a month since Mom came to live with us here on Crow Hill. It’s been a good month, and I have no regrets. We have been companions, doing household chores and garden work together. She makes sure that my kitchen is cleaned up after every meal. We’ve enjoyed early summer strawberry picking, high summer time at the lake, late summer raspberrying. She’s shopped with me, and enjoyed rides through the town she was born in, she’s pointed out her high school and other important landmarks. We’ve visited the cemetery where her husband, brother, and parents are buried, and the Pumpkin Hill school house where she attended elementary school. She is willing, and cheerful and helpful. But her memory - or lack thereof - is the reason why she is here, and an obstacle that keeps getting in the way, getting in the way of finding my Mom.

****

When you cannot remember what happened in your past, it is an awkward time when old friends, come for a visit and want to play ‘remember when.’ What is one to do? What is one to say? “Really?” or how about, “”I didn’t know that, “ or “I don’t remember.” Mostly one learns to listen patiently. Even relatives might run out of things to say if the past is what forms the structure of the relationship and everybody wants you to remember who they are and be able to say their names but names don’t always make themselves accessible, unless they are used every day. When your mind has to work hard to try to understand and follow what is happening, conversations are a lot of work. Words fly by too fast, and you can’t keep up. It doesn’t take people long to figure out that you have no idea what they are talking about, give up, and wander away. You are not clever, nor interesting and have little to offer a conversation. You are just there and often you are alone with yourself.

When you cannot remember, time is misty. You don’t know where it goes, and it all begins to run together. Every day is just a new day to be lived just as it is. Of course you just took a shower and put on fresh clothes, even though it was three days ago. You cannot remember that it rained this morning. That was a long time ago now, or the weather didn’t reach your conscience mind. And yet, you have your watch, and you know when it is time for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and bedtime. It is a relief to be able to read your watch and know what time of day it is.

When you cannot remember, how to get to places becomes a big problem. And figuring out how far away places are from each other is impossible. You have to trust someone to take you out. You hope you can trust them. And how to get back home….and where is home? No place is home but home, and you know you are not living in your home. Everyone tries to tell you that this is home, but it is not. “When will you every get back home?” you wonder. They tell you that you cannot go back home again. You want to got back home very much. It is familiar and your things are there.

Why does it always feel like you are forgetting something or missing something? What is it that is lost? Should you take your pocket book with you? Why is it not here? Have you left it somewhere? Isn’t there something you should take upstairs? Is everything in order before you go to bed? Or is there something you forgot to do. You’ll brush your teeth again, just in case that was what you forgot. You’ll take this magazine up to bed with you, maybe that’s what you wanted to remember. You’re sure you had more socks in you drawer. Why does she have to take them away every night? Is she bringing them back?

****

I am trying to understand what it is like for my Mom on the inside. One night we sat on her bed for a few minutes before turning in. I was quiet and unhurried. “I’ve been thinking about Albert,” she said, “Where is he?” “ I put my hand on her leg and looked into her eyes. “Albert died seven years ago in September,” I said softly and then paused. “Do you want to see the program from the memorial service? “ I went to my file and brought out the folder. She poured over the program for a long time while I read to myself the words my brother had spoken about my father. Finally she asked, “ Do you have an extra one of these? Can I have this one?” I nodded and watched her think where to put something so important. She could not think where, and I pulled the drawer of her nightstand out as a suggestion. She found a pack of pictures and slid the program in with them.

The next day was Sabbath and we were together, just us, so I decided to take her to the cemetery where my father’s ashes were and show her the stone. It was there with her sister’s next to it, and her parents’ next in line. She walked around each stone looking at both front and back, reading aloud each of her children’s names on the back of her stone, reading her parents’ names on their stone and commenting that she didn’t know her sister had her stone already. She did it again, making the same comments as she had before. Five times she walked around the three stones in a line, each time seeing them for the first time. Eventually she was ready to leave. We walked up the hill to her brother Leon’s stone and I showed her the dates on the stone, pointing out that he had died in November. It was all news to her. This is not like my mother, for whom the Danville cemetery and the family markers set there, were “touch stones” for her life, a place from which she would “rise to meet the Lord in the air,“ a place to go to remember family. Now she can not remember at all.

Another Sabbath after church and dinner, we picked up Mom’s sister Alice, and traveled three quarters of an hour to her nephew Dennis’ camp on Lake Eligo. We sat on the porch swing and talked and watched the lake, then looked at pictures of the family reunion on David’s computer. It was an afternoon where she missed her usual nap, and as we were sharing a light supper together, she asked where the boys were. “You know, our relatives.” There was silence. No boys had been there. I imagined that she was thinking of people in the reunion pictures, and tried to explain it to her. She remained unconvinced I could tell, and I realized too late that the day had been too much for her and people and places and time were all cooking in a big stew in her mind. It was past time to go home and get some rest.

Where is my mother? I am trying to find her. Where is the woman who would search the trees in the yard for the bird that was singing that song, and go find the vernal flowers away down on the island through patches of poison ivy, and sew my 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th grade dresses for me even at the expense of her own sleep? Where is the woman who would play her accordion and sing with conviction, and make temperance talks up front in church, and berry for hours on end, and hold babies with such complete satisfaction? Where is the woman who bustled around doing laundry and peeling potatoes or making rolls, pies or cookies for a big meal? And where is the woman who swam in the Cold River enjoying the chilly water?

I watch her carefully and I try to keep her safe and loved all the time, hoping to see glimpses of the mother I knew. I am learning patience.

Mom no longer enjoys cold water, or being wet. Being warm and dry is a high priority. So we steam up the bathroom before Mom has her shower. We wash as quickly as possible and use a blow dryer to hasten the drying and quicken the warmth. A bathrobe is always necessary, and then we go to the couch and sing together. She picks the songs, and it is always the old ones I remember from my childhood. Singing helps her forget that her hair is still damp and brings her back to me. Swimming is out of the question though.

We walk together every day the same piece of flat gravel road that passes through a working farm. There are dogs and goats and sheep and chickens and cows, and she usually counts how many of each she can see. She does not recognize the new equipment used for haying, but she loves to see when hay is down and comments every day on the beauty of the fields are that have been cut and are greening again. The roadside flowers get her attention and she comments on the colors, some days remembering the names, some days not. I smile. She is still here. Many days she says she feels lame, and occasionally I have to run for the car and pick her up - she just cannot go on.

On days when I pick peas or beans from the garden, there is work to do, podding or ending, and Mom will do it all. Slowly and methodically she sees to each one, and she does not quit until it is done. It is the same with cutting mounds of strawberries up. She works slowly and thoroughly and finishes the job. On days when I pick potato bugs off the ten rows of potatoes we share with our neighbor, she will help, crying out in disgust, “Look at these,” until her back drives her to her chair which we have carried up and put in the shade. She does not like to be driven to her chair by her weak body, and always asks me, “Are you sure?” when I say she should sit down now, but once sitting she contents herself with patting the dogs or watching the cows until I am finished. She never complains.

Against my better judgment, I took Mom to pick raspberries with me up in the unmown field on a side hill. David had found a hornet’s nest underground and marked it, so I guided Mom to the lower section of berries, far away from the hornet nest. I went to the top of the patch to work toward her. After a bit, I looked up and she was closing in on the region of danger. I cautioned her to move away and kept on picking. I looked up again, and she was in the danger zone. I went to her and took her arm urgently, explaining again about the possibility of getting stung. “Don’t pull me,” she said, “There are still good berries in there.” When it was time to go, she lamented that she had not been able to fill her bucket, but she did not get stung and made it to the car without spilling her berries which she made sure to point out to me. I mentally noted that I can find Mom when we go berrying, focused and persistent.

I can find her too when we go to a concert on the court green - she moves her hands softly in time with the music and I know she is pleased. She loves to be told that this quilt was the quilt that she helped me sew when I was twelve and that all those fabric pieces are from scraps of dresses she sewed for me when I was a little girl.

Yesterday was a banner day. On our walk she came out with a phrase that I had not heard her use in years. “Heavenly days!” she exclaimed. I smiled. Later I saw her looking at the old secretary in the entry way. “This is old,” she said, “I remember it from my childhood.” She was right. It is the only piece I have of sentimental value, and she recognized it. Today however, she can’t remember whose home this is she is living in, is tired all the time, and finding the simple task of cutting up peppers too much to figure out. I take her shoes off and help her to rest on the couch while I write. I am never upset with her; how hard it must be for her and yet there is no anger, there is not grief on her part, only a tranquil acceptance of her lot. She smiles when I tell her I love her, she hugs me and tells me thank you for all I do for her. I tell her thank you for all her help. “What help?” she says incredulously “I didn’t do anything today.” Then I get to tell her that she helped me end the beans and pod the peas and set the table and wiped the dishes three times; that she restocked my flour bins and measured ingredients for granola. She always looks surprised and pleased. That is my mother and I love her. I find her every night when I tuck her in bed. Every day there is some glimpse of the mother I knew, though it is dim and distant, and can see her and hear her if I pay attention.

No Regrets

Hiking Adventure

Mountains raise my blood pressure – in a good way. The night before I often can’t sleep on account of excitement, and this one lived up to all expectations. We started talking about Katahdin before the family reunion -- no, back in 1999 when hiked up the Abol trail and looked longingly down the Knife Edge trail, then turned to descend down the trail we had come up on. “Some day I want to hike that trail,” I muttered. July 15, 2008 that hope was realized – a kind of celebration of my father’s birthday – he would have been 84 the day before.

At the LaClair family reunion on the 13th of July, we found out my cousin John and his companion, Cindy had hiked it days before, and we found out my second cousin, Teresa Bradburn and her husband Kevin Wright were planning on hiking it. We all talked Katahdin, what to wear, which directions to take on what trails, how long it would take, etc., etc. David did some research on the internet and noted the comments posted. But it all came down to us four who were hiking it together on the 15th. Teresa has had four knee surgeries. David protects a weak knee also. It would be their call, but I weighed in with, “take the most aggressive hike up, and the knife edge down.” In the end it was decided to take Chimney Pond to Cathedral up and Knife Edge to Helon Taylor down, roughly 10 miles round trip, not really very long, but rigorous.

Pictures will attest that when we finally got to the Cathedral Trail we went up, boulder to boulder, hand over hand. It was fun; the steeper, the better, and we had the trail mostly to ourselves. Clouds played along the top edges of the ridges, and so we didn’t hurry. We hoped our 6:30 AM start would not be too early -- that we would have some open views when we reached the summit. About 11:30 we checked the time. Folks in offices were not yet on their lunch breaks, and we were at the top of the world (in Maine). My silent prayer for safety was half realized. Time to sit and look off and consider the strength and majesty of this giant tumble of rocks and the fragility of us little people crawling around on its’ shoulders. It would be here for years uncompromising to the seasons passing; some of us would not.

The great aspect of this hike was that there was to be no let down in the descent. There was still the knife edge trail – ragged, rugged, and narrow, dropping off on both sides precipitously, and then the ridge down. We went slowly – there was no other way to go. The Canadian women ahead of us were keeping all four on the rocks, and there was no passing lane. It was good- all good, and when we reached Panola, the last peak on the knife edge, there was deep satisfaction. The rest of the way was “a walk in the park” in comparison. I relaxed. Never do that. Two and a half miles from the parking lot, I slipped on some loose gravel and broke my fall with my left wrist. When I picked my hand up, my wrist was is an odd position, and pain was rushing into it as it swelled before my eyes. “Oh, no,” was all I could say. I sat for a few minutes, sinking deep within myself, and waiting for some “solution” to emerge from among the four of us. I could hear Kevin’s clear voice, “….That needs an x-ray…I broke both my wrists at the same time…ibuprophen and ice.” I had ibuprophen in my pack and Kevin got it out for me. I heard David’s voice talking about a splint, then settling on a sling. I knew time was ticking away, and I needed to get up and move off. There was no solution but to walk down the mountain. Kevin took my pack, Teresa took his, David made the sling, offered to go in front and to lend a pole, but I needed my full concentration and to see the ground.

It’s interesting to watch the thoughts go through your head in a situation like that. All was quiet behind me. The hike’s euphoria had dissipated quickly. We were each in our own thoughts. My went like this, “ Maybe it is not so bad…but if it is broken, the pain could get pretty bad….Father, will you help to keep the pain manageable and help me to not do any further damage?...Hmmm, I asked for your protection, what happened? I know you have permitted this…. help me to bear this well….no swimming….this is the height of summer…one more step….easy now, just go easy…I hope this doesn’t ruin the hike for Teresa and Kevin…what if this had of happened on the knife edge…I need to get my arm in cold water, how far is that brook…” And then there was just grim silence and step after step. I wonder what the others were thinking. Teresa was dealing with her own pain I’m sure, and I became her sister in the last mile of the hike.

The pain did not become unmanageable until the dead of night, well after the emergency nurse practitioner at Millinocket Regional Hospital had looked at the x-ray, announced a fracture in both the ulner and radius, and splinted me up. It was not really unmanageable, just too much for regular doses of Advil to keep up with.

When something like this happens, there can be all kinds of second guessing. No so for me. I have no regrets. I read in my little books that our afflictions do not “spring out of the ground” and if received in faith, good learning is possible. I’m going for that. This next few weeks will be another kind of challenge, but not so different really from the trail on the knife edge.

LaClair Family Reunion

A Missing Piece


I don’t know how others see life, but for me it is a bit of a puzzle, in more ways than one. Growing up, one has to figure out what part they play in their family; they have to figure out what the “rules” are, spoken and unspoken and eventually they have to figure out if they agree with the family rules. They have figure out who they are and what they value, what they believe, what they are going to do with their life and how they want to live. There are pieces to put in place as to who to love, who is trustworthy, and how much to give in each relationship.

By thirty or forty, many of the pieces of the puzzle of life have fit into place, and some kind of picture emerges. Here I am at forty eight and my life puzzle has come together in a way that leaves me largely satisfied. Sometimes though, there are some missing pieces. It has happened this way for me.

Out of a family of seven people, three were women – my mother, my sister and myself; four were men – my father and three brothers. I have strong bonds with my sister and my mother. My father, on the other hand, I wanted something with him that I never could have, and I have failed to develop any relationship with any of my brothers that was both healthy and lasting. Both of my grandfathers died before I had any real connection with them and both grandmothers were important figures in my life. I had many aunts and uncles – the aunts usually standing out as strong and individualistic; uncles fading into the distance with the exception of one or two. Out of many cousins, I’ve stayed in contact with a couple of the female cousins.

Over the years, it has become apparent to me that I have this huge longing and yearning for a strong, respectful, deep and affectionate relationship with a male family member. As a little girl, it is her father she wants to adore her and protect her. That cross-gender relationship sets the stage for the future. It tells a girl she is worthy of love that will someday come from her husband. My understanding is that it works the same way for a boy. A strong connection with his mother creates a sense of confidence and security. Failing that, a cross-gender sibling might do. Failing that, one has to learn with no modeling. Good luck, you’re on your own.

I’ve been on my own, and have flailed around a good bit. My good husband has been patient with me as I struggled to believe myself worthy of his love, and to step into my place beside him and not behind him. He’s waited as I moved through anger and depression trying to “get there.” I hated myself for many dark years, but Light comes to dark places and it feels so good to step into the daylight finally and decide to believe the overwhelming evidence that no matter what, each person is worthy of love and has a purpose to live out. Just being here is enough. What a relief. I did not need my father or brothers or husband to supply that piece that was missing; I turned my back on needing anything further from them in that regard. I would take it straight from God and nature. The end. Right?

Well no. Like a tooth that had been pulled, there was a vacant place, a missing piece, an empty hole in my life. It was okay I decided –people adjust to all kinds of deformities and deficiencies and live beautiful lives still. On I’d go. I cannot tell the exact moments of any big realization in my life; they have come on me as the dawn. I accepted the notion that every individual’s presence in the world is enough to qualify them for being loved, learning to love, and living an abundant life. Once the belief was installed in my heart, I began to live it, and life has gotten better and richer and fuller. I have felt free and have gone on from one new learning to another. Bounding over fences, drinking from new streams, sniffing flower after flower, admiring the color and taste of purple that breaks forth in nature and is my color and taste --symbolic of the rich wine of life I’m now living.

But here now, what is this? I pick up this puzzle piece and look it over. It is a small piece, but look at the shape….and the coloring is just right….could it be it is the missing piece? Where did it come from? Where has it been? It’s been lost somewhere, no matter, it’s been found!

What is it about my cousin Dennis that convinces me he is a missing piece to my life puzzle? Being first cousins, our genetics are similar. The first thing to notice is that we both have gray hair and neither of us have decided to alter it chemically. Underlying that one decision is a set of values that run parallel to each other. When I first talked with him on the phone, we had no idea what each other looked like, having not seen each other for decades. “I have gray hair,” I blurted out. Though I have gray hair, I do not think of myself as old, just naturally gray. I want my eyes to smile and tell the story of wisdom and contentment gained over the years.

Dennis has an athlete’s form, and while I do not, my whole food, plant diet and active lifestyle have trimmed me down without any effort on my part. So what? Well, this means we have the physical ability to work together and play together side by side. Now we’re talking about companionship which is of high value to me. We’ve snow shoed in the winter, wired lights in the spring, kayaked and roofed in the summer, and there is water skiing, biking and swimming to look forward to. We both like to be active and we both like to work. Too much relaxing, and I feel useless, restless, heavy and flat spirited. I like to work, to learn to things, to accomplish something – it helps my mind and temperament. So does Dennis, and he beats me at it.

Dennis is a quiet guy who does his job with faithfulness. He pays his bills, lives by his word and can be counted on. He does not like shows and crowds of people. These are qualities we both value.

Tenderness. We both have soft spots inside us, lots of feelings, lots of untapped family-style love floating around that has been distilling for years. We say words we wished we would have heard years ago from our fathers or mothers, brothers or sisters. They sound so good. Those who have always had an “I love you” from family can never know the sweetness of those words when heard at last for those who have not. Once you have it, you don’t ever want to lose it. It means so much; more precious than gold.

We both have wanted for acceptance inside our families. Dennis’ family doesn’t know him, much of mine doesn’t know me. We don’t really know each other, but there has been awakened a desire to know and a desire to be that acceptance and love to each other that we never realized at the beginning of our lives, and now is the time we’ve been given. Somehow we are drawn together like two magnets. It is not about sexual attraction, as the world would like to snicker and gossip about. It is not about obsession either. It is about deep holes in our lives that are being filled up slowly day by day. It is about an unbelievable moment in time when two missing pieces were found and fit together into the puzzles of our lives.

Roads to Happiness

I read with interest in my little book that there are seven roads to happiness that are never closed. I really like being happy, but life does not always hand us up unlimited and all pervasive happiness, so these seven secrets have turned out to be useful. I'm finding that the more I can work these into my life, the happier I am. The hardest one is song. I know that humming and singing and good music lifts the spirits --I know because my daughter Emily has done just that since she was very little, and she is perhaps the happiest of us all. But singing doesn't bubble up from within me. I would describe my inner self as a large place with tall trees and fresh breezes. It is quiet there and I like it that way, so I don't sing alot, I walk among the trees. I do know, however, that when the dark voices are crowding into my head, I need to sing.

Gratitude and thanksgiving are supposedly separate, but they seem pretty close to me. There is much to be thankful for. There was a song in my youth that went, "Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone..." and how true it is. When I twist my ankle, I realize how wonderful it is to walk unhindered. When my tooth was in constant pain a few weeks back, I wondered at the miracle of chewing and drinking cold water under normal conditions. When the 9th grade Biology class dissected a cow's eye in January, I was amazed at the beauty and complexity, and grateful for my precious sight. Most recently, my mother has come to live with me. She has forgotten many things, and people too-- past and present-- and it has reminded me that I truly cherish the memories that I have of March 25, 1979 when David asked me to marry him and February 23, 2008 when I met my cousin Dennis and many moments, hours and days in between.

It is important for me to remember that faithfulness in little things brings happiness. It's easy for me pass over the little things and hop on to the "big" things. Mother Theresa agrees that doing little things with great love is where it's at. Tonight I gave my mother a foot massage. Last night I did too. The goal is to heal her feet which were flaking off skin when she came on Thursday. This is a little thing. I am not commanding a submarine or teaching a classroom and managing a state's sewage issues. I'm rubbing my mother's feet. How shall I do this? As one more task to cross off my list? Or as an opportunity to communicate love, to give her some pleasure, some security, some warm touch. It is a moment between us, and taking time to put love into it brings me great happiness.

Thoughtfulness in the home is one I have had to consciously learn. This one's hard for me because I love to accomplish things. I like my lists, and moving from one item to the next can be very satisfying. For me. For the rest of the people who live with me, it can be an aching burden. They would rather have my thoughtfulness. I missed my sister's birthday last Tuesday, because I was busy. It did not make me happy when the bank teller said to her on Friday as we set up a checking account together, "Happy Birthday, Linda," and I'm sure it did not make her happy to have no warm phone call, or thoughtful message come to her mailbox. My daughter Rachel has written this point painfully on my heart: "Write me a message when you send me something!" Take the time to think what means something to someone else, I have to remind myself, it brings them happiness, which comes back to you.

It get easier now. Having a low emotional pain threshold, I value contentment. I can be happy with very little. I don't need expensive anything. I don't need big gifts - a jar of rock is very fine. I'm satisfied with a few clothes I can find at the thrift store, a few good books, and a couple excellent friends, my husband being one of them. I'm satisfied to learn something new and be useful in some way every day. Having my hands in the soil, making a meal that I can share with someone, sewing a quilt from old flannel shirts is enough for me. Contentment is most definately a road to happiness that is never closed.

Ahhh. Now I have arrived at my favorite: the beauties of nature. Nature offers up unending subjects for happiness. The loons are back from the ocean for such a brief time in the summer and they treat us to music so hauntingly beautiful that I cannot get enough. Their mating plummage is elegant, and their habits fascinating. Great joy. One day last week I did my morning walk alone, and was startled by a loon calling high up. Could it be? Where was he? I searched the sky and found him coming from some unknown location, also alone, and on his way to some body of water. I wanted to go with him. I wanted to lift off Lawrence Hill and be pulled along in his wake. "Take me with you," I cried after him.

But this spring the aromas of the flowers has captured my heart. First the spring beauties, those tiny pink striped flowers that bloom in the woods in May. Put your nose down to them, and this beautiful aroma comes to greet you. "Lord, I want to smell good like them, make my life a wonderful aroma" I prayed. After the spring beauties came the lilacs and the lily of the valleys. Then the honeysuckle and wild roses, and now the peonies and milkweed. It is absolutely captivating. Not everything in nature smells good, but some are given a special grace that is so pleasing. I'm trying to gather all these things up, and I find there are too many to hold, so many opportunities for happiness, that I wonder, today, that I can ever be fearful, or frustrated, or frantic. Those moments will come again, I'm sure, but now I know that there are seven fern-strewn roads to happiness that are always open.

Ferns

Just try and analyze why something “grabs” you; it’s hard to do, and harder to put into words. A friend of mine said something about being protective of her ferns several months ago, long before the unfurling of the ostrich fern, and it spun me off into a reverie on ferns. She didn’t explain her thoughts or feelings, but it hit something within nevertheless. I began to really take in what to me is much more than background filler in the woods.

David and I have a whole bank of ostrich ferns that live just down the road from us, and we watch eagerly for the emergence of the fiddleheads in the spring. It’s not about snipping them as the first spring tonic; it’s about an elegant arrival. I worry, in fact, when I am picking them for supper, that I will take too many and the bank will not be filled with green praise as it should be, and it will be my fault. I snap my hand basket as full as I dare and take it home in glee and half regret, wondering if I have done harm. Two weeks later they have all come up, unfurled and the bank is full again. My place among them has been completely hidden, and I am amazed -so many, so full of living green, so fine and handsome and feather-like, covering the body of the bird of spring. Vivaldi must have been written his best season with these in mind.

At camp, in the hills of northwestern Massachusetts live the prettiest stand of cinnamon ferns I know of. Cinnamon ferns grow in a circle around a central spire of seed that resembles a cinnamon stick. And, the fern bunches often grown in a circle as well, so it is a community of family groups of ferns each dancing around it’s own beautiful offspring. The order and design and what it seems to point toward charms me.

Ferns are shade lovers, and as we walk up the valley on a Sabbath afternoon, we gasp at the delicacy of the maiden hair fern. They hang like waterfalls off their semi-circle stalk and bounce in the slightest breeze. Touch them and they barely feel like anything – hardly there and yet, oh, so beautiful. And green.

My friend who is so protective of her ferns, enjoys the color green the most. I would not think to say that green is my favorite color. But I know that green is necessary to my soul; it is the color of life and of growth. I feed on green, drinking it in like wine, especially when the sun shines through it.