Cozy and still
Despite flashing streaks of light across a darkening sky
And rumblings: low, deep and satisfyingly sustained,
She sips her cuppa.
Curled up in cushiony comfort, with a good read to occupy her thoughts
And a small, yet sturdy table top close at hand
From which to reach for her mug of warmth
She thinks how luscious and perfect this moment feels.
Peaceful. Calm. She is content.
Nature’s noisy and brilliant displays
Set to the music of a driving, late summer rain.
While here, just here, safely ensconced in the place she calls home
She enjoys the quiet connection of her mind and what some might call her soul
To the rat-a-tat cacophony of sound outside her window.
Fleeting, always fleeting, over and done with for some time before she recognizes the storm has past
And is no more.
She is jarred back into the Reality of Things
And gets up from her snug place of rest
To empty the dishwasher, fold towels and contemplate her next move.
The scoring ‘mechanism’ deployed at an old-fashioned baseball game at Living History Farms.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer. ~ Helen Hunt Jackson
On my walk this morning, in an attempt to get it over and done with before the heat and humidity set in for the day (but apparently not early enough!), I saw a young woman out mowing her lawn. My first thought was that of being thankful we’d already completed that chore ourselves – Bill normally does the front yard while I do the back but sometimes, I mow it all – and then it occurred to me that I don’t know that I’ve ever seen another woman in our neighborhood mowing the grass, aside from my rock star neighbor, Angi, and me.
Cue back a few years ago: Angi and I enjoyed a friendly mowing pattern competition one summer where we’d post our most recent lawn art on Facebook with a ‘top that’ throw-down challenge. It was fun and a little zany but after a while, we either ran out of ideas or motivation to continue. In any case, the point here, is that Angi mows their lawn the majority of the time and when my RA (last summer) or fractured toe (this year) hasn’t prevented me from getting out there, I actually like mowing.
I think mowing one’s lawn is great exercise, allows for your daily dose of Vitamin D and provides relative solitude for some serious think time. And I got to thinking – do most women prefer that their husbands or boyfriends handle this chore? Or are there any – like Angi and me – who don’t mind it at all?
How about a show of (feminine) hands: Who likes (or at least doesn’t mind) mowing the lawn? Who wears the mowing pants in your family? Is this something you enjoy? Why or why not? I’d love to hear from you!
Creativity.
The act of being creative, of fashioning something new, something wondrous, something uniquely different than anything anyone in the entire history of the human existence has ever done before. Whether that something be in the form of an innovative approach to everyday tasks, a beautiful work of art, generating an idea into a mechanism of words or fabric or materials or sound or some other combination of elements or even just a different way of looking at the world around us.
How many brand-new creations, innovations, discoveries or ideas have occurred over the human history of time? My brain is unable to compute the possibilities, to even contemplate what it would take to discern that. Where, how, would you even begin?
Suffice it to say, there probably isn’t too much that’s truly new anymore. It’s highly likely we humans have already tapped all there is to do, to know, to be within the realm of creativity. Or have we?
What else is there? What fantastic new breakthroughs in science or the arts or literature or music or images or architecture or film are lurking in the hearts and minds of the human experience, as of yet undiscovered? But hidden there – just THERE – all the same. Waiting for the spring load of release, that spark of ingenuity to make themselves known, either through systematic research or via an inadvertent occurrence that could not possibly be replicated no matter how hard one tried. Trip stones of discovery patiently awaiting their day in the sun.
The prospects for new advances and discoveries, beauty and fulfillment – it’s impossible to know what lies just beneath the surface of conscious reality – of any of us, really, not yet known but waiting, waiting…
This is one of the joys and lovely satisfactions of human achievement. Might that I one day be a contributing member of the creative class, however miniscule my contribution and even with only myself as an appreciative audience for what I myself might create. I only need then to trust my intuition – something I’ve started becoming more and more keen in taking note of – and to take a deep breath and commit myself to taking chances, throwing myself into my passions and maybe, just maybe, coming out on the other side with something sparkling, something new, something that wasn’t there before: creation. It most likely will appeal to no one but myself – as if that’s some small thing – but then again, it just might be SOMETHING.
Was anyone looking?
A Sawyer's Daughter 
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