Rest ye Bones

The first knuckle on the left hand sometimes gets stuck bent now and then. There’s no pain. Just it’s in the wrong place and needs a push back in. The big toe nail on the left foot has a perpetual purple mark from another knock growing out. Sometimes it takes a year. Once in a while, it’s gone but comes again after kicking pebbles. The eyes and ears want to retreat now. There’s always more to the story, but today, keep it to yourself.

After fifty years, things do get old. Thoreau was right, read a newspaper from ten years back and only the names have changed. Remember this, the loudest voice in the room is the one to avoid. Yes, it’s trying to attract attention and diversion all at once. Look at the noise, but don’t look at the source.

The family is gone. Relations are broken by boredom, incivility and greed. A sincere hello, how are you once, just once would have done so much. Instead, the lightest encounter is a dump of old, twisted thoughts.  I used to miss you, but not anymore. All I did was replace a crumbling chimney full of bats.

A cat’s world can be quite small in the winter months.  One cat fusses over where the other cat is. The other cat wants to be in the cats space all the time. Nothing cat A does is sacred. Cat B must know what’s happening. She irritates with her attempt to be friendly. She is lovely in her energy and pleases easily.

The thing to do is let go now. Georgia struts and challenges with her Aries energy. How to tune her out? How to tune them all out? The grasping crowd who bore to tears with the I, the me and the mine. Oh to walk in the woods again. Take a stroll down the paths cushioned by leaf and moss. The serenity of a light wind in the forest soothes the troubles away.

At fifty, I’ve almost figured out how to stop being with what wasn’t and be with what it is. Let go of the discomforts and walk softly. Let go of the voices inside. Enjoy the sleepless nights. Enjoy the moon shadow in the yard. The peach tree is dormant. Something crawls over the scraps pile down back. Okay, so I can do nothing and feel the emptiness inside. I can rest my old bones and say it is so.


Mysterious Owls

The owl is the incarnation of a spiritual search,
it’s association with darkness reflects the silent, mystery of the world.

In Italian

Il Gufo Misterioso

Il gufo é líncarnazione della ricerca spirituale,
la sua associazione con il buio rispecchiava il silenzio del mistero del mondo.

Cherokee Belief

Little Atlas ~ Thanksgiving

Calico cat looks up all fuzzy, sleepy eyes from the corner chair. The heat clicks on with a gentle tick-tick-tick as the furnace fires up. It’s cold outside. At the end of each day, the house greets with a blessed quiet. A place to escape from too many voices and so many demands. All is safe here.

When the trees give up their leaves, from the kitchen window, I can see sunlight glittering on the Quaboag River. Mice scratch in the attic and sometimes find a way inside. The favorite nesting place is under the bathroom sink. How many have I rescued? How lazy can my cat be! There is something sacred about a tiny deer mouse released from a have-a-heart trap, shaking all over, then dashing off to find a safe place to rest.

These four walls know everything. They remember all the sleepless nights, moments of doubt and when we didn’t have enough. They knew all the cats and shared our adventures inside and out. The crack at 4 a.m. of Houdini breaking the pet door just cause he could. The realization that Poncho was not lying on my legs one night and finding him waiting patiently under the rhododendron for the door to open. Gigi wandering out to touch the warm grass. The wide-eyed appalled and disgusted expression from Sweetie at the scent of horses on the boots.

The best place to be is the sun porch on a lovely warm afternoon. We will always remember that day in June when the tornado was over the hillside in Brimfield. The winter of 2010-11 was a doozy. The snow kept piling on until the house became an igloo. The mounds cleared off the roof that cold day in February lay all around the house. In this moment, the house was named: Little Atlas. How on earth did it hold up all the snow.

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for my home. After all these years, it is a fine place to be.

by Frances Ann Wychorski

Published: Spencer New Leader, November 22, 2o17

Celebrate Each Day with a Song ~ Flora’s Secret

Enya is a remarkable artist. The overwhelming theme behind each of her songs are the elements of earth, air, fire and water. Her haunting, at times ethereal voice, conveys the feelings of joy, sadness, hope and solace found in every heart. The songwriting team of Enya, Nicky and Roma Ryan create a wash of color and sound with each song.

All at once, the melodies and prose connect us to spirit. Our senses, especially the elusive sixth sense, are alerted, touched by her voice and her intention. The tactile world of root and rock. The fragrance of rivers and moss. The sight of poppies in bloom and wheat swaying under the summers breeze are in the musical tones and notes. The memory of Pomona, Selene and Nike are called forth to join in Enya’s songs.

The fey, celebrated and prolific artist from Donegal Ireland gives a song to the flow of sunlight upon flowers and moonlight upon lovers. “Flora’s Secret”, is a charming love song to the earth and all that makes life glorious. The waltz time measure lifts the spirits and remind us how lovely a moment can be.

“Flora’s Secret” is on the CD: A Day withour Rain, published by Warner Music in 2000.

“Flora’s Secret” by Enya

Lovers in the long grass
Look above them
Only they can see
Where the clouds are going
Only to discover
Dust and sunlight
Ever make the sky so blue

Afternoon is hazy
River flowing
All around the sounds
Moving closer to them
Telling them the story
Told by Flora
Dreams they never knew

Silver willows
Tears from Persia
Those who come
From a far-off island
Winter Chanterelle lies
Under cover
Glory-of-the-sun in blue

Some they know as passion
Some as freedom
Some they know as love
And the way it leaves them
Summer snowflake
For a season
When the sky above is blue
When the sky above is blue

Lying in the long grass
Close beside her
Giving her the name
Of the one the moon loves
This will be the day she
Will remember
When she knew his heart was
Loving in the long grass
Close beside her
Whispering of love
And the way it leaves them
Lying in the long grass
In the sunlight
They believe it’s true love
And from all around them
Flora’s secret
Telling them of love
And the way it breathes, and
Looking up from eyes of
Amaranthine …
They can see the sky is blue
Knowing that their love is true
Dreams they never knew
And the sky above is blue

Reflections on the Day ~ Garden Going to Rest

And so, on this warmer than usual weekend in November, the garden becomes the reflection of what has been. The leaves are off the maple trees and thrashed to shreds in the lawn. The grasses are still green from plentiful rains. A few violets have reappeared, confused by the waning sun but warmth of some days.

It’s time to harvest the herbs. Lovage, thyme and tender oregano are picked and dried for many a lovely pot of stew. The blueberries almost recovered from the attack of the gypsy moth caterpillars in June. The greedy things ate all the leaves giving the bushes a desperate, deadly appearance. A second foliage did grow out by September. No berries, not a chance.

The peach tree blossomed and produced a massive crop of fruits. After three years of late frosts that nipped the buds, success! To quote a line from Nathaniel Hawthorne’ s Introduction to Mosses on an Old Manse, “and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. ” I learned to make a lovely peach butter blended with blackberries. A scrumptious dessert for everyday.

The perennials give way their strength and return to the earth. The vinca vine seems to be spreading over rocks and into the field. The lilac is perfect. The forsythia has gone crazy and is overwhelming everything. How did they get so large! Plenty of pruning for winter afternoons. Now is the best time to consider the winter trim to the massive maples starting to cast too much shade on the yard. How high they reach to the sky now. All to do still.

The one friend who won’t be returning to the garden next year are the dear old shoes. Four years of tramping all over has worn them to shreds. These shoes were always a bit too large. We went all the way to Sicily together the first year. They climbed up the hillsides of Segesta, past the fig trees into the amphitheater and gazed out at the azzure blue sea. We climbed the cliffs at Scala dei Turchi. We walked through the great cities of Modica, Noto, Taormina, Naro, and Ragusa. They felt the pain of the blood blister that grew to be a frightening thing. We stood in the mists over Tripani and felt the presence once again. She is here. The goddess did make herself known at Donnafugata, Ortygia and Erice. My foot was so swollen by the time I got home. How I will miss them. Maybe I’ll save them for the annual brush burning and give them a dignified exit. Let the element of fire take them to ashes. How I will miss them.

So, the bunny comes out of hiding once more to greet the walkers on their daily journey. This bit of whimsy under the rhododendron and settled in a bed of sweet woodruff. Now comes the dream time to plot and plan for that great garden to be. Next year, I promise to be more attentive and grateful for this space. This beautiful garden. My solace and my savior.