Whirlwind in Retrograde

"Don't go far off" he used to say, but in the end, he only wanted me to go.  

Some days, I walk out onto my doorstep and it's like a dream I had once, long ago. Chalky blue-white midwestern light and curiously elongated shadows. There is some solace in the way the wind and the trees aren't bothered about me; I just am, if I'm anything at all. 

There is a house on the next block with a row of temple bells out front. They chime with a most delicate sound. 

Once upon a time - that is to say, three or four years ago - I used to gaze out toward a point on the horizon, northeast beyond the cliffs, gaze at it until I could imagine seeing the traces of my attention there, a phantom signal against the sky. 

What was I signaling? Something desperately important, it seemed. A longed-for future. A magical elsewhere. A certain place where I was not. At night I gazed at the stars and dreamed. Twice I watched the earth's shadow cross the face of the moon and felt my destiny coming into being. My goddess is a goddess of eclipses, after all. 

Now I look out my southwestern window and understand so clearly that what I was signaling was my own self, looking back from where I came.

I think a lot about that place between what was then the future and the past. There was so much I did not see. Ohio like apple-raspberry candies from the dime store. Gingerbread, cloves and chamomile. Soft Sounds of the 70's. Cold grue and aquarium sky. From my limestone perch in Texas, I did not see this, nor hear it, nor feel it. What I sensed, on the other side of my prickly pear reality, was something golden and glimmering, reaching into the beyond. The glow of manifestation, maybe. I wonder now how much of it belonged to me. 

...

One night not long ago, I was at the library, a building that looks like it was designed by Escher on a bender. We sat in the atrium and listened to astronomers talk. Through the pointed panes of glass, a slow twilight was descending. My attention drifted upward until I could see the first stars. 

Far away, I sensed a faint blip on my inner radar, that signal trace of who I used to be. I signal back, a pinprick of light with the density of heartache. I tell her that I am here, looking at the sky 1353 miles away, and if you hurt, it's because the future hurts. But you did make it out, even if it wasn't like you imagined. You managed to do what you were supposed to do. You did make it there, eventually, and for a little while your wish was true. 

I already knew she heard me, because I'd heard it all those years ago. 

...

Now the solar eclipse is coming, and there is nothing to do but wait. We traveled here by the path of totality last summer, without knowing. The direction of the signal in the sky. It seems somehow significant now. 

For the moment I bide my time here in the track of the moon's shadow, among the flat fields and whirling leaves, searching the horizon for a signal from my next future. Perhaps, in the afternoon darkness - if I'm lucky - it will shine. 

Between Aldebaran and Pleiades

Thursday, 7:30 PM. 68 degrees, winds SSE at 9. The sky is clear, and all is quiet except for the windchimes in the trees. I'm standing under the garden archway, which is a little worse for wear after the recent freeze. I have one hand on the fence, balancing. I am keeping watch. For what? Oh, I don't know. Something I can't see yet, for this is always the way. You don't see it until it arrives. 

Through the branches of the juniper tree, I see a bright light in the northern sky. A plane heading south. It's distant yet, and I can hear no sound, only see the light growing larger as it approaches. Soon I can see that even though the sky looks clear, there must be a layer of mist higher up, as the lights from the plane make a halo as it comes. I lean on the fence and watch it flying, and for a moment everything feels so cozy, just the juniper and the plane and me. 

In a few more seconds I can hear the engine's hum, and the plane flies low overhead, cutting a path between Aldebaran and Pleiades. Soon it is out of sight, and now it's just me and the juniper, and the high layer of mist that I know is there but can no longer see. I wait a moment, and then it is time for me to go, too. 

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed. As ever. As always. 

They Must Have Known You Were Coming

Everything that rises must converge. 

Winter On The Edge Of Town

It's a day late owing to computer problems, but happy solstice to all.

Certainly, it's been an uncharacteristically sunny week for it. The clouds have only been rolling in at twilight, leading to some especially colorful skies.

At 4:23 PM, I was sitting with my little ceremonial fire (as you do) quietly waiting for a sign of what to expect in the coming season. I was just wondering if one would come when a crane flew over. At the same time, another bird dropped a heap of juniper berries on my head. A happy confluence of events.

It may seem strange, predicting good fortune at a time when the country seems to have gone mad and life expectancy is dropping (these things are not unconnected, IMO) but you see, I am determined to survive.

Someone once told me that so many people give up upon reaching an obstacle that by just refusing to quit, you end up much further ahead than you realize. This is my game plan. I am not strong, nor particularly stable, but I am exceptionally stubborn.

In that spirit, today I dragged myself from the haze of migraine and fibromyalgia torment to buy gifts for my children. My reward (aside from making the children happy, of course) was being there to see the winter sunset, this swirling configuration on the edge of town.

These moments pass, yes, but for me, the moment is enough, and for that I am extremely grateful. You forget pain, eventually, but transcendent moments can stay with you forever.

Here's wishing all of us a transcendent winter holiday.

Candy-Colored Carnival

As per local tradition, on the heels of the harvest moon comes the carnival. Aliens seemed to be a theme this year. You know times are tough when people are volunteering to be abducted.

 Glittering neon gears competed with the brilliant sky.

And while we weren't quite lost in the funhouse...

 ...we were quite lost in the mirror maze.

We had corn dogs and funnel cake, and bought a space hopper for the youngin. And then at last we walked back, through the dark streets, past the silent school and the glowing lamps and the dry leaves skidding along the pavement.

And with that we mark another ritual of the turning of the year.

The Violet Sky

 The strawberry moon rises. More on the strawberry moon here.

The Waiting Landscape

There is something eerie about an empty field in the noonday sun. As if it's waiting for something to appear out of the heat shimmer and cicada hum.

Orion

4 AM and the stars were so bright, Orion could be seen among the trees.

Analemma

From Wikipedia

"In astronomy, an analemma is a diagram showing the deviation of the Sun from its mean motion in the sky, as viewed from a fixed location on Earth. Due to the Earth's axial tilt and orbital eccentricity, the Sun will not be in the same position in the sky at the same time every day. The north-south component of the analemma is the Sun's declination, and the east-west component is the equation of time. This diagram has the form of a slender figure eight and can often be found on globes of the Earth."

I love the way the pattern is there above us, hidden only by time.

photo attribution:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Analemma_fishburn.tif

Afternoon analemma 1998-99 by Jack Fishburn in Murray Hill, New Jersey.

The Bell Laboratories building is in the foreground

The Last Of February

The View From The Garden Ground

While normally I don't like to do too much photo editing, I couldn't resist that lovely shade of blue. ;)