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The heat of summer has finally arrived. The leaves of some will wilt under the sun’s glare.

The dried up shells of locusts litter the ground and some still cling with might, though their essence and pulse are long gone.

As I sit outside I feel engulfed by an unwanted embrace. I pray for the relief of a cool breeze, even though I know that prayers are not intended to serve our every need.

The swelter and sweat can build character. Some perish, and others break ground to try and claim this land. We all know the land will outlive us, and win in the end. We still play this game.

As I sit on my deck under the small relief of a ceiling fan, I see a young praying mantis lounging on a leaf of the Schip Laurel hedge. It seems content to bask in the sun. I leave it alone.

I hear a crow screeching behind the trees. Then silence. A desolate interlude is broken by the mewing of a catbird. A few minutes later the silence returns.

I look up to see fluffy wisps of clouds held together in the loose form of a mermaid blowing foam in the sky. It quickly breaks apart as if it suddenly realizes I can see it.

Some thrive in this heat. I look off into the garden section near the flute boy fountain, and I see the refreshing lavender color of three open six-petaled clematis flowers. The mother plant is named Silver Star and she was a Mother’s Day present to myself. There is a towering Dahlia cluster growing next to her. I believe its height will break some sort of record. The flowers are still forming. The multiple shades of pink Echinacea flowers are beginning to show their full faces.

Next to the pond I have two robust groups of yellow and orange Kniphofia. All their torches stand tall and proud. My garden is mostly a summer garden, and as the summer swelter rolls out, more and more blooms will thrive.

So, although it takes awhile to get accustomed to the summer heat, I say : Bring it on!

The catbirds are back visiting me this summer. I have a few of them. It is hard to tell them each apart. They wear a slate-gray suit with a slick black cap upon their head. Their rusty-red rumps have swag. Their tails point up and down, sometimes mooning me with their underparts.

They like to watch me when I come outside upon my deck or step down into the garden. They are self-appointed guardians of this domain. Upon my arrival one will fly close enough to give me its curious side-eye stare. Its eyes are dark and clearly focused on watching me.

Sometimes it will sing a song, but mostly it seems to question me. Our language barrier does not stop either one of us from trying to inquire about the other’s business. Eventually it will lose its nerve or be distracted, and then it will hop, skip, and fly away deeper into the canopy of trees.

However, I’m not fooled for it moves from hiding place to hiding place, always aware of where I am. If I’m lucky, it will sit and entertain me with its playful run of song and sounds.

 

Long before I had my crisis of faith I set out to create a heaven in my own backyard.

The events in my life kept me home-bound more often than I might have otherwise been inclined.

I’ve environmentally inherited a love of nature, and it is probably also written within my genes. The idea of building a garden year after year appealed to me. I could not afford to have someone else put it in for me all at once, so I set out to put it in myself slowly over time, and I paid incrementally for a few construction projects in the first few years. However, most projects we did ourselves.

The garden outside my kitchen window is my idea of what heaven should be like. A place where birds are welcomed and an abundance of greenery and flowers can flourish.

Skunks, raccoons, squirrels, and groundhogs find their way into my garden and sometimes they try to break my peaceful solace.

The feral cats, that want to make my covered deck their personal condo, have been pushed out to the edges of my garden. A power-washing and new seat cushions have restored my human domain, at least for the next couple of months while I’m on summer vacation.

When I sit outside and focus on the color, beauty, and magnificence of all the textures, shapes, and over-flowing exuberance of life, I can find peace and comfort in my mind. The worries of the world can be pushed out to the edges to keep company with the feral cats.

The songs, whistles, squeaks, and buzzing of the animals keep me in the present, experiencing the heavenly good of the here and now in my own backyard. An occasional squawk or unknown sound reminds me to be alert to changing conditions.

I’m inside right now writing this because the blessing of rain is nourishing my garden today.

 

ie

This summer we attended the wedding of one of our nieces. She is a devout Christian, and she met her husband on a Christian dating website.

It was a Baptist wedding, and during the ceremony she raised both her arms in an upward motion, and her palms faced upward. She was singing praise, and her arms remained outstretched in front of her. The groom stood in front of her. His arms remained down.

I had never seen this arm motion during a wedding ceremony. I took her arm signals to be her genuine expression of her devotion to God, and a display of joy on her wedding day.

I was surprised by how my emotions seemed to rise with her actions. This is the snapshot of her wedding that is now lodged in my brain.

Later in time I pondered our human need to add hand and arm expressions to our communications. Some people use their hands more frequently than others. Usually this is a sign of emphasis or raised emotions. Just to name a few, we have the victory and peace sign, the middle finger raised in anger, the military salute, and the high five. And let us not forget the praying hands.

Many seem to be a signal of power or subservience, and all appear to me to be more powerful than words. They are rooted deep within us, and often they are instinctive reactions to the people and events around us.

These thoughts were brought back to me today while I was walking down a hall at school. A young man, a co-worker, was walking toward me, and he raised his hand into a high five position.

My first thought was of a student who has frequently raised his hand into a high five position, and then jokingly withdrawn it as I was about to make hand contact. I’ve learned to just smile at this student, and I no longer reciprocate his action.

As my co-worker approached, I had the thought: Is this a joke? I decided to give him the benefit of my doubt, so I raised my hand up high and lightly slapped his hand. He is seriously tall, so I had to stretch. He smiled, and we passed one another.

I could feel my emotions lifting up from our simple interaction. Words were not necessary in this brief show of support.

Working in a middle school exposes me to the real farts in life.

The pungent odor that makes kids laugh, grimace, and hold their noses.

After this release the accusations begin. No one wants to take credit

For this unpleasant sign of life. The release of gas can move with stealth

If it is unaccompanied by an audible noise. The real culprit can often escape detection.

This class disruptor can be quite amusing, except for the one that might feel

Some secret shame. Sometimes I have to remind the students that everyone

Farts at some time or other. It appears that the human is the only animal that is

Bothered by this biological activity. Our brains want to disassociate from the reality

Of our bodies. However, recently I’ve been finding it reassuring

When my nose picks up this sign of life.

 

 

I cannot run. I will not run. If the end of world arrives,

I’ll be waiting – sheltering in place.

My daughter cannot run, and I will not leave her.

I will not abandon her. I’ll hold her hand and comfort her,

As long as I am able. My fate must wait with hers.

Empathy keeps me grounded. Self-preservation will be

Sacrificed if needed. If I let go of caring, the machine has won.

I can be a winner in death. Winning and failing are abstract words.

They can have opposing definitions depending on one’s perspective.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a bubble,

Floating through space detached.

I sometimes worry that a giant finger will reach out and

Break the surface tension that holds my flimsy world together.

Other times I feel like my bubble is made of bullet-proof glass.

All the light that makes it through to me has been bent and altered.

The trouble with bubbles is that they inevitably break, unless

They get trapped and frozen. In some cases, they can be deadly.

There are bubbles within bubbles, and twin bubbles not fully apart.

They can be fun and engaging, and some float out of sight.

The fate of those out of sight is left to our imagination.

Twenty-twenty (20/20) vision presents a picture clear and crisp.

Well-defined boundaries are visibly apparent.

Yet, there is another hidden picture, not evident at first.

At night when my corrective lenses come off, the blur pervades.

Balls of light become fractal spheres.

The light is no longer held tightly together.

This is when I see the eyes peering through flower heads and lizard skins.

The intensity of their gaze is inescapable.

When I squint my eyes or look away, they disappear from view.

This temporary madness is replaced wistfully with a saner picture.

Although, I know I can bring them back when the time is right.

 

 

Screaming from the edge, holding onto fringe, grasping,

Clasping, crawling over dead, reaching inward to the core.

Comfort once attained will not be given up.

Family ties and safety lines secure the few that run

Out to the edge, wanting to be heroes.

When things get ugly, they will be pulled back in.

The unseen warriors are those with no lines or ties.

They are risking everything; they have no choice.

It is fight or die for them.

My father’s surname rhymes with bell and shell.

My husband’s surname rhymes with pine and line.

English language learners are called E.L.L.

Pearls, oysters, scallops grow in the sea.

 

P.S. I’m reading a book: Signs & Symbols. The scallop shell has an interesting symbolic history. “Originally it was a symbol of the female sexual organs.” “Christianity made the scallop shell a symbol of the hope of resurrection and rebirth.”