On the eve of my reality

A good friend of mine once told me that when you see a red Cardinal it's God's way of telling you that your loved ones are doing okay, safely in his hands. Naturally, I like that bit of folklore.

This weekend, I saw several Cardinals. They were at the feeder hanging from the low branch of the Live Oak beside the back porch, and they were in the woods across the way from the back porch. I smiled at each sighting as if I were seeing a signal from my father - not a drifting white feather, but a bright burst of red life.

The entire weekend was of birds. Finches and Chickadees, Hawks and Sparrows. The trees were alive with their chirping and twittering, calling and hooting. With the bedroom windows open, I awoke to their songs at dawn, pulled up the covers and snuggled deeper into the music and the breeze seeping through the screen and over my skin. This morning, I poured a hot cup of coffee, wrapped myself in a blanket, and sat outside listening to the symphony of bird sounds.



It was only after the sun rose high enough to send the chorus into hiding that I glanced over at his chair. And could not move my eyes. Soaking through me was the awareness that he's been there, right there in that chair, listening to the same morning songs as I. Time's seesaw of it all, him once there and now no longer, me there still. And the sights and sounds carrying on without him, but me still there to witness.



Tomorrow is another day, another X on the calendar. A day, a date, a year. A memory possessing the pull of gravity. Time is linear not round and yet the years circle back, dates collide with my heart. So well I can set my watch by them.

This afternoon, the sun was shining open and warm. Even though I had a doctor appointment and just enough time to make it there, I looked at Cheyenne and thought time would have to wait. I could not leave without going on a walk beforehand, would not rob myself of a few more minutes in the warm air and bright day. As we strolled the path, she sniffed out mysterious scents of interest and I connected with mysterious gifts awaiting me. The old Oak on the river's bank, one, and the drooping and open seedpods, two. The strength and stature of age, the delicate beauty of life and renewal.



In the roots and stretch of that tree, I saw him. In the renewal and promise of those seeds, I saw me. In the distance between, I saw us. The words of W.B. Yeats whispered through my mind,

O Chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music,
O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?