Everywhere around here this time of year there are mothers and fawns, sometimes one fawn and sometimes two. They aren't afraid, though perhaps a little fear might be in order, but they just look and trot along. There is nothing to fear.
Last night I read a beautiful book, Mystical Hope, Trusting in the Mercy of God by Cynthia Borgeault. I turned down most of the pages to re-visit so sit now with what tidbit to share. Perhaps this:
On a bright, sunny day you can set your course on a landfall five miles away from you and sail right to it. But in the fog, you make your way by paying close attention to all the things immediately around you: the deep roll of the sea swells as you enter open ocean, the pungent scent of spruce boughs, or the livelier tempo of the waves as you approach the land. You find your way by being sensitively and sensuously connected to exactly where you are, by letting "here" reach out and lead you. You will not learn that in the navigation courses, of course. But it is part of the local knowledge that all the fishermen and natives use to steer by. You know you belong to a place when you can find your way home by feel.
Yesterday I kept smelling the scent of my mother. I was driving in the car and I was overwhelmed by it, sitting in the chair, again, the scent was there. She had a certain lotion she used which mixed with her skin gave her, her very own unique smell. I kept wondering if I was starting to smell like my mother but then I would smell my hand and realize the scent was in the air. When I woke yesterday, I remembered it was her birth day, and then, last night, I remembered again. July 16, 1927. She died in February, 2005. Was she sending a message or were my memory banks opened on her birth date and does it matter. The smell is gone today.
The smell is gone and there is a new freshness. This book, Mystical Hope, is about connecting to and welcoming that source bubbling within. I learned of the book through Joan, who lives in Chicago, where I was born. Recently I met someone who was born in the same hospital as I, at the same time. I wonder sometimes how we are connected, how some of us "click," and others we pass on by. I have no answers today, though I see that as I've been typing this, the fog backed away and I can see the ridge and blue sky.
I'm sure there are deer in my yard right now. This is the time of year when the hills are turning gold, and they come closer to feed. I'll go outside and meet my friends, even as I nourish even more carefully the place within that helps me know home by feel.
I am still with the river otters I saw at Muir Woods, with their fluidity and looking up to camera pose.
While we were walking along across a field, after being bumblebees, Zach kept asking me what animal I wanted to be that is small. I named off mice, gophers, moles, and rabbits, but I could tell I wasn't giving him the answer for which he probed. I think now he wanted me to see the animal I am, the small animal, led so joyfully and carefully through this world we share. I want to be and fully know me, an animal that is small with a curiously fascinating inner and outer leash, a leash to you and Zach and all that is here, pumping forth from within.