Round and Round: The Circle Game by Sara Wright

 It’s raining again. In five days, the moon will be full as s/he turns her pearl -like face towards September while her rabbit prepares his treachery, and oh I am so ready to leave this season behind. This is the first year where we have viscerally experienced the reality of what a Changing Climate really means to people in Maine. A summer of floods, months of rain, gray clouds, massive humidity, the worst bugs I ever remember, and poor air quality may force even the most skeptical to pause. Extremes. Of course, what has happened here is nothing like what is going on elsewhere. Tornados, fires, drought, and intense heat have ripped through the rest of the continent tearing both human and non-human lives to shreds. Most of the earth is on fire. I would like to think that we are finally learning that our country is not immune to the unpredictability that comes with climate warming. “You are hopelessly naïve” a Voice states sternly. I bow my head. We are living the Unknown and most are denying it.

Normally I spend summers in other forests, some a good distance away, but this year too many deluges, mosquitos, and soaked feet have kept me close to the land that mercifully supports me. Appreciating the place that once called to me like a mother is a gift, and I have been mindful of how fortunate I am to have a small cabin to call home. Many do not. Climate refugees are multiplying.

 This week three days of sun offered relief, poignant, reminiscent of ‘old fashioned’ summers when the sun was a shimmering gold leaf spread upon the waters and August was free of bugs. Cool dry nights were the norm. Brisk northwest winds kept the air fresh and sweet.

One of those precious sun-swept days I spent here, not wanting to leave home with windows wide open and the intoxicating scent of wild phlox wafting through the house while hummingbirds feasted on spikes of blooming bee balm whose newest wine and crimson flowers sprang to life overnight. Both my old dogs joyfully rolled around on mossy green earth, pointed sharpened noses to fragrant air.

 Sitting outdoors is not something I usually do but this year I too found myself sitting, soaking in the golden slant of a late summer’s sun. Watching bees. Listening to the hum. Cicadas and crickets vying for attention. Chickadees flitting back and forth to the feeder, a woodpecker too. Breathing deep, peering into the frog pond where two green frogs were rejoicing, warming cold bodies on star warmed stone. My old – fashioned hydrangea was pointing her pearly spires to the sky, flowers not quite open. Ah, I spy a red admiral, and then the first painted lady I have seen this year. Butterflies are a gift from the powers of air. Inside, Lily b, my dove, leaves his bathroom bower and flies through the house sunning himself in the southern window where the reclining sun star shines in. The passionflower in the window is celebrating with deep green spirals reaching to the sky.

That night I saw stars.  

The second day took me into one of my favorite forests. Armed with hat and bug net I peered into the green hunting for wild fruits, finding few but at least the partridgeberry had been pollinated by bumblebees, producing hard green berries. Heart shaped hobblebush leaves were starting to turn – burnished green tipped leaves and a cluster of pale bittersweet fruits – Autumn is on the way S/he said. Someday.

Hemlock Hollow always insists I pause between what was, what is.  What ‘will be’ is a secret the trees hold close. Humans can’t be trusted, and that includes me. Denied entry, I am resigned to our fate and moved on.  Everything Changes… “She changes everything She touches…” the chant is heartrending reminiscent of a time now past.

Oh, the mushrooms were astonishing, lemon yellow, rose pink, sunset orange on a sea of green moss. One a tough trumpet, easily mistaken for a chanterelle. I missed the bird song. Last time I was here a hermit thrush trilled through the trees… I stared into the rippling river noting the tell-tale tea – tinted tinge – strip logging has muddied these once clear waters. For a moment, unbearable grief; then the old familiar refrain “Everything Changes”. I have learned my song well.

By nightfall the clouds were back as the relentless humidity spiked and I closed the day along with the windows; more rain was on the way.