Seasons and Circles of Time by Sara Wright

Bright red tomatoes, fresh garlic, luscious blueberries, ripening seeds, a melon, one tincture and an ear of corn are spread over the kitchen table to mark this first celebration of the Harvest. At this fifth Turning of the seasonal Wheel, the Pueblo and Hopi Indigenous peoples celebrate the Corn Mother’s Abundance and I follow suit.  Cedar stands watch in my mother’s vase etched with spinning wheels in blue.

The Sunstar is on the wane. The days are shorter as we move towards the darker months of the year. Yet look around  – most of the wildflowers, bushes and fruit trees are seeding up and ripened berries disappear the moment they are tasty. The birds are watching and so are the bears.

With all this abundance I am struggling to bear witness to  the fact that Earth is on Fire – that whole forests are being incinerated, that animals and people are dying. Here, smoke- filled air turn once blue skies into a sickly yellow soup. I plan my days around bad air,  keeping Coalie and I inside when headaches and burning eyes strike and the worst of the smoke is entering our lungs and bloodstreams with irreversible consequences. All warnings have gone unheeded. Summers have become a threat to all; those that know, those who won’t.

How to re-dress imbalance is presently beyond my comprehension. We must surrender our lives to Earth’s wisdom which may be harsh. Consequences are the result of refusing to take appropriate action.

Refusing to get stuck in the word ‘Hope’,  I pray for courage instead, to stand what I think I know (my dreams don’t lie) and I fear what lies ahead. Some days the Dark Man wins out  Feeling my despair and refusing to give up despite probable outcomes go hand in hand. Day after day. Like Bob Dylan states “I ain’t no prophet – I just know what I know”.

And yet…There is an amazing amount of room for Gratitude living in this present moment. Coalie comes first. Beauty is fundamental to my personal survival, and I am surrounded with this greatest of gifts in the form of a healthy forest fragment, a meandering brook, fee ranging wild animals and some elder trees.  A simple log cabin I love. Loyal and true friends are rare. I give thanks for each one; they know who they are.

Awake before dawn I watch the sun rise over the trees gilded silver and gold on leaves dampened from light rain. I open the window to bring in the song of the hermit thrush. Waves of  stillness -peace flow over me like water or the river of air overhead. Coalie sleeps curled in a ball beside me her every breath a gift.

 Wild fiery red bee balm and scarlet lilies with lemony throats range throughout the hollow. hummingbirds soar and dive, competing with some of the returning  bees for sweet nectar. Butterflies have been absent since the neighbors sprayed their land with poison under strong NNE winds killing any flying or grounded insect in the process.

I step out the door to take food up for the turkeys and their young. I hope to encourage them not eat pesticide poisoned insects already dead. All the mothers have babies. I breathe in more damp air, still  poignant and sweet. Healthy air. I can thank all the trees for absorbing CO2, transpiring to create what little rain that falls.

Walking first on ground of cracked fieldstone I appreciate the quilted patten I have created stone by stone, acknowledging the artist in me. The rain has stabilized the walkway for now, but drought will undo it. I will need crushed gravel and assistance to finish the job that may not get done unless someone offers to help. Aging has forced me to acknowledge that people consistently SAY they will help but showing up is the problem. Compliments are few, complaints are legion. ‘It is what it is’ they say. I’ve learned to trust no one.

My forest is painted emerald green and rippling waters are barely singing. I just learned this week that a woman friend of many years had died. I had no idea and did not attend the funeral. Yet  her husband came to bring me the news and brought me a gift. A Hopi sandpainting which I will cherish. How ironic that I would receive a Hopi sand painting at this time. Perhaps that circle will close as the Hopi create a circle around his grief. Oh, I hope so. This is the first year in 50 years that Chris has not had a huge vegetable garden. Both husband and wife loved all plants and flowers. Birds and animals too.

During our visit Chris asked me if I would help him untangle the two passionflowers they had, which we did that same afternoon. He wanted me to take one. I ended up with the original plant, the one I had started for my friend so many years ago. Now a circle of giving and receiving had closed of its own accord. I am caring for Kathy’s  passionflower by cutting her back so that she can begin again, and the plant is responding by sending up new shoots.

On the eve of this turning of the wheel gratitude and grief flow unimpeded. I am grateful to be alive.