verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Saturday, October 23, 2010

But I Can Still Write About It.

My Mom and Dad

See how they are both smiling?  Well, that's not what they'll be doing when they read this. They will kill me for this.  Absolutely kill me.  I just sent them an email promising I would stay in the back seat and shut up.  And I will. But technically this is writing and not talking, and so technically I'm not breaking a promise. And as long as I don't get too specific about anything (like their h**lth) then I think they'll recover from my blog-o-blabber (as well as from their unspecified recent "things" having to do with their h**lth). 

Oh me, oh my.  Parents these days.  The things they do.  As they get, um, more mature, they also get a little more, um, shall we say certain of themselves.  [Older and stubborn are words that don't belong here, whatsoever. No siree, nope, no way. ] Recently when they both experienced not-to-be-mentioned unspecified "events" that required the attention of folks who happen to do "rounds", they became as impenetrable as the Pentagon,  expert in all matters and, after years of adversarial cut-throat NYT crossword puzzle stand-offs against each other, they were suddenly, well, like an old married couple.  On the same page. Totally on the same page. 

And if you happen to be a daughterslashblogger who is trying to stay in the back seat and remain supportively quiet from a slightly long-ish distance away, even though it looks like they have all their hands firmly on the big steering wheel, there are moments when it doesn't quite feel like it.  I mean, don't get me wrong--I'm all for risk-taking. Try to get a seat at Arnold's on a Saturday night or--I dare you-- try to wedge into that spot just outside of Mark's in P-town, or even try to sneak popcorn while Maeve is asleep.  Go ahead--go for it.   But my parents have a way of suddenly ( and I mean suddenly) going from all conservative-y about what they do, to getting all "wild" with things I wish they could approach in a softer, more measured way--especially those matters having to do with their h**lth.   

So here I sit in the back seat. I'm keeping one eye shut on this trip.  I'm trying to hide the fact my knuckles are white from gripping the door handle and I've bitten all my nails.  My right foot keeps hitting the invisible brake hard enough to drive it through the floor. I'd like a smoke and I don't smoke. Making this a bit more nerve-wracking is the fact I happen to teach "driving" for a living--the very same kind of "driving" that might (I only said might) be helpful in caring for their (fill-in-the-blank) circumstances pertaining to their h**lth.  But alas, I am still the kid (a very gray and menopausal 50-year-old kid) and I can already see that they have things under (their) control and so that pretty much leaves me one thing to do.

(Closing eyes and assuming lotus position)
Innnnh--Hey, up there! I can drive anytime you want to take a little break.  If you want.  Just sayin'.

Sunday, October 17, 2010


This is one of my most favorite places to walk.  It's just a few steps from my door and the dogs love to run there once they see where we are headed.  This is the kind of landscape that I too could tumble across--the kind that makes me want to venture beyond its horizon, tracing the curves of the landscape with my feet and vertical curiosity.  These curves roll right into each other without ownership or apology. For a year I walked here nearly every day and watched the seasons transform the land the way a painter does a canvas, one subtle layer at a time.  The effect is a masterpiece of earth and sky. Today's visit was like stepping into an old familiar hug; the path was quiet and gray, and the trees with their tattered sleeves of golds and reds and greens and browns invited quiet companionship.  I wandered close to their branches and acknowledged the friendliness of familiarity. Except for these trees, I was solo today. I listened to the wind. 

In the distance is a barn.  I like to imagine the farmer who used to whistle every morning as he rummaged around inside.  I watch my dogs as they vigorously sniff the area, imagining their own tales about what has gone on here.  The landscape offers tiny clues.  A pond.  An old orchard.  Stone walls.  Berries.  A telephone pole.  The wood pile. A path worn with tire tracks.  Broken glass.

As I walked back out of the woods towards home, I scanned the landscape again.  Soon these same trees would be bare and the field would be brown.  Or white. I have it memorized--the sight of a gray sky over a brown and white field, punctuated by the lonely, cold and gray silhouettes of the trees.  I chuckled and then shuddered to myself.  But those days aren't here yet, I said out loud to the wind.  For now, the trees offer bouquets of warmth and friendship.  The path home curves the entire way so it's often hard to see what's coming up ahead.  Between now and then is a mystery lined with gold.

Saturday, October 2, 2010


This little bunny is a blessing.  So are the other rabbits, and so are the chickens.  Hmmm.  Hello, dear creatures.

I find it to be such an oddity.  Though I am a therapist, there are days and weeks when my work feels more like roller derby than a place of reflective and deep listening.  This week was particularly difficult.  There was a pile-up of catastrophes and instinctively, I retreat from headlines and the public and private conflicts in order to stay afloat.  Solitude is my retreat, and quiet be-ing helps.

But this appears like a gentle wind, and right on time.  I took care of the bunnies today.  There is a barn full of them for me this weekend.  Last week I spent time with such sweet and lovely chickens, with their pale green eggs. But today I stepped into the barn and was greeted by silence.  It's a meditative routine; fill the feed pails with grain, fill the watering cans with water, and push the cart to each hutch.  The barn floor is solid and gentle, soft, and so, so kind. I wear barn boots but this kindness works its way up through my soles and through my soul. It kindly bears my burdens and I am grateful for it.  The grain is sweet smelling and simple.  Each bunny is curious.  In silent acknowledgement, we share communion.  I feed each one, but I am fed. How odd and how right to find it here....

Such creatures are blessings. A piece of reverence, the peace of reverence.