Observables #55
on summer bonding, gracious nature and my favourite hat
Elsie telling me to hurry and catch up. I’m full of excuses. This bathing suit has sleeves! I’m afraid of the cold! But then I stop my thinking and dive into the waves. I have surprised her with my spontaneity. Three dolphin dives is what it takes to acclimatize. Everyone knows that. When we are satiated from swimming we sit on the beach with our lunch: a bag of popcorn. Later we might eat ramen or baby tomatoes. We are bonding.
On the beach she reads Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo. I finish Disorientation by Ian Williams for an upcoming interview. We have forgotten our sunscreen so we don’t have long. Tomorrow there will be too much algae. Instead of my usual hyperventilation over perceived crises, I am not seeing these events as problems at all. Just moments in our weekend narrative. When we go out to eat at a nice restaurant, she says her expensive pasta is vaguely reminiscent of “Annie’s” noodles. Good. More moments.
The empty osprey’s nest. I panic. They were here when we drove in—the nest bursting with activity. Now it’s all quiet. Did they leave without telling me, without even leaving a note? I remind myself that I know this feeling from this time last year. I walk through the logic of migration. Life cycles. But still I can’t get away from the sorrow of endings. End of summer, end of heat, end of childhood, end of health, end of osprey.
I decide I must walk until I meet another animal. I have a time limit because the car needs to be packed. I decide that neither the turkey vulture that swoops above me nor the mourning dove on the wire counts. Too common. I need something more. I am demanding that nature come to meet me. A deer or a bunny, please. A muskrat would also be acceptable.
And then all at once what looks like an osprey is back circling my head as if to say: “So much drama, Rebecca. I was here all along while you were sobbing.” And then a black and white butterfly is suddenly there in my vicinity too. And and my heart gets wide wide. I’m like, “Nature, settle down, I can’t take you AND the osprey in at the same time. Also, I ordered a bunny.” But nature says, “Too bad, I sent you a butterfly and possibly an osprey who will be leaving on their own time. Thank you very much. But be assured that I see you.”
At that point I think I laugh. Or I weep. (Aren’t they the same?) Nature showed up for me. And I daresay she always will. Thank you chorus of turkey vultures. Thank you oak tree. Thank you prickly grass. Thank you purple wild flower. Thank you unusal butterfly. Thank you milk weed. Thank you osprey. Thank you thank you thank you.
This hat.
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In other news…this week on the podcast we finished our summer series, ending with an episode on personal growth. Next week we feature a conversation with Chef Sang as we reframe trauma.
What a gorgeous read. Needed this.
The idea of "gracious nature" in all its potential to heal and inspire us is startling--especially when many parts of it are wild and even scary. Your reminiscences remind me of Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek--a moving treatise on learning to even "see" nature.