Possibilities

One fall day several years ago, I was coming back from a walk in the woods when I looked up at our roof and noticed that it was covered with bits of fruit: cantelope rinds, orange peels, apple cores, the kind of stuff that one might normally find in a compost pile. At first, I imagined that a large bird had flown straight out of a Dr. Seuss book to raid our compost pile and carry things up to the roof. Then I glanced at the footprints in the mud and realized that the culprits were probably the mammals that were asleep on the floor of my living room. When questioned, the gang of boys in the house said, yes, they'd invented a new game. They were using giant slingshot to fling items from the compost pile clear over our two-story house.

"Don't worry, " one of my sons assured me. "It's all biodegradable."

The episode came back to me today, when I was cleaning the front porch. One of the pumpkins I'd bought at a farmstand, a big pumpkin that seemed perfect for a jack-o-lantern, had succumbed to the unseasonably warm weather and collapsed into a soggy mess. Without giving it much thought, I tossed the whole thing into the compost pile and dumped water on the porch to get rid of all the pumpkin juice.

Boy in Black, who was home for the weekend, came in a few minutes later.

Boy in Black: Hey, where did the pumpkin go?
Me: The soggy one?
Boy in Black: Yeah.
Me: I tossed it in the compost pile.
Boy in Black: What? You threw it out?
Me: Were you going to use it for something?
Boy in Black: Uh, not exactly.

He looked like he was about to say something, and then stopped. I could sense his frustration: what do you do with a mother who did not see the fun possibilities in a large rotting pumpkin, who would just carelessly toss it aside? He looked at me kindly, the way you'd look at a small child who simply can't grasp a complex concept, shook the hair out of his face, and continued on his way.

Blogger meet-up

The two women in this photo are naked.

Oh, okay, not really.

Yesterday, I met Second Grade Teacher for the very first time, and I had fully intended to talk her into a nude photo. But we met on the shore of Polluted Sacred Lake, where a gale force wind was churning the grey water into white caps and geese were gathering in groups to fly south. As you can see from the photo (or perhaps not, such is the nature of shadow photograph), it was a day for bulky winter clothing.

The sun was shining, despite the cold, and we walked along the pathway, talking the whole time, with the honking of geese a backdrop to our conversation. It always takes me a while to get used to the weird disconnect of meeting a blogger. We'd start telling each other bits about our lives – and we'd keep interrupting, "Oh, yeah, I think I read that on your blog."

It was fun, of course, to talk about other bloggers we've met, hear the stories behind some of our own blog posts, and talk about other blogs we've read. We re-hashed some of the latest happenings in the blogosphere like old friends talking about a novel they've both read. We connected, of course, over parenting issues, both of us acknowledging how hard it is to let our kids go as they grow up.

After the walk in the wind, we were both grateful to slip into a booth in an Indian Restaurant, where we ate a delicious meal, sharing food and talking. After lunch, we parted reluctantly, each heading back to our busy lives: she was driving to a wedding shower, and I was going home to a house full of children.

Wings

As I walked back from the labyrinth last week, I stopped to admire some asters blooming crazily along the road. I was enjoying the smell of the dead leaves underfoot, and the coolness in the air. Before returning to my group of friends, to the warmth and light, the talking and the laughter, I wanted to take a moment to say a prayer for a friend who is going through a very difficult time. I sat cross-legged on the grass, on a hill just below the purple flowers, and let my hair cover my face so I could have a few minutes alone. When I looked up again, I was surrounded by monarch butterflies, perhaps a dozen of them, flitting about on the flowers. I thought about how butterflies are seen in some native traditions as messengers between heaven and earth. I watched as the last afternoon sunlight touched their bright colours – and their wings stirred the autumn sky.

Walking through

From a distance, it looks like a big circle of mulch, with bricks that create eleven concentric circles divided into four, with a six-petal shape of a rosette in the very middle. The bricks create a path that winds around and around, turning first this way and then that, covering every bit of ground until it reaches the center. The pattern of this labyrinth came from the thirteenth century stone floor of Chartres Cathedral in France.

Sometime I find it difficult to sit still for a meditation: when I want to go inside myself, I often go outside for a walk through the woods. I need the feel of my legs striding forward and the rush of air against my face, that forward movement that makes me feel I am making some kind of progress.

That's why I love the labyrinth.

When we arrived at my friend Signing Woman's cottage last Friday, almost the first thing I did was walk down the road to the labyrinth that's built near the edge of the lake. The two friends I had driven up with, Quilt Artist and Junk Food Woman, were still unpacking, sorting out the food, and talking while they waited for the rest of our group to arrive. I dumped my bag of food on the kitchen counter and slipped away by myself. I'd been talking to my friends in the car, sorting out my feelings about something, and I'd been thinking about the labyrinth the whole way up.

No one else was around. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the bricks of the labyrinth, the green and yellow leaves, and the waves of the lake. I entered quickly and began the walk, keeping my palms turned out and my fingers together, trying to accept whatever the labyrinth had to offer.

As I walked in curves, first one way, then the next, I stepped through my own swirling thoughts, those worrying, obsessive spirals, releasing them as I moved, leaving them behind on the path. Overhead, geese went honking and flapping past. My body felt like it was moving through water, that purity of sensation. I could feel relief, overwhelming relief, and then sadness. Waves on the lake slapped against rocks. I walked through a layer of anger, a layer of hurt. As I moved, I felt safe and protected, like I was retreating into a safe place.

By the time I reached the center, I was ready to sit down on the mulch. I felt surrounded by the energy I'd created with my own motion, all that circling about, all that walking into myself. My eyes were partially closed, but I could almost see swirls of color in the air around me. I sat in the very middle of this safe place to examine my feelings, holding them carefully as if they were made of spun glass. I tried to name each feeling, whispering the words aloud. I could feel warmth seeping through my whole body: a relief, a release, a buoyancy.

My eyes were closed. I could feel the sunlight shifting, moving away, chill coming with the shadows. A lake breeze touched my hair. When I stood up, I felt relaxed and grateful. I began walking the path, winding my way out of the labyrinth. I named each of my feelings as I walked, thankful for each one. The mulch crunched under my sneakers.

When I came to the end of the path, I stepped out of the labyrinth and onto the grass. I sat for a moment in the wooden chairs at the edge to look at the bricks, the paths, the patterns. I admired the way the sunlight was glowing through the yellow leaves of the birch trees just beyond the path. Then, feeling relaxed and at peace, I began the walk about the road to rejoin my friends.

All them naked women

Readers have been complaining about the lack of nudity on my blog. "You don't even deserve to be on the internet," one blogger wrote to me. "All these nature shots and this earth mother peacefulness. Where's the sex and violence? WHERE ARE THE NUDE PHOTOS?"

She had a point. I've really let my standards slip.

But I figured I could get a nude shot during the long weekend with my friends. Our group nickname, Wild Women, came about when one of the husbands heard about us skinny dipping in the lake. Taking off our clothes for massages or sunbathing or swimming is practically a tradition. Well, at least for some of us.

So on Saturday, when the temperatures rose into the seventies, I decided to seize the opportunity. We were hiking through the woods, with a waterfall as our destination, and had stopped at the summit of the mountain to relax in the sun. Signing Woman was looking through her binoculars, Junk Food Woman was rummaging through the knapsack for a snack, and Quilt Artist was taking photos. Gorgeous Eyes, stretched out in the sun on a rock, said sleepily, "I have more clothes on than I'd like for sunbathing." I took that as a cue.

"It's time for the nude photo." I said. "I need one for my blog."

None of my friends are bloggers, and only a few have ever seen my blog. But obligingly, they began stripping off their clothes. Beautiful Hair, always the first to be naked, stood at the edge of the cliff with a walking stick in hand, striking a macho guy pose that contrasted with her full breasts and long hair. I took a wonderful photo of her, but I knew right away that it was not one she'd let me make public.

I figured the more naked bodies I could get into the shot, the better. I kept shouting directions as my naked friends cavorted about. Unfortunately, they were having too much fun joking around to pay any attention to the photographer. And admittedly, my directions were a bit confusing.

"You need to clump together somewhere so I can get you in one shot!"
"No! That looks posed."
"WHY ARE YOU ALL SITTING CLUMPED TOGETHER?"

No one understood the rule about hiding their faces. I think they thought "face" was my personal word for some other body part. "What? Doesn't this rock ledge hide my face?"

At least one woman pointed out that we were on a hiking trail used by all sorts of people, most of whom were coming to look at the foliage and might be a bit surprised to find a group of naked women just lolling about on the trail. I kept reassuring them that being naked was completely natural, and your average hiker would be just thrilled to come upon such a natural scene. I mean, Artist Friend, for instance. He hikes and backpacks with his brothers all the time, and I think he'd be just tickled to come across a whole gaggle of naked middle-aged women.

But my friends kept telling me to hurry up. So we didn't have time for any kind of artistic pose. I did manage to snap a bunch of funny shots, almost all of which were then prompted veto-ed by all who viewed them on my laptop when we got back to the cottage that night. It's amazing how picky people can be about photos of themselves. Especially when they don't have clothes on.

The next day, when we were down at the lake taking the traditional photo of us, the one that we put in a frame and have up in our kitchens or put on our desks, Junk Food Woman said, "Hey, this time we all get to wear our clothes, and jo(e) can be naked." I was fine with that. After all, none of them have blogs.

Retreat

We climbed a mountain and got naked at the summit. We waded through a stream and splashed in a waterfall. We cooked together and ate meals by candlelight and sat at night by a crackling fire. We played a ridiculous game called Washers that led to so many jokes that we were rolling about on the ground with laughter. We took a night time walk that led us through the darkest of places.

We gave each other massages and reiki. We meditated and wrote in our journals. We talked. We listened to music. We took photos. We went paddling in the canoe. We stripped off our clothes and swam in the chilly lake. We teased each other and made fun of each other and laughed at our faults and weaknesses. We saw a red-necked grebe and the scat of a large bear. We watched the sunrise together. We walked a labyrinth. We cried and laughed and hugged each other.

It's wonderful to spend four days with close friends who love each other enough to be vulnerable and honest with each other, who know how to be supportive of each other, but also give each other space. As the long weekend came to an end, we carried on the tradition of Signing Woman's family, singing a goodbye song that has as its refrain, "Be always kind and true." We always laugh as we sing the song, because it's a children's Sunday school song, but as we were driving home, Quilt Artist said to me, seriously, "You know, a retreat like that does make me want to be a better person."



My friend Beautiful Hair taking a quiet moment to drink her morning tea.

Gone wild

I leave early tomorrow morning for a four-day retreat in the mountains with a group of women friends. It's a trip we've taken every October for years, a long weekend that we jokingly call The Wild Women Weekend. We'll stay in a place owned by my friend Signing Woman's family, a camp with a big fireplace and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook Lake Named After Dead King, or Maybe One of the Beatles.

Our plans include canoeing and hiking, eating and talking. We'll find a mountaintop in the sun where we can relax and soak in the last sun of the season. We'll walk the winding roads to a nearby church that has an outdoor labyrinth at the edge of the lake. We'll have time for things like reiki and meditation and massage. We'll talk, sometimes in a big group, raucous and laughing, and sometimes in quiet pairs, for serious in-depth discussions.

Over the last year, one woman in the group has filed for divorce, one has lost her partner to cancer, one has become a grandmother. Several of us have sent children off to college. So we're likely to have some serious talks as we sit in front of the fire, but we'll have fun, too, playing music and dancing and being silly.



This photo is from last year: Reiki Woman and Beatiful Hair talking in the sun.

Suddenly

In spring time, green creeps slowly over the landscape, and by May, my eyes have adjusted to the lush green world around me. After a whole summer, I'm used to green lawns and green lilac bushes and green foliage in my woods so thick you can't see for more than ten feet.

But in early October, a maple tree that has been green for months, a tree that I drive past every day on my way to work, will suddenly turn red as the cholorophyll drains from its leaves, leaving them glowing and translucent. When I stand under a maple tree on a sunny day, I feel completely surrounded by brilliant colour.

It's spectacular because it happens so quickly, practically overnight. And it happens on such a large scale, branches and branches of leaves, whole tall trees, entire groves of trees, hillsides and mountains full of trees. Even though I've lived in this landscape my whole life, the sudden bursting colour still catches me by surprise, sort of the way I feel when I look at my youngest child, sitting quietly on the couch reading a book, and notice his long black eyelashes, his lovely clear skin, his silky hair, and think to myself again, with a sudden surge of feeling, what a beautiful child he is.

What we talk about at lunch

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I eat lunch in the snack bar on campus so that I can hang out with colleagues and students in a relaxed setting. When I sat down today at my usual table, Scientist Guy and his newest grad student, WorksWithPrimates, were talking about the drill, one of Africa's most endangered primates. WorksWithPrimates was describing some of the field work he had done with various primates. "Chimpanzees are so intelligent," he said. "It's just incredible."

Then he was telling me about how he used to work with rehabilitated chimps and mandrills that were going to be released back to the wild. I was remembering Jane Goodall's stories about how social the animals were. The grooming rituals that chimps do seem to me not much different than the grooming rituals the women in my family will do up at camp, brushing each other's hair and such as we sit in the sun.

"Well, it feels good," said WorksWithPrimates, in complete seriousness. He described how he'd just sit still while a chimp or mandrill ran fingers over his short-cropped hair. "Really, there's nothing more relaxing than having a monkey pick bugs out of your hair."

Early morning meditation

Whenever I am staying on a body of water, I get up early in the morning. I like the ocean best, for instance, when I am the only person on the shore, walking in the sand, watching the sunrise, alone except for the birds that run along the wet sand. On the river, my father will wake me for an early morning sail, where we can glide past the quiet islands, with summer cottages full of sleeping people.

Last weekend, staying at an old inn on a mountain lake, I woke early and sneaked out quietly, leaving my sleeping husband snuggled in the cozy bed. My sneakers were soon wet from the dew-covered grass as I walked along the shore, looking at the boats tied up and the overturned canoes on the dock. In a pavilion where there had been a wedding the day before, I found two empty ring boxes.

I sat quietly on the dock. The blue emptiness of early morning gave me space for meditation, for reiki, for calm and peaceful thoughts. I watched the mist puffing through the mountains, blurring the autumn colours, as I breathed in and out. The wind kept changing the patterns on the water, and the sun touched the lake with pink.