A Fresh Wind

I went looking through old manuscripts and discovered that forgotten stories still had life waiting inside them.

Our trip up north was delayed today because of the Canadian wildfires. To all my dear Canadian friends, I’m praying for you. My sister asked me to pray that the smoke hanging over the lake will lift, that the cabin will lose the smell of it, and that tomorrow we can be together.

It already seems a little better.

We’ll see.

This heat is one thing.

Air so thick with smoke you can taste it is another.

Maybe that’s why I found myself longing for fresh air of another kind.

Instead of driving north, I wandered into the attic looking for the canvas bag I use to carry my books. That’s when I noticed the boxes of old manuscripts I’d been meaning to consolidate.

At first it felt ridiculous.

Was I really digging through old writing because I couldn’t think of anything new?

I’d almost convinced myself I’d failed before I’d even begun.

But then something unexpected happened.

A sentence here.

A paragraph there.

A memory I had forgotten I’d written.

Four unfinished pieces slowly became one.

Maybe this is more writerly than I realized.

Maybe I’m composting.

The gardener doesn’t mourn last year’s blossoms. They become the soil that feeds this year’s garden.

Perhaps stories work the same way.

And then the wind came…

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The wind from the north woods has made its way into my garden. It brings past summers into the present as I snip flowers for the table and lay them in a basket. I can never remember their names, but instead of scolding my memory, I tell it not to worry.

I can hear Ima Gina, “They are chosen for their colors, scents, their beauty, not their names. I gather pink like a child’s cheeks, red like the cherries at the farmer’s market yesterday, golden, as if painted by sun rays.”

I allow myself the luxury of memory and the melancholy it may stir, to keep the special places alive inside. But thoughts poke at my solitude; then I see her hands dancing across the black and white ivory keys as I listen to the piano music coming from the cottage. It sounds like her music.

An elaborate run, a full sprint across the keyboard, slows to a stop with a gentle ascension to the highest note. I imagine her with me and actually say, “Hi, Mom.”

Inside, I reach high on my tiptoes for the vase on top of the antique cupboard, abandoned from an old farmhouse.

I haven’t used the vase since I chose it the day we divided my parents’ belongings. Something about just seeing it there brings joy, like pouring maple syrup into the small pitcher that once belonged to my grandmother. Three generations live in this cottage.

The summer morning air floats in, causing ripples through the new lacy curtains Ima hung. That was after she painted the kitchen yellow. Through the window, floral scents mix with the aroma of sizzling bacon. The happiness I feel reminds me of a song I learned in church choir: He rolled the dark clouds away, so the sun could shine today... That’s what He’s done for me… I continue humming as I whip milk and eggs for French Toast. A pinch of salt. A splash of vanilla.

During breakfast, Tilda brings me her bone, dropping it on the rug beside the kitchen table where she often sits, straight up, like a statue, dodging eye contact. So I don’t think she’s begging. Oscar saunters in, offers a lazy stretch before plopping his bony body down on the cool hardwood floor.

From the window, I can tell the wind is strong by the movement of the waves. I’d heard the unsettled lament throughout the night, as if echoing my own restless thoughts.

Oscar looks up at me, and there is nothing to do but grin at him. His brown eyes, deep wells, have markings around them that give him the appearance of wearing glasses.

After breakfast, they both follow me out to the front porch, where I organize my books, paper, and pen on the table with two sturdy wooden chairs nearby. Yes, there is one for you.

The branches of the birch trees sway above the tall sea grass, a field of waving arms. I wave back.

The sun passes through clouds in the blue, blue sky. Or is it that the clouds are passing the sun? Yes, the sun, sure and steady, is shielded by clouds moving with the wind—Perichoresis—as if dancing in a sacred circle.

I am like a cloud, directed by the wind, in the morning light, moving about. No ceiling over my head. No walls to close me in.

Only space to dance around. And breathe. Wide open space, where the air moves in the glorious wind.

No regret of what is left behind, only grace, restoring life.

Before long, my eyes burn from the sun’s glare, and I hoist up the big red umbrella that endured the winter outside this year. I peek underneath before locking it in place, to check for Belfry, the bat who sometimes pays a visit. I don’t like bats, but I’ve learned to care about Belfry. Even so, when I see him hanging upside down, I jump back, shuddering. Then I apologize.

He remains, partly hidden behind one of the wooden supports. “Hi,” I mumble from outside the umbrella as he swoops down with my final yank of the umbrella cord. Then he does his little bat walk over to the pile of wood, crawling in between several logs.

Bats don’t have boundaries like seagulls, I think, and look up just in time to see a gull fly overhead. Two small fidgeting birds flap hard, trying to keep up.

“Are you learning to soar, too?”

I’m like the fidgety birds. I’ve started this new series and now feel fidgety. What if no one pays attention?

What would Ima say?

“Write for yourself. As long as you enjoy it, that’s all that matters.”

“Wait, I thought I was writing for the reader?”

“Yes, you’re paying attention. Notice the shorter sentences, the white space? Remember? “Hospitality through space,” we say. Now take time to notice. What do you see?”

The waves, as they move to shore then disappear. They are continually being reshaped, remade, becoming a part of a whole. Their individual existence so brief before they become one. A full body of water.

I carry the beauty of the water into the day with me, trying to listen more than think and become aware of the cicadas’ songs, as if the air itself is being electrified. The birch leaves are now stock-still. I stop to watch one begin to dangle, then the rest follow suit, until the branches are, once again, filled with little hands waving good day as they reflect the late morning sun.

There’s a rhythm that happens here in the cottage if I pay attention.

Morning.

Receive.

Offer.

Go.

God’s quiet faithfulness across the years and the sacred gift of beginning again.

When I stop fidgeting…

to notice.

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