Tween
“Sacred spaces are in-between.” -The Intercession of Spirits, Ted Andrews (2008)
On the 13th of March, our dog repeatedly charges the North fence, barking hard at something invisible in the woods. Deer people, “game animals”, own this territory but there’s no white flags. Sporadic clatter might be squirrel mischief. Suddenly, the stubby wings of a Black Vulture glide above budding tree antennae at the far margins and I faintly see a posse of scavengers maneuvering for perches. They glide easy but land clumsy. Turkey Vultures join along, their eyes grotesquely cosmetized with white pinkish warts. Cleaning up the putrid is their divine assignment. There’s no smelly carcass nor scavengers on the ground though. Is emotional despondency in this southern region of America some sort of energetic hors d'oeuvre? A fury of federal hurtfulness advertises satisfaction at its grandiose (judgment) buffets but on closer inspection only offers an overheated pan of greasy ribs heaped high for swine “fat suckers”, as the First People once described white Colonists. That diet makes you fart.
A pair of Red-Shouldered Hawks squawk while encircling its predation range as I sow Swiss Chard seeds in the garden. There’s dubious raptor nutrition available on my 70 year old chassis. Their peals, however, emphasize that drastic times require drastic measures. Opportunistic hunters are color blind to tranquility. I have friends that vigilantly defend tranquility by deeply honoring all wildlife including their flock of chickens (with nicknames). Yet, during my visits a Red-Tailed Hawk seems to materialize in order to boldly affirm terrorizing plump egg layers. Horus apparently has hazy access to various places but it’s hard to prove that I somehow bait him; even though my parents once owned idyllic acreage in a geography that local folks called, “Hawk’s Hollow”. You can’t make this stuff up.
My sister and I fearlessly climbed young Maple trees along a certain sandy Hollow ridge. We relished the approach of gusty weather fronts as opportunities to swing back and forth, virtually flying and sailing free courtesy of their amazingly supple branches. We loved tree sailing and our justifiably nervous Mother had no clue about our need to climb dangerously high in order to practice such rare worship. The acquired discipline of always having one hand on alternate branches, left one high and alternate right lower in case of sneaker slips or branch break, minimized the potential for reckless consequences. Near falls and bruised shins kept us sober.
Certain vivid memories remain timelessly precious. My younger sister is more conservative and warns me over and over again about being too fearless or foolhardy. The exhilaration is wonderfully restorative, though, in a household where everyone tiptoes around Dad’s unpredictably explosive anger. Sensitive kids can attain uncertified expertise in spiritual succor. My pathetically scrawny physique paradoxically empowers a form of innocent defiance in a world where our father’s rage is clearly disproportionate to any form of inattention or childish disobedience we display. Luckily, he snaps out of it when Mom’s pleas to his given name belated morph into anonymous contrition. Better late than never, he apologizes for the intensity but evades the genesis. I fully recognize the excesses of corporal punishment and what unapologetically poses as “tough love.” Yelling “Godamit”, however, is a pitiful mutation of holy prayer. When one feels helpless to express frustration best, the default is immensely worse. Immense impatience lamely glorifies itself.
How many followers of tRump normalize cruelty as a Darwinian solution for authority vacuums? Prayer in despair isn’t equivalent to idolizing misery. Grandmothers know far better.
In the wee hours between night and dawn, I sit in shorts and an insulated sweatshirt to gaze at the Moon eclipse. Two Great Horned Owls take turns chanting, one soprano, the other bass. Surreal timing from northeastern thicket, their vocal cadence accentuates synchronicity despite the brutish assertions of immoral zombies roaming the political landscape. I watch and pray aloud barefoot. It feels uniquely "between" and about darkness and sunlight, Mother Earth and Luna-see. I gaze from an Adirondack chair at the expanse to the moon getting gobbled up by earth's presence, a globe in between Sun and cratered Satellite. Between signals a prescient sacred space deserving calm contemplation so I deliberately imagine what we must remember and reclaim despite the counterfeit power of unapologetic arrogance. Neither does cussing rogue power vandals help to ameliorate their empty hearts.
“You can’t unring the bell”, my nonagenarian Dad says now. With decades between his frailty and my own, the historical threat of brutish behavior is like the smoldering embers of a Sweat Lodge fire. Purification is an evolution that paradoxically embraces what can’t be resolved by immigrant banishment. There but for the Grace of God go I.