Ma

Yesterday I paid a visit to my personal "bodhi tree" in our neighbourhood park. I don't pretend that I'll suddenly become enlightened if I sit there often or long enough, but it's a favourite place of mine to just sit and ponder life, nature, the Universe, or nothing at all. There's a labyrinth nearby where I can watch the occasional visitor slowly walk the path to the centre and back out again. All in all, my little corner of the park is a good place to be still for a while.

Anyway, as I sat under my tree, my thoughts wandered to my late mother, who died ten years ago on a blue moon. I often think about her when I'm surrounded by green and growing things, because she was an avid gardener. The front deck at the family cottage was always festooned with a riot of colourful, trailing petunias. Since the bright colours attracted hummingbirds, Ma kept a feeder of sugar-water out for them, just feet away from where we sat. Whenever I see a hummingbird now, I'm always reminded of my mother.

So there I was, wistfully thinking of my mother, when, for no apparent reason, I turned my head to look behind me, and saw a ruby-throated hummingbird hovering in and amongst a bunch of black-eyed Susans. I saw it only moments before it darted away, no doubt seeking better nectar. It's the first time ever that I've seen a hummingbird in the park, but not the first time Ma has "appeared" to me when I've been thinking about her. I don't know for certain why I looked behind me at that moment, but I've a pretty good idea. Suffice it to say, I'm glad I did. Thanks, Ma.

- G.P.

Tree of Heaven

There is a tree of heaven in our neighbours' back yard that dominates the view of the western horizon from our back garden. It is magnificent, and makes a striking silhouette against the indigo evening sky. This past weekend my part of the world had one of the most spectacular, destructive thunderstorms in years, and our beautiful tree was a victim of its force. It was struck by lightning and split in half. So now one of the loveliest features of our view will have to be taken down for obvious safety reasons. My housemate witnessed the lightning strike. The sound of the lightning cracking open the tree was as terrifying as it was deafening. A fire started, but was quickly extinguished by the torrential downpour.
My sister, who happens to be a church minister (yes, it's true! it takes all kinds of people to make up even a small family unit!), was the person who identified the tree for me one day last month as we sat on the back patio. The irony of learning the name of the tree from a person of religious persuasion amused me very much. And then fire from heaven paid a violent visit to my beloved tree from heaven. More irony, to be sure. It was also my multi-talented minister sister and former professional gardener who pointed out to me that a lovely birch on the property immediately behind the tree of heaven was, as she put it, "on its way out." The birch is my favourite tree, and was referred to as "the lady of the woods" by the ancient Celts. Last week, as I was working at my computer, I heard the sound of a chainsaw very nearby, but thought nothing of it until yesterday when I was gazing dolefully upon the shattered tree of heaven, and realized the birch that used to stand behind it was gone. Aye me.
I've now learned that the tree of heaven was introduced to North America from China, and is considered by some to be rather invasive, wreaking havoc in urban settings with its damage to sidewalks and building foundations. The location of our tree rendered it relatively harmless, until lightning struck. All I saw was its beauty, and how it was so tall that it truly did seem to reach up to heaven. It is the same tough, enduring tree that author Betty Smith writes about in her classic coming-of-age novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
I promised myself that when I started up this little web of mine, all the yarns I weave into it would be upbeat and optimistic. Well, I can't find much to be happy about in this little story of mine, but I want to commemorate a grand and gracious tree which has given me many heavenly moments of pleasure in the first happy months in my new home. Good bye, dear tree. I shall miss you.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Summer Sounds

The thrumming buzz of the cicada heralds the arrival of high summer for me - that time of year associated with lazy, hazy days spent sitting on a deck and sipping a beer. Well, it's early August, and goddess knows I've spent many happy hours with friends on the patio drinking all sorts of inebriants, but they have not been accompanied by cicada song. In my part of the world the summer has been wet and cool - not so much that I haven't been able to enjoy the aforementioned pleasures, but enough to retard the parade of summer blossoms. Everything is late this year, including the sweet sounds of the cicadas.
I always make note of the "firsts" of each season: the first robin in spring, the first butterfly, the first dreaded, albeit beautiful, red-gold leaf (I guess you can tell what seasons I prefer), and of course, the first buzz of the cicadas, signifying the dog-days of summer. I usually hear the cicadas by the end of June or early July. After seventeen years underground, the nymph cicadas rise up out of the earth, then climb trees to finally emerge from their membranes as fully formed adults. I was beginning to despair that this year's generation of cicadas wouldn't complete their life cycle. What would happen if it was just too cold and damp for the cicadas to rise and shine? This is a question of biology I'm not equipped to answer. Fortunately, I needn't have worried.
Yesterday, which happened to be a warm and glorious summer day, I went for a picnic in the park with my good friend, Doe. I had just finished voicing my concerns to her about the delayed song of the cicadas, when lo and behold, the joyous buzz of summer landed on our ears! We looked at each other and laughed with glee. It was like hearing an old, familiar song. We revelled in the perfect synchronicity of the moment. How could the day go wrong after that? And it didn't. It was the perfect beginning to a perfect day.
Seventeen isn't just a very good year for old-fashioned crooners, it's a good one for cicadas, too. They crawl out of the dark earth into the light of day, and all those soft summer nights, serenading us with song that's a reminder to celebrate summer, and life itself. Blessed be.
- G. P.