Traveling the twilight hours

A little housekeeping & chat

~ A little chat and some housekeeping ~

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I never thought that a trip down the driveway to the mailbox would feel like an extended expedition, or that my third fresh apple of the day would taste like heaven, just as delicious as the first. But here we are.

Autumn changes so quickly. One day the leaves are burnished gold and glowing, and the next the first frost has singed the outlines of the landscape. The trees are bare. I feel that more deeply this year as one day I was simply in my third trimester of pregnancy and the next I was 36 (now 37) weeks pregnant and the midwife is preparing me for baby’s arrival at potentially any moment.

I’ve been more aware than ever of the changing seasons, from the beginning of my pregnancy in the dark waning days of winter, just before spring. There was joy, but there were also strong moments of fear and uncertainty in those early dark days.

Then spring came, the snowdrops blossomed, the birds began their singing, the buds broke on the trees and I first felt a little hope growing within those uncertainties. My body shifted subtly and gently, letting me know change was coming.

Early summer arrived and I felt a burst of energy along with the blooming flowers and buzzing hummingbirds. I spent hours in the garden sowing new seeds and dreaming new dreams. The life growing within me felt destined and right and beyond my own planning. There was peace in those long days of sunshine.

Then late summer came and things changed. The heat of the season kept me up all night. I went three days straight without sleeping, thinking I may have to go to the emergency room in the hopes that someone could make me sleep. I was suddenly aware of the abundance of blood pumping through my body. I could hear it when I laid down, feel my heart working harder. For the first time, I questioned if I could do this for another four months. Still, I cherished the moments when I could be present with the sparkles of sunlight on the lakes, the bursting of good medicine from their banks in the form of blue vervain and nettle. Everything was loud inside and all around.

But fall was there to offer some relief. The nights cooled and I slept, not great, but I slept at least a few hours each night. My body and mind adjusted to the new rhythms of this phase of growth. The peace returned and I sank into my favorite season as the leaves became the flamboyant palette of a painter. My belly continued to grow but I felt strong enough to carry it again.

Now, in the middle of autumn as we grow closer to the thin days ahead of us, I find myself spending more and more time in the sunroom. Not quite in the house, not quite out of it. I can see the outside world from every wall, but I’m also close to the bathroom and kitchen, two of my most visited rooms lately.

sunroom living

I hike with Odin in the mornings, still soaking in the seasonal changes each day, but then I retreat to this liminal space. As much as I would love to be deep in the woods these days, this little space has become a refuge of sorts for this pregnant version of myself.

The growth has waned, everything is shedding, leaving just the ruby red berries of wintergreen, rose hips, winterberry. They are ripe and round. I see myself in them. These small gems left as proof that the summer had indeed been here and done its job.

It feels like I’ve entered the twilight hours. It is that time before dawn when the world is at its darkest, when all is quiet and calm. Dusk has come and gone, the witching hour has passed, and now we wait. It is slow and full of anticipation.

My days have trickled to a crawl, I feel more creative, more introspective. Just as my life is about to change forever, everything remains content, exactly where it should be. Even as uncomfortable as it can be, it’s hard not to romanticize this fullness, this heaviness that continues to expand in all directions physically, mentally, emotionally. After all, I haven’t witnessed my body develop since puberty half a lifetime ago. This time around, I can appreciate all of the aches and pains and unknowns a little more.

I honor this body for what it is trying to do, even if it doesn’t always manifest in a way that is beautiful or enjoyable. It is that intention that comforts me. Our bodies are always attempting to bring us back into equilibrium. For that, I find myself leaning into the discomfort. It is that edge, that friction, that tension where all things are created after all.

Another aurora show, this time at the end of the pregnancy.

Some mantras, musings and ideas that have guided me through these changing seasons and twilight hours:

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You must learn to proceed without certainty.

~ Michael Lipsey

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What if it all goes right?

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It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river cannot go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

~ Fear, by Khalil Gibran

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It’s dark because you’re trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

~ Island, by Aldous Huxley

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The industrialist was horrified to find the fisherman lying beside his boat, smoking a pipe.

“Why aren’t you fishing?” asked the industrialist.

“Because I’ve caught enough fish for the day.”

“Why don’t you catch some more?”

“What would I do with them?”

“Earn more money. Then you could have a motor fixed to your boat and go into deeper waters and catch more fish. That would bring you money to buy nylon nets, so more fish, more money. Soon you would have enough to buy two boats, even a fleet of boats, then you could be rich like me.”

“What would I do then?”

“Then you could sit back and enjoy life.”

“What do you think I’m doing now?”

~ Timeless Simplicity, by John Lane

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Your ancestors outnumber your fears

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Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for the spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature - the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.

~ Rachel Carson

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“My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer,” the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless sky.

“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself.”

~ The Alchemist, by Paolo Coelho

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To make bread or love, to dig in the earth, to feed an animal or cook for a stranger - these activities require no extensive commentary, no lucid theology. All they require is someone willing to bend, reach, chop, stir. Most of these tasks are so full of pleasure that there is no need to complicate things by calling them holy. And yet these are the same activities that change lives, sometimes all at once and sometimes more slowly, the way dripping water changes stone. In a world where faith is often construed as a way of thinking, bodily practice remind the willing that faith is a way of life.

~ Barbara Brown Taylor

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Avoidance is just prolonged suffering disguised as safety.

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The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost
out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves,
an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo,
with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck
to move things forward,
who do what has to be done,
again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bag along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

~ To be of use, by Marge Piercy

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Much love,

Val

P.S. Feel free to share, it’s always appreciated!

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