Mary McCloskey

Chandeliers in the trees

More from the Illumination event. Chandeliers in the trees!

Illumination

We ventured out late last night to the Illumination event at the Arboretum. I'm guessing it was about 20 degrees with pretty heavy wind gusts. It was lovely, but we rushed through it just because we were so cold. A great idea, though.

November darkness, light snow

The everyday

 

 

 

What the Living Do

--by marie howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

(in remembrance of Danny, Billy and John)

Dream nest

One thing I've noticed in the last few days is how many small nests I've spotted in the trees. Once obscured by the canopy of leaves, they stand out starkly now, the mud and twigs and leaves that they're woven from in full view. I've watched two sets of gulls flying high, high overhead in the sky in the last two days, calling in that plaintive cry as they soar soutward away from the snow and the chill. 

Snow!

This seems early, but it was just a dusting, and tonight it's expected to get into the twenties. Shudder. But, thank God, little Willy seems to be adapting. A few weeks ago,  he would turn tail whenever we tried to take a walk in the rain. Today, he had no compunction trotting out into this mess, which bodes well for winter walking. Now, a bit of sun and we'll be set. Me, I'm off for an evening walk, then a hot tea.

Trying to be still

There are moments in time when it feels as if everything is in slow motion. Trying to listen to the quiet, to what it is nature seeks to reveal to me.

Lighting us through the days ahead

Each morning, this time of year, the light is different. One moment, full sun. Then, you turn your back, and the darkness creeps in. A drizzling rain sometimes can bring such peace, the quiet rhythm of the drops a kind of  blissful meditation. But too many days of darkness and I am yearning again for the light.

Moving away from brilliant fall into the season of winter, I flinch, anticipating the chill ahead. Last week, at the arboretum store, we picked up several candles--cinnamon and vanilla. We will bring the light indoors and with it the scent of late autumn. I don't know if it will be enough. But, ahead, there are holidays and family coming home and meals of warmth and comfort to sustain us--all small nuggets of the light we carry within.