It's Not Just You

This morning when I rise and take Bonnie out for her morning constitutional, I notice the dark lingers longer around the edges of the horizon. The days are already growing shorter and summer has only just begun taking root in my heart.

In the early afternoon, I sleep beside my garden. This morning, I spotted a demure doe and her two fawns tasting my tomato plants, so I am keeping guard. I pull the old hammock over by the raised beds, in the dappled sun, and I let it hold me like the warm hug of a womb. The sun sifting through trees makes patterns of light across my legs. A yellow swallowtail butterfly flutters haphazardly by, almost lands on the rim of the cloth holding me but doesn’t quite. I close my eyes and hear a cardinal chipping in a nearby tree, the hum of a bee’s wings as he dips into the bean blossoms, the sound of wind shushing through leaves. Filtered sun warms my eyelids and I feel what it must be like to be planted in warm soil. I slip easily into a doze this way—dream a spotted fawn nibbling my toe.

To listen to this post:

As I doze, the worries come unbidden. Both my sons, far enough away to be just out of reach of a mama’s arms. They are doing fine and I am proud of them, but I miss the days when I knew every intimate detail of their lives. The youngest came home to visit this past weekend, and though we had a sweet time with him and his girl, when they left it felt like a new bruise on my heart. And as if a door has been opened to welcome in worry, my thoughts spiral on from there. The national news fills my heart with dread—more war talk and cuts to much-needed programs and even more corruption from our highest offices. A friend recently said to me, “It’s not just you. The world is crazy right now.” I’ve been following election results, hoping for change, and this week there is a community meeting about a data center being built nearby. On a more personal note, there are my husband’s continued back problems, our outrageous health insurance premiums, and my job that just isn’t where I thought it would be at this point in my life. A dear friend is grieving a child’s divorce, and another is grieving the loss of a child. My stepmom has been teetering on death’s door for weeks now and I struggle with how best to be present in that situation. A million other storms pass through my mind in an instant and I gulp down air to stop the onslaught. I close my eyes again and listen. I can hear the honeybees feasting on the squash blossoms. A Carolina wren is complaining loudly not far away. And there is the unmistakable thrum of a hummingbird’s wings as he does a bold flyover. I take a deep breath and turn the worries into prayers, but I can feel my heart continue its acceleration. The damage is done.

Cradled in the light of the daystar, my mind wanders to something Anthony said recently. So I do what he recommended to do when that restless feeling rolls over the soul. I go for walk. I take our girl, Bonnie—our little Boston Terrier—out and down the neighborhood streets. As we walk, I notice some white fuzzy seeds blowing in the breeze. I don’t think it’s milkweed, too early for that, but something about the slow drift of that white fluff stirs a memory. When we were kids, a milkweed pod was a thing of endless fascination. Suddenly, the years fall away and my eyes are young again.

Those white, fluffy bits of fuzz hover everywhere in our midst—silky wisps swirling and bobbing above our heads. I walk into them in wonder, as if walking into a fairieland. Bonnie tries to catch them, taking great bounding leaps and biting at the air. But the more she chases, the more she disturbs the invisible current of air underneath and the higher the seed clusters lift into the sky.

Have you ever had the chance to look inside a milkweed pod?

Not only in flight, but also at rest, the milkweed is a thing of wonder. The way the seeds are lined up in neat rows when they are within the pod—like the feathers of a bird—reminds me of the beauty and order that can sometimes be found in nature. Who would choose to leave such a cozy nest? Everything fits so perfectly together. So much comfort in the neat, orderliness of it all.

The milkweed is in the genus Asclepias, named after the Greek god of healing. It was named thus because of the many folk remedies it has been used for. The milky white sap used to be applied topically to remove warts, and the roots were chewed to cure dysentery. Infusions of the roots and leaves were taken to suppress coughs and used to treat typhus fever and asthma. It seems like milkweed has been used for the healing of a lot of physical ailments.

But as I watch the seeds drift higher and higher, I feel a different kind of healing—a lightening of my whole self. As I watch a seed blow up and away, I hear a whisper in my heart, this is the way of the seed, Laura. Surrender.

Oh, how I want to learn from this tiny, floating seed. How to be so light? How to be lifted by the wind and soar? It’s not in my nature to let myself be carried away like this. I much prefer the orderly comfort of the pod. But when the wind breaks the thin thread that holds the seed and carries it soundlessly heavenward, the beauty of this sudden abandonment of gravity creates a tightness in my throat and I know this is the way it is supposed to be. Trusting that each season of growth will carry me to a place that plants something new.

All these thoughts rush through my mind as I stand in the middle of a street in our neighborhood watching Bonnie chase the fluffy white seeds. I try to catch one too, but no matter how gentle my reach is, the wind is stirred and the seeds only float out of my reach. So, I stand very still and open my palm. Miraculously, one of those flying seeds drifts right out of the sky and lights on my open hand. I look at it. Closely. I see a tiny brown seed nearly buried by a crown of silky hairs. I can see how the silky threads act as miniature parachutes when the wind catches them up in her midst. These soft halos allow the wind to carry the seed as far or as close as it will. That seed is created to lift into the sky—perfectly designed so that an Invisible Breath can take it anywhere.

When I let my captive seed go, I stand, earth-bound, and watch it drift away.