Communing with Calm

This afternoon, at last, I went down to the creek behind the house. I’ve been putting it off until the weeds die back, so I can clear a path, but today, somehow, sitting on a picnic blanket in the shade of the deck just didn’t cut it. I wanted to be down in the woods, in the midst of the wild trees. So I tromped the short distance down to the creek in my dress slacks and platform slides (great gear, Kate), and there I stood on the bank above the creek, surrounded by trees swaying from tip to root in this crazy wind that blows through Missouri, trying to cool down the Earth to a proper temperature for late October. I remembered Alex yesterday, sitting on the deck eating his macaroni and cheese and pointing with his fork. “The trees are dancing,” he said. (Did I teach him that?)

My moments of communing with nature are few and far between, and all too short lived these days. I used to drive out to Rock Bridge, or the Stargazer, and take a walk to the edge of a cliff and perch there staring into open space, for an hour or more. I always knew when it was time to go—it happens without my being aware of it; suddenly I find myself on my feet saying goodbye to the view. That moment comes when the “hurry, hurry, hurry!” in my heart relaxes and goes to sleep.

I don’t get to that point very often anymore. Most of my communing times are stolen outside our house, within the noise radius of I-70 (I don’t bother going outside when the wind is in the south). And inevitably I hear, “Mommy!” from the window upstairs, or a long, A-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaah” over the monitor, long before I get to the point of calm.

But there are Julianna’s smiles to compensate me, and the occasional giggle, and Alex’s snapping chocolate eyes and impulsive hugs. They don’t take away the need…but they do ease it.