noticing what i'm noticing

what language is in the threshold

sign of shifts in seasons—rose hips as cooler weather and autumn approaches. photo by anne richardson

dear sojourner,

i wake in the dark hours. my window is open and cool wraps the room. i burrow under the petal-like covers of summer. soon i’ll pull out the heavy weights—ones that are like drawing Earth herself up to my chin. there is an intimacy in the quiet (never silent) neighborhood in the tiny hours. i eavesdrop on the murmuring conversations that make a home in the night. in the distance a train calls out to a future destination. overhead a plane’s engines imitate Thunder. it is a poor imitation. no tingling follows as unseen contrails dissipate above. there will be no Lightening brightening Hills, scattering Bunnies, their white tails alert fleeing for cover. no Storm tonight, though the engine sound lasts longer than i anticipate, spreading out until it finally thins to hum. to none.

a car speeds up the road. then another. then nothing—until Coyotes begin a round of yipping that i’m sure makes Bunnies actually scatter for cover. as i fall back into my dreams, Oak leaves rustle a few feet from my window. late summer Breeze? Squirrel crawling back into their nest? the voice of an ancestor talking to the Land?

as the equinox approaches my body is shifting. i am dropping into a familiar place of comfort. while summer leaves me feeling evaporated, autumn’s harvest and decay nurtures me. allows me to curl into a book with a cup of herbal tea as the evenings draw in, the words adventuring my curiosity. my journal a meandering path for my own words and reflections. even on warmer-to-hot days, and we still have a fair amount of those, they are gone after a brief burst of comeuppance to autumn’s arrival rivalry.

autumn always arrives in the pacific nw. always brings relief to our worsening wildfire seasons and droughts. sometimes the relief comes early—or late. sometimes it comes as plenty—or scarcity. but it always arrives and my own relief with it.

for my birthday the first week of this month i treated myself to an overnight at the Coast. to the place that sings to my soul. the Coast reminds me the language of Sand is one of constant movement, while the 15 million year old Monoliths that call this stretch of Coast home, speak in the tongue of rooted-abiding. between the two extremes are Cormorants, Western Gulls, Brown Pelicans, Crows, Sea Stars, Mussels, Lion’s Mane Jellyfish, Kelp, Crabs, Eagles, and more Beings that bring their own language of movement to the threshold space of a shoreline. some live here year round. for others it is part of their migratory pattern. some wash up on the shore with tidal flows or as storm debris. they all have a story. we humans try to decipher the language of these older-than-us Beings, but we are poor interpreters. science speaks in one tongue and has its uses. yet we forget their are many ways to communicate beyond our basic senses. will we be open to learning what they might be?

Ocean has a language—many languages. stand still and listen to the conversations between Rock, Sand, Shell, Bird as Waves chatter, pausing for response. call and response. call and response. call and response. what do you notice? are you being asked to join in?

Sand in constant motion. Monolith in rooted-abiding. photos by anne richardson

and the dialog between Ocean and Moon…an ancient love story.

for me this is a place i am drawn to for refuge, but not yet to live. maybe sometime in the future. or not. do you have a place or places that call to you? that feel so strongly aligned with your soul you sigh-weep when you return? i have a few and feel blessed to live a short drive away from this one. oh do tell me of your places.

in my absence from posting, i have been reading excellent Substacks (note to self: need to update my “recommends”) and books. listening to some new and favorite podcasts. ha! “in my absence “…each week i am brimming with ideas, jotting notes in my journal, and then allow diversions. dang me.

when i started this stack a year ago (september 13th, 2023 was my first post, wisdom in a tiny seed,) my intention was to jot down my pondering and wandering thoughts, perhaps reflect on Grief and Loss (though i was doing that on another traditional blog since 2016,) maybe offer a few poems and see what unfolded. i invited folks on my other blog who were curious to pop over to Substack but did not want to be pushy (i intended to keep blogging on Grief and Loss on that site but it proved too difficult to keep up with both, so just do a quarterly newsletter there.) i posted on social media (FB and IG) when i posted on Substack. other than that i haven’t promoted following dandelion seeds, so i’m all smiley that i just passed the hundred subscriber mark (and even more followers.) thank you everyone!

my gratitude for you is over the Moon. photo by anne richardson

i know i am not consistent. and i won’t promise that i will be in the future, but perhaps shorter posts would be the way to go. will see, because even as i write this post so much is bubbling up. just a few ideas:

• i really want to reflect on a podcast that has stirred up a lot of internal shame about my weight and body image journey (Weight For It).

• my former spouse and i have been sorting through photos from “way back when” and the stories we attach to memories over time and how they shift. also reading a book on how we make memories, A Sense of Self. Memory, The Brain, and Who We Are, by Veronica O’Keane. been going down the memory rabbit hole!

• read a great Marginalian sunday, The Great Blue Heron, Signs vs. Omens, and Our Search for Meaning, by Maria Popova that has me desiring to delve deeper into my last post on meaning. and if you are unfamiliar with Maria Popova, check out her newsletter at the Marginalian. Here’s a quote from that newsletter that has me pondering and, perhaps, will encourage you to head over:

Whenever we think in absolutes, we ossify. Our freedom always lies in our flexibility, and because concepts like meaning and identity are not fixed, because, as [Jerod] Anderson observes, they “require our intentional participation,” they are “mercifully flexible.”

• i’ve been spending time sitting in the quiet pondering the next season of my life (re: that birthday i just had) and all sorts of “stuff” is wanting a voice at the imaginary table. just how will my deep call to dwell in the threshold spaces and to be with Grief and Loss unfold moving forward? how do you discern shifts in your life? how do i/you keep for “ossifying?”

these all need their own space and i hope as i ponder in future posts you will find they spark interest for you to ponder how they relate to your life (or not.)

as this Substack continues to evolve, consider it an invitation to you and to myself to keep noticing. and pondering. to (and forgive me Mary Oliver for messing with your poem, When Death Comes) be “a bride to married to curiosity.”

currently following dandelion seeds is a free subscription. i don’t have plans to put up a paywall. not quite sure what would be behind there. i do notice some folks use “buy me a coffee.” or optional “pay if you want to support my writing but you still receive everything.” i’m toying with one or both of those options. i have a history of undervaluing myself. i know, silly, but i spin all sorts of stories in my head. need to change some of my own narratives!

what about you? what are some of your favorite Substacks and why? what do you find valuable when you have so many in your inbox you have to chose what to read, skim, and delete? what drew you to this space?

the pool has been closed for two weeks of annual maintenance. instead of my morning water meditation, i pull on my trekking shoes, don my reflective vest, cup my flashlight in my hand, and head out for a walk. in the darkness paths that are familiar in the light disappear and i am confused. i veer toward streets that feel less foreboding. even after ten months in this new neighborhood, my feet do not yet have the assurance of “the familiar” of my old neighborhood. still, i am leaning into these new ways of being. so many different routes i can choose.

as dark became day one morning, the still unhorizoned Sun painted the clouds a deep purple only to erase purple and opt for 60’s vibe of oranges and yellows as soon his tangerine Self had risen above the horizon, primping in every window and plexiglass barrier as if to say “am i not hot.”

bus stop reflecting rising Sun. photo by anne richardson

another morning the call of a Great Horned Owl overlapped with Song Sparrow. Owl, out after-hours, perhaps wanting to witness the dawning of day before tucking in for their rest. or another morning, when, still dark, a flash of wing erupted from a limb. though a blur in the dark, the span and power said “Owl.” Owl…perhaps the reason Mouse was so quick to dart into the bushes and escape the beam of my flashlight.

when i walk, i listen with a whole body to witness days’ opening. listen with my heart. when i swim, i also listen with a whole body as i move through Water, my eye on the over-large windows, catching the season as it unfolds reflected in the shifting light. my day may come with joy. with loss. with boredom. with creativity. with busyness. with connections to those i hold dear. with stumbles and hurts…some caused by me. an assemblage that doesn’t need assembling.

time is many things. a day as i live it, is a linear unfolding and yet within that, as those ancient Coastal Monoliths tell me, it is more. expanding. contracting. spiraling. abiding. thresholding.

threshold times. morning walk. lap swim-meditation. night wakings. evening time with a journal. dancing alone in the dark (yes, i do that.) my birthday reflection time reminded me how important it is to slow down and notice. and so i ask myself daily, “what am i noticing?” and as i close i ask you, ”what are you noticing as the seasons shift?”

in deepest gratitude,

anne

ps-noticing: a few photos of my north oregon coast time and other recent outings

Lion’s Mane Jellyfish. when i asked a volunteer, they shared it was rare to see one this intact on the beach! photo by anne richardson

isn’t there a famous proverb about building homes on sand? photo by anne richardson

the Sea Stars are slowly coming back in the region after being ravaged by a wasting disease. low tide revealed all sorts of “noticing.” photo by anne richardson

the Himalayan Blackberries have left the vine. no more purple stained fingers as i “forage” on my walks. these noticings of decay keep me in tune with the rhythm of the seasons. photo by anne richardson

it isn’t always about the “natural” world. sometimes i notice shapes and light. this was after i left a lecture at the portland art musuem on street photography and noticed the reflection of the older building contrasting with the bricks. photo by anne richardson