Singing with Vern

So...I've gotten a bit attached to a cricket in my house.

It's the singing thing.

We both do it, and his chirping from sunset until early morning sounds like a lullaby to me.

Maybe it's because it reminds me of growing up on the farm and the intense connection that I felt as a child to nature.

It's different in the city--much more subtle...

But Nature makes her way through the concrete and human boundaries:

from the ants who dare to venture through my kitchen,

to the grasshopper on my rose bush,

the hummingbirds and butterflies outside my picture window,

the bats flying overhead in the Fall during my evening dog-walks,

and the coyote that taunts the neighborhood dogs...

To the cricket that chirps in my bathroom at night.

There's something calming about his song... especially amidst the incessant sirens and occasional domestic disputes of neighbors nearby.

I'm not sure if it was the creative side of my brain, or the crazy side (besides, I think the two are connected)--but my brain decided to name this cricket Vern.

He reminded me of one of my favorite childhood books The Mouse and the Motorcycle by Beverly Cleary--about a mouse named Ralph who had many adventures with human encounters living in a run-down inn.

All this came about the morning that Vern decided to crawl on my toe while I was taking a shower. It was one of those moments for me, where I was startled to feel something on my foot, and then wondered if it might be the gecko that occasionally sneaks into my shower.

But sure enough, I looked down, and it was Vern.

And he was NOT in good shape.

I hoisted him onto the tile outside my shower. He wasn't moving. By the time I got out, he was on his back, and I thought that he had bit cricket dust.

I flipped him over, but I admit--I didn't have much hope for the poor little guy.

As I made coffee afterwards, I hummed away in honor of Vern...thinking about how I would miss his evening chirping and how his exodus into the shower must have been very tragic.

An hour later, I went back into the bathroom. Vern's legs were responding to touch, and his antennas were no longer waterlogged and stuck to the tile.

I was amazed...a cricket resurrection!

The last couple nights as he's chirping from different corners of my house, I just smile knowing that Life has an uncanny way of transcending my expectations.

AND...I've started to make music with him.

He's got a great sense of rhythm and sings in the key of D.

Two Springs

I just returned from the Midwest.  It is May, and the Spring season is in full bloom there.

In Arizona, we had our "Spring" season over a month ago, and now, the temperatures have already climbed into the triple digits.  

In Iowa, however, the season is definitely "Spring".  The apple blossoms are in full bloom.  The violet lilac flowers have opened and are spreading their sweet fragrance. Fresh (and freshly picked) rhubarb pie and asparagus casserole are the dishes of the season.  The little green rows of baby corn have emerged through the black soil.  And my family just finished planting the last bean fields (Yay!  It's always a relief when the crops are in).  

I am reminded of the "Spring" season in Arizona a month and a half ago.  I love the Spring, and this year, I was fortunate enough to experience two of them.  I want to share my reflections that I wrote in late March about this time in my desert home... 

New Moons & New Beginnings: Spring in Arizona

March 26, 2009

I sink into reverie as I awake amidst the morning song of the birds outside of my window.  It's the breaking of the day.   I love this time.  The awakening.  The cheerful birds celebrating the dawn and return of light.  

This is the time when I feel most open...to the world, to my senses, to possibility. It's the "in between" time...when the peace of what's passed is laid to rest, the opportunity of the day that lays ahead is waiting, and all that's left is the present moment of being...completely open.

It is Spring now.  The first new moon was two days ago.  I feel my instincts resonate with the season...urging me to plant seeds and grow roots in the wide openness, and watch in awe as the green sprouts emerge and flowers open.  

It's the season of possibility.  Of planting seeds and growing roots in the "in between".

Every moment there is the chance for birth and for re-birth...to create again or to start anew. To take every part of what was, fully integrate in to what is, and transform into what will be.

It's the dawn of possibility.  No wonder I hear the birds celebrate each morning in song.

Pressing "Send"

"Once I press send, I cannot take it back."  The fearful thought runs through my mind.  

A simple click of the mouse or a brush with the send button on the cell phone stirs a bit of that internal anxiety of committing to the choice. 

And it's so symbolic of life.

Standing on the crossroads...the inner turmoil between what the heart wants to do and what the mind fears doing.  The anxious struggle on the inside, the internal chatter that gets louder amidst the unknown.  "What path do I take? Will I regret taking this path? Will I miss out? Will I always wonder what lies down the other?"   

And then I remember...

I remember to let go and breathe.  One breath at a time.  

And I remember to open my eyes and step.  One step at a time. 

How is it that I am here, in this body, walking upon this little blue planet?  This little blue planet that has just the right concoction of 21% Oxygen, 78% Nitrogen and miniscule amounts of other gases that resonate perfectly with my body?  My body that takes it all in and lets go of what it doesn't need?  

We've come a long way since the days of flight or fight, running from tigers and chasing down our dinner.  Yet, not so far.  The human stress response is still the same.  We just have more time to think about the choice.  And oftentimes, there is much less gratification in making the choice, since the release of clicking a button does far less for relieving the physical stress response than running from a predator.  And so, the anxiety lingers.  

Until I step back and remember.  I remember to breathe.  I remember to go inside, and then to step with courage, honesty, passion and commitment to the path.  Because every path is worthy. And every path entails lessons and a perfect concoction for what I need at the present.  I cannot control the weather along the way, but I can control who I am and what I do when I come face to face with it and my belief and trust in the greater concoction.

Because in the end, somehow, it all works out.  Or, if it hasn't, then maybe it's not the end...if there really is an end. 

The journey can be amazingly breathtaking and beautiful, incredibly messy and tragic, blissful and frustrating.  Yet through it all, in a grace so often beyond comprehension, evolves the human spirit...and the journey, and the story, and the song and the dance.