Morning Assembly

July 29, 2020.

Wednesday. Sunny.

I walk outside before my coffee. The first thing I always notice is the dampness of the air. We’re moving into late summer here in Virginia — the air is usually thick with moisture — like we’ve all just taken a collective hot shower and we’re standing in the bathroom trying to dry off.

This morning is no different.

Air temperature is next. Today there is a slight chill to the morning air, an early indication that Fall is coming. I immediately say thank you. Here again, Nature offers a reminder — impermanence — nothing stays the same, even the stifling heat & humidity. Even the comfortable & refreshing mornings.

I follow my dog around the corner. We tend to move slowly through this first re-entry into the yard after Night. The dog might chase an unsuspecting squirrel but even that happens infrequently now. They are smart to him, and he is conditioned by my pace….slow, curious, noticing. His nose twitches like mine — what do we smell? Early in the summer that smell was the early scent of Valerian, which is sweet & delicious (much different than Valerian’s more well-known smell — think dirty gym socks mixed with dirt and you’ll be close.)

This morning I’m getting notes of damp earth and tomato blossoms.

I stand here for another few seconds. Pausing. Listening. Looking. Feeling. Smelling. Engaging all of my senses as well as my thoughts and voice. ‘Good morning everyone!’ I say quietly. My heart opens with a sense of gentle belonging.

My yard has taught me not to enter her with such loud & obtuse energy. I have spooked more than my share of animals and insects with my noise and forceful way of moving through space. I’m learning to slow down. I don’t want to be IN my yard, I want to be WITH my yard — and all life happening in my yard. I move quietly and with kindness & compassion. I’m entering a sacred space. My land is holding me, stabilizing my environment, raising all of us — plants & animals.

I navigate the next few minutes completely in-body. My eyes follow the streams of sunlight, pouring over the echinacea flowers. My ears listen for the birds, or the scurries of animals through the plants & trees. The scents of summer move along the breeze — Rose just said hello from across the garden. The taste of dew drops. The feel of the cool grass.

From here, I let myself be led.

Some mornings, like this morning, my focus goes into the air — my ears direct me to the birds in the yard. I tend to hear Hawk before I even walk out the door. She’s usually hunting this time of the morning. She’s quiet now but will return to the skies soon. Screeching. Soaring. Making it known to every creature in the neighborhood that she’s around…feeding and raising her young. Some days it sounds like a battle-cry, other days, a song. Often I scream with her — making it known to all creatures around me that I’m here, feeding and raising my young. And just like Hawk, some days it feels like a battle-cry, and others a song.

Other days, my eyes go down, to the minutiae. What has changed since yesterday? What has bloomed, opened, produced, been unearthed by the nocturnal? Zinnia bloomed the other day — and she’s about to give me another show. Her tight green sepals are starting to relax, opening slowly to reveal the burst of color waiting inside her pouch. Sunflower’s seeds are starting to turn black, ripening for Cardinal…and Squirrel. That’s a Hunger Games battle in the making. There’s a small moth living in the still-tight Marigold blooms. I wonder about that relationship — I can clearly see the benefit for Moth but what about Marigold? Every morning, same little Moth in there. Every morning, the same little ‘Hello, Moth.’

As I write, the smallest of birds is singing his song, Wren. I know this is the male because of its size, the female is even smaller. How can such a clear and loud sound come out of this bird, the tiniest of songbirds in my yard? ‘Good morning, Wren. Good to see you.’ Layered behind the Wren’s song is that of Woodpecker. And behind that is the low & sorrowful voice of Mourning Dove. Some mornings I let myself get lost in the cacophony of bird calls. It’s an easy and beautiful adventure.

Mornings spent with my yard offer me a sense of true belonging, in a world & time that seems, to me, on the surface, working hard to other.

Every morning it’s a little different.

Every morning I show up, curious.

Every morning, a sense of belonging.