The best part of a hot week in September is that it makes me excited for jeans weather and tires me of swimwear. We need the full thaw, the torching heat, in 6-month mitten-land. A month ago, however, we awoke to 50 degrees across the mid-north. Crisp air calling for hoodies; not July. My kids slept in. My dog remained curled in a knot on my rug. The sitter was late. I didn’t mind. I got on my bike and headed to the coffee shop to write under gray skies. Sunday mornings usually beckon a long line. No one came until the sun came out. I ordered my favorite iced tea, hot. Then today, 30 days closer to equinox, I poured myself a hot cup of coffee to escort my kids to the bus stop and within seconds outside my face was uncomfortably sweaty. I swear the cream curdled by the time I sent them off. I felt confused; out of snyc. It takes me back to other unseasonal days this year.
This morning we awoke to glistening snow-laden branches; undeniably and implausibly beautiful. Despite the frenzy of media predicting our wintery April weather patterns, the visual of the snow’s arrival keeps catching me off guard. Last night as I watched the flurries out the window, my brain perceived an irregularity well before I was conscious of it. Late evening light doesn’t usually bounce off snow; its supposed to be dark early when snow is on the ground. A nostalgic inkling takes me back to 8000 feet in Montana where sun hits snow at angles much sharper than it should here in Minnesota, unless something unusual happens. The feeling is eery.
Yesterday I drove home in flurries and stopped at a red light despite a nagging feeling I need not stop. I’ve felt compelled to stop at red anything since I was 6; its hegemony. Why not today? No other cars were around. The houses were dark. Then I realized the red light was a reflection off my headlights; the power was out. I had known before I knew. I sat there for awhile feeling vulnerable, like a firefly in the woods. Conspicuous. The scene felt hushed, and measurably more comfortable when I turned my lights out. An oncoming car entered the intersection. She turned her lights out. Hush. Hide. We both drove through. I forgot my lights were out as the snow and the moonlight were more than enough to see the road clearly. I met another car. Before I remembered to turn my lights on, sure enough, he turned off his as well. Weird.
Back to September:
I saw nearly 50 robins in one tree in my backyard last week. A duck keeps quacking from the apex of my roof. A squirrel climbed so high in our pine that the entire tree bowed to the ground this morning. Why? Because spring isn’t here yet. Because animals compensate for that which is untimely. We know without knowing, just like the robins on layover await clear and warmer passage to Canada.
A Reiki practitioner and friend of mine, Anne Murphy (www.athousandhands.com), once said to me, “We trust cell phones and wireless. Why do we doubt we can pass energy between us?” Interesting point. Even when we claim NOT to believe in silent communication, we count on it. We know so much more than we are aware. When my 15 year old dog doesn’t greet me at the door, I know his hips hurt. After he is gone, my brain will think its him when I hear scratchy sounds on the wood floors. My brain will deliver the message “Gebo” when something enters my peripheral vision at 2 feet off the floor for years. When I hear jingle bells I might even walk toward the back door to let him in. But he won’t be there. My senses know him better than I know him, and what my brain knows will both dismay and comfort me in my grief when he is gone.
I wake up most mornings at 7:00 to the minute. Some would call that intuition, some would call it intelligence. If you have an older sibling, you might understand when I say I would know if my brother’s finger was a 1/2 inch from the bridge of my nose even if my eyes were shut. I know when my best friend calls how her day has gone when she says “hi.” That’s all I need. My husband has predicted the gender of 12 babies accurately; he’s been wrong twice. How many times have you picked up the phone to call a friend and she rings at that second? We all know when rain is coming because of the smell of the wind. My mommy sense tells me when the baby is about to wake up from a nap even if I’m outside in the garden. And man, if you thought you knew when to leave the party, you certainly know now when its time to leave the playdate.
My father is a psychiatrist and has been for 40 years. He also has a tender, nonjudgmental heart. My cousin is an “intuitive” healer. Some people claim they hear the voice of God. Animals just know stuff. My dad uses his training, my cousin uses her heart, others consult Oracles and animals have instincts. Whatever we call it, more information is undeniably available to us than we give credit. When we quiet down, say on a day its cloudy and unseasonably cool, there are voices in all of our heads. We’re not so different than the robins, we’re not so distant from each other, and we’re not so intelligent we can live well without listening.