The Seeds of Summer
The first grass fire I ever saw up close happened when I was young. My neighbor started it intentionally, burning something else. This was the kind of neighbor who rarely noticed Mother Nature’s moods and hints. It was a dry late spring day with a fast wind that flew across the ridge, racing to the river valley below and out to Lake Superior. The winds quickly took the small circle of flames and set it down in the dry-as-tinder brown field grass.
My Dad, brother, and I stood watching it for a few minutes as it started, smoke blowing in our faces and the red flames spreading across an acre, then another…and another. My Dad was gone in a flash to go and help the fire department and other neighbors…for all those dry fields led to other fields, properties, and homes.
Thankfully, with everyone’s help, the flames stopped before it reached any houses or barns. But it came within a few feet of our back shed. The smoke and burnt smell lingered for weeks. I remember walking into the ashen field and looking at it wondering, what would grow here again? This was before I realized the power of how the Earth can heal, with little intervention from us overbearing humans. That summer, the hay grew rich in that field. Lots of buttercups, daisies, alfalfa, and rich grasses. When I would walk in it, the bees constantly hummed in the afternoon and the fireflies hung over it at night.
This memory has been coming up a lot recently, as we transition to summer.
Of late, I’ve been fighting writer’s block, anxiety, and hopelessness. I see myself in that field, covered in soot and smelling the charred remains of loss and change. It’s surprising because I thought I’d feel more uplifted and excited as these dark pandemic times come to an end. Instead, I feel unsteady, of what I’m returning to or going to.
On the outside, I hate watching the news. It makes me question the world and its compassion and common sense. I hate our national and local politics. Some people blame the news for this, but I know they just put a mirror up to the cruel distortions the parties in question want us to see. Public relations and journalism can mix a cruel and cynical cocktail, even from the best intentions. I hate the dark virtual worlds we’ve created to escape into or use to “fight” some injustice with words, memes, and inaction. I hate sitting in this space. Mix that all up with the inside fears of aging, changing and the sadness and shadows in my personality and it’s been hard to get inspired about anything.
But there’s been comfort in knowing I’m not alone in this dark field. The transition to this post-pandemic phase has brought some unexpected experiences and observations. As we come out for summer activities and being around more people, it’s a good time to listen and watch. There are those among us that are brave enough to speak honestly of the kaleidoscope of new fears and anxieties flitting in and out of our personalities. These bewildering emotions won’t disappear overnight and many of us are at a loss how to deal with them. It’s reassuring that we are in this together.
I’ve started to plant some new seeds. Some may grow, some may not. For my personal journey that means prioritizing any source of music available, in the car, on the phone, in the speakers and headphones of my world. It’s part escapism yes. But the steady drumbeat, guitars and harmonies lift me back up. It makes my heart sing. And I see the bees and the lightning bugs come out again, on the inside. It’s a good summer soundtrack to reach out to folks I have not seen, dust off my guitar, and go to Target with lipstick and not a mask, and see if I can get the words to flow again.
It’s a good time to plant your own creative seeds in little, achievable ways. It’s always easier to start small, get a rhythm and build on it. A day without sugar, one less cigarette, a decision to smile instead of snarl. Listen to more music if you’re lucky. The field will grow again if we give it time, and a little open-ended acceptance of what it is now, for now. The shoots will come. So will the blooms, the bees, and the fireflies in the darkness. The same landscape, richer and greener, and astonishingly you.
