Goodnight Pete Seeger

I have that itchy-scratchy feeling.  That’s a phrase coined by a woman from a dance-therapy class I took years ago.  The class was one of my random, intuitive moments of “this would be good for me.”   And I remember watching this woman dance out of the corner of my eye  – sort of a truncated version of what I imagined she wanted to express.  Then later, listening to her share her story, I understood.   It was more about her not knowing what to do about an unnerving sensation than any real ants-in-your-pants dilemma.  It was this peskering (my own - pestering/pesky) that I latched onto and moved  into my own emotional landscape that I’m feeling tonight.

Fall is brilliant right now – a perfect juxtaposition of summer and winter.   Oh the jumble of sunshine and chilly air. Of button-down-the-hatches  and get-out-and-play-while-you- can!  Of going to seed and dreaming of planting seeds.

And heavy on my heart are other’s stories - such a contrast to mine.  Of life coming to an end.  Of the last vestige of brilliance.  Curious why my mind lingers on sadness that is not my own?  Like those gorgeous leaves that are frantically falling, that I collect and press.  I must be under the spell of Mother Nature.  She’s exercising her influence this 41st season of mine for sure.

My daughter, a bright spot that can bleach out any darkness, fills my days and nights.  She wakes me with “I love you more than 100 little spotted puppies, Mommy.”    And my Dan – a true renaissance man- gives me all I ever doodled about on that 16-year-old’s dream list.  Yet here I sit, almost paralyzed by sadness.

My neighbor can only sleep the days away as he battles two brain tumors.  A beautiful family man, local progressive farmer and inspiration to me, lost his life last night in a car crash miles from his home.   My mother spends her days laboring over her love who is in a wheel chair and has lost all things that gave him dignity.  And how is it I am so blessed?

And in pipes an answer from my childhood I’ve stored in those recesses:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak…

Maybe it’s Ecclesiastic's foreshadowing that has me in its grip.  I think I will push pause and go snuggle in with my sleeping bounty and soak in all that I’m gifted.  There will be time for all the rest.  Not now.