I woke at 3am to the bed trembling.
“Is that an earthquake?” I asked my husband, Joe.
He pulled me into him, “Yes. You’re OK.”
I spent the day wondering: Is this THE BIG ONE announcing itself?
For as long as I can remember, they have been saying that Seattle is long overdue for a life-shattering earthquake.
When I was a teenager I told my mother, “I feel nervous and I don’t know why.”
“Of course you do,” she said. “You’re a little human animal living on ball that’s spinning and floating and hurling through space.”
I’m certain that this why I never took to the idea of medicating or distracting myself from the impossible emotions and sensations. Anxiety, depression, grief: these were framed for me not as things to cure, but as essential and unavoidable energies of the human experience to feel, learn from, work with, integrate.
In case you hadn’t noticed: The delicateness of human flesh ~ how we are at the mercy of so many things we cannot comprehend ~ cannot be denied when standing atop shaking ground.
I have spent a great deal of time this summer lying on the earth in my backyard, the backyard of my childhood home where my husband, my mom and I live together.
My mom has been scheming, she wants a field of sunflowers. She spent weeks sprouting seeds and growing them in pots on the deck.
Joe planted dozens in the yard.
Then the bunnies promptly chew-chew-chewed the lavish leaves down, down, down to scrawny stems.
No sunflowers remain.
Joe and my mom are researching for next year: fences, dogs, rabbit stew and other things to ensure a golden field.
Me, though, I’m just lying here in the grass, watching and laughing and feeling and breathing and marveling at ~ my man, my mom, this land ~ how I love these things more than my limited language can name.