McCall This July

There is a veil, or one that was and sometimes is and the trees, reaching tall for the sky, are on the other side of it. This morning there is tea and toast with honey and the realization we are three, that means one of me, and so. It is an iron veil. I pull out the scissors, begin to snip away at these distinctions, begin to take large portions of this fabric and cut them into strips by categories, dip them in the lake, wash off the past, hang them to dry, hope their character changes. Last night I made it to the other side. I could hear the forest talk to me over the sound of the enactment of my caretaking. How is it that I let my motherhood get in the way of nature? Why is it that I am unable to coalesce the two into one experience? They are one experience. I made it to the other side in spite of the events, the popping, and the loudness, the dangers of water and fire. I made it there with them, by watching the lights above the Ponderosa Pines, filling the skyline I have seen since I was a girl, experienced as a blacklight poster in college, recognize still as the place from which my remains will flow, spin threw the air from above when I am gone, finally make their way to the bottom of this lake, and back again. We are mesmerized by the spectacular of colors, the celebration of it all, the archetypal remembrance of battle transformed into an extended frolic, and excuse to not work. A reason to play. Still, the brightest light in the sky for me remains the sliver of silver moon, like a half-wedding ring, shining, touching the tips of the forest. As the fireworks rise, it sets, sliding out of view, on the other side it goes, and I want to climb an invisible ladder, then descend with it, sleep in its rounded half arm. Sleep is fleeting, a chasing of dreams for answers, a chasing of dreams to remember when, in spite of my imagined dramas, life was more carefree, at least the weaving of it seemed to allow for more fabrics, more choices, fewer inhibitions of age, and change and responsibility. Today, I think, if I can pull back the veil enough that the material motorizations become simply illusions, I will chase that moon, down to the bottom of this lake, I will float there in the middle, breathing water through new found gills. I will hold to that moons curve and rise with it--like a trapeze that pulls me above the trees I love and then, with the wind, I will sway in the hundreds year old dance of these majestic beings, rooted deeply down, yet always reaching up.