Wednesday, August 8, 2012

SOON…


Time's river flows steadily, eternally onward, though its constant movement may not always be apparent. Especially not this year when winter became spring too early, then quickly turned into a seemingly endless summer of drought and blazing heat. Yet even then, as sweltering day turned into stifling night and back, again and again and again, week after week, our spinning earth continued to follow its ancient prescribed path around the sun. 

And regardless of how our perception might have become temporarily befuddled by local weather patterns, as our planet hurtled along through the vast darkness of space, that marvelous 23.4 degrees of axial tilt—the astronomical geometry which gives us our seasons—remained in effect throughout. And this simple fact will, as always, eventually take its toll. 

Of course the fluttering monarch butterfly in the overgrown field knows nothing of all this—or maybe it does, just not in a way we're capable of comprehending. Yet something within the makeup of this familiar orange-and-black insect understands. Something our human conceit, for all our technical cleverness, not only doesn't grasp, but can't even fathom

Perhaps the locus of this enigma, whatever it may be, is buried deep within the atoms of the helix chains of its DNA, a mysterious property yet undiscovered in the nucleic acid, or an odd polymeric molecule. Or maybe not; maybe the answer lies elsewhere. 

But something somewhere stirs within this little butterfly. A restlessness, an unease, which soon becomes a longing to began a journey which will carry it on fragile wings thousands of miles from its Ohio summer home—all the way to the high mountain of central Mexico. A distant place, unknown by the individual butterfly we find perched on a blooming teasel, but where the year before, its parents—or perhaps it grandparents—overwintered in the shelter of cool fir forests. 

How can such a thing be possible? How does the monarch know? How do you explain a miracle? Then again, maybe you don't. But time flows, the seasons turn, summer begins drawing to a close—and soon the monarchs in the field will feel that inexplicable tug and commence their wondrous southwestward odyssey.

Soon…very, very soon.           

22 comments:

Carolyn H said...

Beautiful words, Grizz, and so true. The raptors are already heading south--a few. Monarchs, too, as yet in small numbers. They know.

Gail said...

HI GRIZZ - you capture so well the magical, mysterious wonder of nature. I love your words and images - breath taking, honest, inspiring and so very real. Your faith and simple kind life which you hold so dear and honor without question gives me hope because on the says I feel like I am slipping I can always find in your words and images something of nature, faith and honest living to hang on to. Thanks Grizz.
Love to you
Gail
peace.....

bonifer said...

So well said, Grizz, these changes are disturbing at times, I pray all nature adjusts...

Grizz………… said...

Gail…

The truth is, sometimes I'm just hanging on myself. But nature is a big part of the reason why I keep trying, one of the major touchstones of my life. I do try and live in faith as well as live my faith…and I try to live—and write—honestly, compassionately, and as best I can on a given day. Sometimes I succede; but often I struggle. Your praise is more humbling than you know, but more appreciated than you imagine. As always, thank you.

P.S. Read your emailed update and plans last night, just haven't gotten around to replying yet.

Grizz………… said...

Carolyn H…

(Oops! Got my comment replies out of sequence.)

Yes, it won't be long now until a noticeable migratory movement starts…warblers, nighthawks, raptors, monarchs, ruby-throats, etc. Haven't noticed much, in any, in local butterflies, though—they're still just flitting in every direction. But it can't be many days hence until they begin, either. Summer wanes, the seasons turns, and the message to journey begins to be whispered.

Grizz………… said...

Bonifer…

Thank you. This has been a tough summer—at least for some plants and creatures (and at least one gnarly old riverbank scribbler!)—but I wouldn't worry too much: nature is nothing if not resilient and adaptable. And prolific. The hardships of heat and drought are just that, hardships. So long as it has sufficient time, nature generally adjusts. I'm no animist, but I do have faith in earth and sky, water and trees, and creatures such as monarch butterflies.

Gail said...

HI GRIZZ - and it is because you struggle and are still so faithful and inspiring that I am ever more humbled by your expressions and wisdom. No worries about replying to my email - write when you can. It is a huge undertaking - one step at a time.
Love to you
Gail
peace.....

George said...

An absolutely beautiful post, Grizz, and the photo of the monarch is sensational! As for the suggestion that the constant movement of time's river may not always be apparent, let me assure you—as one who has been cleared for landing on Runway 70—that I am keenly aware of the movement. I've become a full-fledged member of the "slow movement." I drive slower, cook slower, eat slower, and do everything within my power to reduce the speed of life. These are but small consolations, however, for time moves relentlessly at the same pace. Somehow this reminds me of a line from W.H. Auden, which, if I can recall it properly, goes something like this:

"Stars, I have seen them fall,
But when they drop and die
No star falls at all
From all the star-sown sky.
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault;
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt."

I know that I'm digressing a bit here, but, hey, what's the value of conversation unless we let it flutter around like that magnificent monarch in your header.

AfromTO said...

No say it isn't so- time and monarchs flying- summer has raced away from me. Do you also feel the fleeing of time?

Grizz………… said...

Gail…

Thank you…again. I really do appreciate your unswerving support because I think you read and comment with the true mark of friendship—that is, one who judges not by weaknesses and doubts, but by whatever measure of good they discover. And it is this attitude in you which I find refreshing and humbling.

Grizz………… said...

George…

Alas, I know exactly what you mean—though that boundary of three-score-and-ten still lies a few years ahead. Nevertheless, I find there are now three categories in my own daily life: things I can do fast (or as fast as I ever could; things I must do slower; and things I simply can not now do.

(I should also mention a sort of fourth category, the one in which I regularly dump those activities and interest which have no made the cut, which I've decided I can live without, or which I've decided are not worth another moment of my increasingly precious time. My paring and discarding is becoming increasingly ruthless, too!)

Anyway, the middle, "slower" category is subdivided thus: slow, because that's the only speed I can manage; and slow because I value what I'm doing, the thing or activity itself, and prefer to take my time, savor each moment. This is the real growth category, the one where I seem to add new things all the time. And if I'm being honest, like you, in the hopes of reducing the speed at which the minutes and hours, days and weeks and months spin away.

I like the Auden poem a lot. And FYI, my friend, I hope, encourage, and expect you to digress—that is, indeed, the way the best conversations always go. A good conversation and a good ramble are identical, except I generally like to grab a favorite walking stick when beginning the latter.

Grizz………… said...

AfromTo…

Oh, yes…I feel time's steady current every day—and rail at how it seems to be picking up speed.

Jayne said...

It really IS an amazing thing to ponder, isn't it? And we whine about having to DRIVE across town... lol. :c)

Grizz………… said...

Jayne…

Miracles, wonders, phenomenons…the world is indeed full of these most amazing things. And hey, forget that across-town drive—I can work up a good whine about going to the grocery on the other side of the river!

KGMom said...

Scribe--even as the seeming relentless heat beats on, I am noticing the diminishing hours of sunlight. Just a touch at a time, but each day is a little shorter.
I suspect that is one of the primary things the birds and butterflies note.
It is comforting to know that, in these times where change seems imminent--too much heat, too little human kindness--it is comforting to know that some things are almost immutable.

Grizz………… said...

KGMom…

Yes, the course was set back in June with the passing solstice—the daily diminishing of light. We've already lost a full hour of daylight since that mile-marker…but we're picking up speed, and will lose another full hour before August's end—and an additional hour and a half during September. I've been noticing the light changes for some time—and they will be unmistakably apparent as the season draws to a close.

You're right, too, that the waining daylight—photoperiod—is one of the key triggers for birds and butterflies, and a whole host of living things re. migration, as well as denning, food storage, diet, even ovulation. Photoperiods signal trees to begin shutting down on their growth and photosynthesis process. Leaves turn color and fall not so much because of lowering temperatures, but because of diminishing daylight. Life on earth truly depends on the light of the sun, and the balance is so critical that a few minutes more or less of daylight is not only noticed (if trees and plants can be said to "notice") but often subsequently induce some sort of change.

sallysmom said...

Beautiful piece of writing, Grizz.

Grizz………… said...

Sallysmom...

Thank you.

Jenn Jilks said...

We are incredibly grateful for rain this past week. The critters will rebound. Praise be.

Grizz………… said...

Jenn Jilks…

We've had some rains over the past couple of weeks, too, and are thankful for every drop. Moreover, little as it has been (and every shower combined wouldn't add up to an inch, I don't think—certainly none have risen or even discolored the river) the land has welcomed and responded, greening up considerably. Isn't it just amazing the change even a little rain can make to a parched landscape?

Robin said...

Dear Grizz,
I hope I haven't overstepped, but I posted this on FB... giving you full credit, of course.

Then, I sent it to a friend who is all math and business and (to quote a lost friend) "does not hike, does not camp and does not breathe fresh air". However we've watched as his eyes fill with wonder at the plants growing in the raised bed at work ( we made him plant a tomato) and the creation of a family of Mourning Doves above the register where he works. From nest, to egg, to hatchlings and now to near flight... he stands amazed.

And I have read it over and over... the piece is true and strong and mysterious, and oh, so full of beautiful melancholy for me.

Thank you.

Grizz………… said...

Robin…

Stories, posts, and all other sundry drivel a writer produces is…as least to some of us scribblers…like our children. You love them, raise them up, dress, feed, and prepare them for the world as best you can, then send them out…hoping and praying the world at large understands them, accepts them for who they are, and treats them right. I trust you with my kids. If this post speaks to you in such a wonderful way, then by all means, share it with those whom you choose.

I did think this one came out better than some. And your description nails exactly what I felt and hoped to convey…and your reaction—shared by me of what I felt and which prompted me to write—is all I could ever ask of my offspring.