go ahead, break my heart

it's that time of year again for me, when i wake up in the morning, go outside into the sunlight and see the hillside. it's then that my heart breaks into a million pieces as if to try to replicate the explosion of colors around me. it will happen again at work, when i take a moment from staring at the cutting board and walk out to the back balcony that overlooks the river and startlingly notice EVERY nuance of everything...bird feathers, cloud contours, leaf structure, squirrel fur, white water fluctuations, and so on and so forth. yes, my heart breaks again. it's a continuous thing. i'll bite into a a fig--heart break. i watch a child laugh at a puppy--mush heart. my i pod plays deb talan, chris pureka, girlyman or indigo girls--multiple heart fractures. but i love it at this time of year. i'm not rendered defenseless. somehow, i'm split open in a way that i can handle, where i'm even intrigued to go a little deeper, put myself back together, and break myself up again. i really don't know what it's all about, but i feel mildly addicted to this right now. it's like the urge to sit in a sunbeam's full intensity, even though it nearly blinds you and it might warm your skin to the point of discomfort...you just HAVE to be in the sun.

so, it's dark and i'm getting ready for bed. i'm excited to see the fall colors again tomorrow. they change here every day: more golden aspens in the highlands, more rusty scrub oak in the lowlands, and all sorts of colors in between. it's sad to think that i only have 2 more days of this... after my 3 week hiatus from durango, there will only be green and grey in the tree tops. sigh. what will inspire my heart to feel so alive then?

my swimming hole

the third thing (or, between duality)

looks like monsoon season is officially over. there's no sign of precipitation in the forecast for the next ten days, and if yesterday is any indication, only a few wispy clouds dare to visit this region as october approaches. however,the last storm through provided quite a show: lightning, thunder, and billowing dark cumulonimbi casting down snowballs. yes, snowballs. what at first looked perhaps a bit like hail felt soft and forgiving as it hit my head and shoulders. i put my hand out, and in a matter of seconds, i'd collected a half dozen dime-sized spheres of compacted snowflakes. i could see the angles of the crystals poking off the sides of each clump. i fought the urge to contact the alaskan snow name authority, and instead just stood in awe of what was coming down on me. i laughed, imagining a swarm of fairies bombarding another camp of winged sprites with these little pellets. i stood outside until my fingers turned purple (with orange spots, of course) and then i took shelter in the greenhouse with the good company of tomatoes and basil, still soaking the heat from the earlier sunbeams that had graced the farmscape.

the next day, i went to the farm again, mulched several fruit trees and harvested 30 pounds of fingerling potatoes. the sun sent warm vibrations through the air, and layers peeled off to reveal skin and freckles. after a few hours, i looked up from my patch of soil and took in the scene; red oak leaves against yellow cottonwoods and bright evergreen, lush blue sky, and sun dappled river water reflecting it all back. i went down to the banks and stretched out on the grassy flood zone. i couldn't resist. i jumped out of the remaining articles of clothing and dove straight into the river.

i broke through the surface and immediately lost my breath. my entire body went into tingle-mode as i reached up towards the sky, once again meeting the sun warmed air. the current moved me down stream as i emerged from the shock of the water temperature...which, as i could have chosen to consider, had recently dropped due to SNOW MELT. cold, amy, cold is snow. like i said, snow is cold.

i worked my body upright and scrambled to the shore, surprised and laughing. i lay in direct line of as many sunbeams as i could. the envelope of cold water was quickly replaced by warm sun, and i felt completely rejuvenated. even the ache and sniffle in my body that i'd struggled with for days--even that morning--seemed to have been shocked out of my system ("we can't survive here!" i could hear the little virus screaming, "let's get out!").

well, i guess i found an edge--between summer and winter, sanity and brilliance, gas and liquid, creation and destruction. and i suppose it's been confirmed, once again, that the edge is my favorite place to be.

forced balance

today is the last official day of summer, and tonight they have predicted snow. ain't no time delayin'! we had 3 hard frosts last week, which rendered most of the farm dead immediately (at least they didn't suffer) and i spent the next two days hiking high into the snowy san juans to mourn that ending as well as to exhault in the beauty of transition. the leaves now are morphing into golden coins and fiery plumes on every deciduous tree, and the cones on the evergreens are bursting with the promise of renewal when the conditions are right. i've been seed collecting from my plants at the farm, too, hoping the lessons learned from this season will sprout evolution next spring.

and perhaps we'll see a bit of an indian summer. i'm not ready to dig out my snow tires just yet.

no right on red

i sleep on the right side of my bed. this morning, i kept waking up and worrying that i was in the way if anyone needed to make a right turn out of my dream world. i wouldn't be moving until the green light (which comes on with my alarm at 6:30) and some folks might need to move before that.

i hate being in the way, where ever i am.

ignition

laundry

it's pouring out right now...lots and lots of rain, cooling the creek and turning the animas river a deep, rusty brown...and completely soaking my line-dried laundry for the second time in two days. i'm never home in the window of minimal moisture, where my clothes are perfectly free of morning dew and basking in the bit of sunshine that precedes the afternoon thunderstorms. contrary to popular belief, "fresh rain" is not the scent you want on your clothes. it smells like multiple applications of mildew and bee pollen. it's potent and distracting.

so, to tell the truth, i probably could have been home in time to take down my laundry pre-rain shower, but i took an invitation to have few beers a friend's house. i tossed football with a pack of boys and some dogs. of course, i got to know the dogs first. poet, the black lab, was recently featured in the town's weekly, answering the editorials. lauren (aka dizzy lauren mills), the chiuaua, kept lapping at my pint glass while 'pone (short for capone) strutted his pit bull belly around the yard, chowing down every chokecherry and apple that fell from fruit laden trees. the boys eventually settled down from hitting tennis balls with golf clubs and mocking the skateboarders across the alley, and we discussed politics in zimbabwe and last week's beer fest at the ski resort. miles, charmingly funny with his jim carrey-ish looks, told the story of his bus ride home from the 20+ microbrewery tasting event. "there was this girl sitting next to me, and she kept touching my leg," he started. "she said, 'you're so pretty, don't you want to come home with me?' and, since i was mighty buzzed and didn't want to get into anything in that state, i said, 'no, i think it'd be better if i went home alone tonight'. but she was persistent. 'it's okay,' she said, 'you don't have to worry. i'm a dyke!' ".

well.

can you blame her? the ratio of men to women here is 2 to 1. and when you line dry during monsoon season, sometimes even laundrymat dryers are tempting.

snow and rainbows

well, it's still a few weeks before equinox and the official start of autumn, but we're full into fall now in Durango. Evening temps are dipping below forty degrees in some places (much like the bay area, we experience a multitude of microclimates here), and lots of long rainstorms, interspersed with thunder, hail and rainbows, and then, when the clouds clear, the mountain tops are dusted with a good coat of snow. i'm beginning to distinguish the smell of an appoaching snow storm, even. and to do that, one must slow down....something i'm finally finding myself capable of doing, which is another sure sign of autumn's arrival.

in fact, people i've missed are resurfacing all over the place, all expressing the sort of peace that follows the collapse into exhaustion. i think everyone, like me, is enjoying the late sunrise and warm beds swimming in cold starry night air. the pungent, alert sense of summer has given way to the smoky, layered mustiness of fall. people have stories to tell, and time to tell them. i'm listening.

i spent this morning at the farm, hearing the news from the ground up. The worms told great tales of deep, penetrating rains, the carrots and tomatoes radiated the wonders of insulation from beneath the frost cover i tuck them under each night, and the radish seed pods expressed the need to prepare for winter. The tomatillos finally revealed themselves at the base of their curtain-like tent homes, and the lady bugs and beetles held still as i picked their dormant, cold flushed bodies off plant leaves to examine their delicate exoskeletons. I blessed the harvest of lettuce, carrots, chard, kale, beans and tomatoes, and relished in the abundance suddenly present to me after the months of blissful, but rapid indulgence. something comes with the light lower in the sky: the sun casts rays in such a way that every detail is illuminated --everything becomes more than it has been, and one can't help but stop and take it all in.

all the way in.

we are all so rich.

weary