The sandhill cranes are back — high-in-the-sky dinosaurs, extra-large and extra loud — circling in drunken loops before landing in the pasture. It’s early, but they, and a stunted grape hyacinth pushing up in the driveway circle, press a kind of juice through me — like plums smashed into wine.
They offer the hope of butterflies. Of green and lush. And the promise of me turning into a dirt witch, mixing compost and sand, and giving in to my impulse to bring Home Depot plants home and bury them in the best possible foundation.
I had a counseling dream last night. It was a client I’ve been worrying about — one I fear I failed — who was there. She raged on, an unstoppable force, a too-fast tornado wrecking everything in its path. I felt the strength of her rage in the session and in the dream. But because of a recent podcast — and maybe because dreams clarify what waking can’t — I thought, This is her trauma. And knew we couldn’t proceed until she was out of it.
I want to unearth something profound.
Years ago, living temporarily in Slab City — something only the very destitute or very feral attempt full-time, especially when 120-degree summers send the snowbirds fleeing — a wild-haired twenty-something resident there found a bone after hiking above Niland. It had been too big to ignore, he said, and sent it to a university. It was five million years old. A mastodon.
I want that.
I want the four-leaf clover with extra leaves. And the double rainbow with another ring. To touch the untouchable and present it not as look at me, but as look what’s possible.
I don’t think I can find those things sitting still. I think they’re out there — on the horizon of my own limits; at the edge of a longer run, in the early wake-ups I’d rather skip. In discipline. In not settling.
I also prefer to make things better. Maybe I’m asking for too much, but I do.
I want future Jaclynn — barely visible on the horizon — to inhale a full, relieved breath. To feel strong and connected and know it was because of me. Because I pushed into and past my comfort.
I’m already reaping what past me sowed — the hard move, the losses. And now: sandhill cranes, daisies, country life with family, and seventy-degree winter days.
I want to always be on the ready.
Not just to survive a storm, but to ride it. With one hand locked on the rope, held by a buckle, and the other flung wide and up to the sky. A bucking-bronco girl, broom over tornado twists, up and over into the moonlit night.
And I think that starts with my habits. My daily habits that cultivate and craft, and boil my troubles into apothecary bottles, corked tight. Ready when I choose.
Swaying. Sashaying.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 