I am living in the rain forest and so, as to be expected, it is raining. Drizzle and downpour, they take their turns, the lightening flashes, thunder cracks startling me.
The drumming of the rain is a percussive song, the notes are liquid and varied and a part of the curtain which surrounds me, gray and green. In ten years living in this house, I am not sure I have ever seen it so green.
The boys are coming this afternoon. Lily said that Owen slept a lot yesterday and did not eat a thing. His body is healing. Since it is raining, we will have an inside day and perhaps I will give him the pirate magnet set I bought for him in Apalachicola.
Tomorrow is Jessie's birthday. She will be twenty-five. I remember her birth as if it were yesterday and how when she was born a rainbow was in the sky and magnolia blossoms in the room and all my brothers and all my friends were in the house to welcome her as well as her big sisters, her brother.
She and Vergil will be here tomorrow and we are so excited, all of us, to have them back for a few days. Greta will be coming too, to the delight of Owen and Gibson. We will be going into town for supper, meeting up with the whole tribe and what a sweet and good thing it will be for me to have everyone together.
All my babies. Babies grown to the most interesting humans I know. Still my babies, I don't care what anyone says. And they will always be.
I am contemplating that today. How to be perfectly honest, being a mother has been the most profound fact of my life. I know that this is not true for everyone nor should it be.
But it is for me.
I am thinking of how in my beliefs, love is the current from which it all comes alive and indeed, from which it all springs and I do not have the mind to truly know what that means when applied to the Universe or the planets or dark matter or the stars or quantum physics but I still believe it. The love of the electron for the proton, of the light for the dark and the dark for the light. For the tree and the roots and the leaves and the water and the necessity of the sunlight. For the hand and the shape of the egg. For the pressing and stroking of the string to create the notes. For the exact and proper placing of the paint or the word or the colored threads. Our definition of love is so limited, so poorly understood and yet, so yearned for, so desperately sought, so brilliantly and in so many different ways expressed and interpreted.
And when I held my babies for the first time, I knew a tiny bit more of what love means, even as to the idea of the current which fuels all of it and if that is not holy, I do not know what is.
No more possible to describe than the green.
Not for me. Maybe for you as you see it. We are all so different and that is exactly as it should be.
And yet, connected, us, the stars, the chickens, the grass, the trees, the water, the fire, the earth, the feather, the finger, the fin, the blood, the bone, the light, the dark.
I am going to make soup.