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The world seems to be falling apart before my eyes, a whirlwind of careless decisions, a twister of thoughtless bravado taking lives, taking our way of life. My heart aches. Some days I feel like I can’t go on. What will be left for the future? The mother in me mourns for my children. I know I am not the only mother worried. Mother Nature seems ambivalent too. In a single day, she shifts: the temperature is 75 degrees in the afternoon, 17 degrees when night falls; sunshine turns to frost with snow to my knees by morning. In the transition a strong wind wails and rattles my windows, Mother Nature weeping, perhaps. My therapy had been regular walks along a shared use path near my home, but on too many days the weather got the upper hand and I lounged at home instead of exercising. But yesterday I said “enough!” And I set out for a walk along my usual path. Deconditioned from the long, unpredictable winter, I immediately began negotiating with myself for a shorter walk. With every step, I chose a new turn-around-for-home spot, yet a part of me continued to ache for my old self, for that familiar strength and vigor, and, so, that old self kept arguing with the weary, deconditioned one: Turn back. Just to the next intersection. Stop here…and so it continued. It was not the pleasant, mindful walk of my yesterdays. Normally, when times and weather were normal that is, I would take two laps around the giant commercial parking lot at the end of the path. Yesterday, I thought about avoiding the lot altogether, but the negotiations picked up: maybe ONE lap. As I got halfway around, I turned into a smaller sub-lot next to the outdoor exercise area for employees. There I noticed tree branches and twigs sprayed all over the grass and pushed to the edges of the lot by the strong winds. They had come to a stop in a heap along the asphalt curb. In one of the short piles my eyes came to rest on a piece of a branch. It was broken, about two inches long, stripped of its graying bark. What was left was a beautiful stub in a rich burnt sienna, one of my favorite colors in the Crayola box. I picked it up. It was as light as a Styrofoam pellet and as soft as my grandmother’s cheek. There was something about the color and the softness and the strength of this broken piece that I could not part with it, and so I put into my pocket. My fingers rubbed against it as I made the second lap and returned to my home. Mission accomplished. I was back! Back to walking, back to myself. I placed the small piece of the broken tree branch on my desk where I continued to study it. I leave it there now in plain sight to remind me that there can be beauty even in a debris field; things can break and still be strong. Just a piece can still serve us, still feed our inner hungers. “Hang on wherever you land,” the broken but strong and beautiful piece tells me. Someone will find you. You will find each other. One lap or two? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we just keep trying.
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From time to time there is discussion about ending the filibuster, a procedure in which a member of the legislature prolongs debate in order to delay or prevent a vote on a bill. There is a long history of its use. Eliminating the filibuster has been in the news repeatedly the last three presidential terms, but no one has been able to obtain enough votes to end the use of the tactic. So, it continues. Basically, our elected officials talk us to death and nothing gets done. Currently, Trump is demanding the Senate eliminate the legislative filibuster because of the unwillingness among Democrats and some Republicans to accept the Republican funding bill (also known as The One Big Beautiful Bill Act or OBBBA) and end the current shutdown that has led to, among other things, the absence of TSA workers at airports in the United States. According to a PBS News report, the filibuster, at its best, “encourages compromise and deal making.” Well, America, have I got a deal for you! I call it the Feel-It-Buster! And it is sure to drain the swamp like never before and get America working for the people again. Here are a few provisions:
If the majority of the American people are at risk of becoming cave dwelling, food scrounging nomads who can’t afford gas much less wheels, at risk of dying from preventable diseases with no health care, then I agree, we should have a long talk on the Senate floor. Bring on the Feel-It-Buster! Yabba-dabba-doo! Night time sharpens, Heightens each sensation Darkness stirs and wakes imagination Silently the senses Abandon their defenses… … listen to the music of the night (Music of the Night, Lyrics by Charles Hart and Richard Stilgoe) Yesterday, the harsh winter gave an inch, and spring took a mile. Overnight, we went from the depths of winter to late spring. The temperature rose by 42 degrees! Folks were out and about in their shorts and tank tops. Where the bike path had been desolate, it was now teeming with joggers, walkers, bikers, and dogs on long leashes. Everyone was smiling. Even the dogs.
It was so good to be back outdoors, and to be free of coats and hats, boots and gloves. After a day outdoors, I found myself tiring early, and I headed to bed about 9:00 PM with the windows wide open. Despite my fatigue, I lay awake in bed for hours, the air alive with sounds, sounds that a winter night keeps to itself behind the cloak of darkness, closed windows, and insulating snow. I lay in my bed, listening to the quiet, whispered song of the ceiling fan circling overhead. Occasionally, the long silver chain jingled on the twirling air like a choir of tiny bells. A long train rumbled in the distance like a thundering bass drum. The building shook like a giant morocco. The train’s air horn accentuated the beat with a mighty vibrato. Cars whooshed down the four-lane highway at the end of my drive, nylon brushes against brass cymbals. Sirens screamed in the near-distance like blares from a horn while a helicopter hovered overhead with the steady chop-chop of its propeller. A soft breeze kept the mini blinds tapping a steady beat against the window frame. The night was a dark theater. The phantom of summer had returned. I listened in awe-filled silence as I welcomed back the music of the night! |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
August 2026
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