Rebecca Anthony ; the truth as I recall it, with honor, with humor

     Carrying the weight of celestial events and other musings on learning to be alone     One of the most difficult things about being alone, whenever in my life I have found myself there, or, put myself there, is not having anyone with whom to share experiences. If you were to put yourself in my shoes for a moment (and a moment is plenty long…don’t try to do it longer than that or you’ll be reaching for bourbon or hydrocodone or Hollywood) it might make some sense. In my first 25 years of life I was never alone, unless I was in solitary confinement.   I was born number nine of eleven children.  Counting my parents, we were a family of thirteen. Sometimes we had a grandmother or friends staying over and often we had foreign exchange students so, until my oldest brother moved out of the house, there were 13+ people there. Like it or not.   We were privileged. Our house, if you included the basement, which you must, had three stories....

I think I have been holding my breath for weeks awaiting this rain.   The heat, cast-iron hot and immobile, breathless, dehydrated me; a mere pile of salt.  For days I sat, hardly moving, unable to think of anything but my breath.  It’s not supposed to be 97, 99, 100 degrees for so long in July. But I couldn’t get around it. I was forced into the moment. The heat, by herself, with no swimming pool, no air conditioning, no billow of air, allowed no escape.    We were all in it, sweating, breathing the same air as mummies; dusty, stale, ancient as the pyramids. The lettuce wilted. The crops failed. The birds went into hiding.   Then the rain came. Loud. Pounding. First the lightning came and then the thunder at a distance. Then a huge blast of wind pushed from the south, through the trees, rocking their trunks, upending nests. As fast as it hit us it passed and was gone.  It tore open the pores of the Earth, the impenetrable crust, making ...

As happens so often with me, I didn’t know what I needed until it was right on top of me.  I didn’t know that I had to hear the nighthawk (HAD to) screaming in the golden evening light and the loud BRRRRRRR that it makes as it’s diving towards it’s prey until I heard it above me, diving. Walking to close the gate, which I WAS going to leave open because of the rain, the muddy soil, I heard her in the sky and my heart stopped in my chest. I didn’t know that I HAD to see the kestrel fly over my head, low to the ground as I extended my walk down the driveway.  She must’ve been hunting. Or welcoming me home. I must’ve needed the petrichor; the way the Earth smells after a rain, even the soft, short rain that we got here today, how it opens my sinuses, my throat, my lungs, an embrace.   I was gone for almost ten hours today. I don’t do that very well anymore, being gone from home. Neither do the dogs.   I SHOULD HAVE PUT  in the doggie door, they seemed to ...

A little desert concert.     By now the rains should have come. Instead we are oppressed.  The sun baked the last bit of moisture from the Earth last week and now there is nothing left for Him but to broil the dirt to crust, crispy, snap-beneath-my-feet-brittle, dangerously at risk of burning.  Even the cholla cacti are wilting, their limbs shriveling and bending towards the ground. If I were a candle I’d be a pool of wax on the floor, spreading into the tiny crevices in the bricks.   I awoke this morning to cloud cover, huge billowy, silver things, blocking the sun as it broke the horizon. A bit of relief. We are still supposed to hit the high 90’s today and are looking to have that continue for at least ten more days, so they say.    I don’t generally keep abreast of the weather either on the news or through the weather app on my phone.  Usually I just look out the window or step outside. Unless I am melting or making plans. ...