During the intense heat of last week, I followed the wisdom of so many other creatures and hid in the shade. If I wasn’t under my porch writing, I was inside… writing, reading, or lounging around like a wet noodle. I found that I woke up, mentally, physically, and spiritually, at dusk.
When the sun began dipping toward the horizon, the temperatures lowered slightly. It is a liminal time – not quite day or night. I ventured into the open areas to admire wildflowers and harvest mullein. I made offerings to the land and sang songs.
In what has become a near daily activity, I mounted the hill to peer through the wrought-iron fence into the cemetery. It started because I needed to water the hawthorn sapling I planted and improve her chances of surviving the drought. In working to nurture a plant and establish a relationship, I found myself surrounded by dragonflies and, later, fireflies. As the sky grew purple, the foxes appeared. They, too, come out at dusk. If I was quiet, I could admire them from one to two feet away as they walked along the fence to sniff chipmunk burrows. Sometimes they noticed me. They cocked their heads and continued on when they realized I posed no threat. It’s been absolutely wild and wonderful to see them most evenings, and I feel privileged to observe my often unseen neighbors in this way. I whispered gratitude to the land, gratitude to live near a liminal space – the boundary between my home and cemetery.
It is where death and life mingle.
It is both wild and tame.
I meet them there.