Glimmers

A former student of mine, now the mother of twins, posted about glimmers a few weeks ago on her Facebook page. Glimmers are the opposite of triggers, bringing us instant joy, a shiver of delight, rather than a reminder of trauma.

I’ve been thinking about glimmers and watching for them in the way that, as a young mother, I’d lie on my back on the tennis court late in the summer, the children sandwiched between me and Seth, while Kerro, more family than friend, pointed out the constellations and we waited for the shooting stars that always streaked across the navy night. 

“Look,” Seth would point, and the children would chorus, “Where?”

“Above that pine tree,” he’d gesture, helping them locate the star that seemed to tumble from the sky.

Glimmers.  Now that I am watching for them, now that I am paying attention, I find them  everywhere.

Sclepi, one of our rescue dogs, snoring softly at the foot of the bed.

The smell of lemon and garlic on my fingers.

The lake in the early morning when I walk the dogs: still, a dull pewter, like an ancient plate, or deep and dark with the pine trees silhouetted on its surface, a glassy mirror. Each morning, it’s different, and I love noticing its morning mood.

The spider web, magnificent, stretching from one side of the Laurel Path to the other—an incredible feat of architecture, bedecked with dew, which makes it easier to see how carefully it has been spun.

Pots of rosemary and basil thriving on the front steps—along with a cyclamen I had given up for dead in Ohio that appears reborn, foliage dappled!

Seeing James on stage in his one-man show in NYC and bursting with pride that we have watched his journey as a performer since he was thirteen. Knowing that other ETC kids made it their priority to see him perform, too. Remembering ETC—that chapter of our lives—with a sense of joy that it happened for so many years, rather than with the regret that sometimes gnaws because it ended.

Mixing a shade with my watercolors on my plastic $1 palette acquired at Michaels; going back to a watercolor later and adding more details; admiring flowers as I walk and wondering if I understand enough about their shapes to paint them….painting wildflowers every day—for the pleasure of moving color around on paper. 

Teaching my daughter how to needlepoint and sorting through my collection of wools to find a color she needs for her canvas.

Reading on the settee in the afternoon, two dogs curled next to me, Seth across the porch reading in a rocker.

World Cup in Eagles Mere: an annual all-town tradition sponsored by the Eagles Mere Athletic Association—many teams representing many countries with players from age 7-65.  My favorite moment is when the tough, “real” soccer players—often teens or players in their early 20’s—back away from the ball, so a tiny player of either team can touch it.  This year, even a soggy field cannot dim our spirits.

The taste of chocolate chip scones, fresh from the oven, made with love this morning, for my World Cup players.

The unexpected triumph of having our three family team members—Cole, Atticus and Anya--win this morning’s tied game by scoring two penalty kicks!  Anya, Atticus’ Mountain School buddy,  comes up from Charlottesville to play; her mother has a Laurel connection. When people admire her play, I beam. Atticus is the heart of the team; Cole is a magnificent captain.  I, fiercely loyal fan, cheer and cheer, and worry I might scream, “Go, Gators!” even though they are Team Saudi Arabia—it’s the dark green t-shirts that throw me off.

Lots of little Laurel girls who want to be in a play I wrote and am directing in the fall with Ida—so many that I need to keep writing!

The breeze moving the birch and maple branches, so that the leaves look like they are dancing.

One firefly whose twinkle twirls and spirals up the driveway, illuminating the dark, as I walk from one house to the other.

The scent of our neighbor’s logs in their fire pit, wafting me to sleep.

This porch—essentially another room that serves as office, dining room, gathering space, art studio, place for conversation, favored nap location--full of rockers that have sat right here since 1927.