Evenings In the Hammock
Lounging in sweet summertime
Evenings in the hammock— a warm, reflective space. Lounging in sweet summertime. The Earth: full, ripe, alive. The night lit up by fireflies and incense, after a full day of sunlight dancing across my freckled skin. Fireflies— they’ve always been “lightning bugs,” to me. To Texans— or at least to my Texan— they’re fireflies. It has a nice ring to it. Maroma incense (my current favorite) fill the air with herbs, and oils— a delight to the scent-ses, and a guard against mosquitos. These incense sticks— reminding me of “punks”— those little ones we used to light fireworks on the Fourth of July. A holiday my mom always hosted, despite her deep discomfort with that particular day. It’s a holiday that seems to have an energetic grasp on my family, since 1939 (you can read a little more about that here). My uncle recently shared a story from one of those young July days: He pulled up to find me in the street, hammering M-80 firecrackers and placing them in water bottles— designed with purpose, a DIY explosive. He walked inside to report to my dad what I was up to. My dad replied, casually: “Oh yeah, she’s been out there doing that all day.” Why? How? I must have learned it from one of my other fire-loving friends. I’ve loved this holiday for as long as I can remember— likely because it lands in the summertime (my favorite season), kicks off my birthday month, and, there was no school. (structured environments have never been my thing) Odd for a “yogi,” to love this particular holiday— but what can I say? I’m a woman of many layers. Maybe that’s my Gemini moon coming into play— I like this and I like that. I see the beauty in it all. Those Fourth of July nights— like a picture in my mind's eye: sitting back to watch the neighborhood show after I’d had my fill of playing with explosives for the day. Perched on that south-facing tailgate, feet dangling, swaying— my small town taking the night off from being dark and quiet. If you were lucky, in between fireworks, you might hear the first batch of cicadas— a welcomed arrival, at least to me. The sounds of sweet summertime. The ground, filled with wild strawberries and wishes. Wild strawberries— forever taking me back to my summers in Wyoming, camping in Crazy Woman Canyon. Hours spent in strawberry fields, eating those tiny, sour little berries before diving into an ice-cold mountain stream— the same stream where we panned for gold. We were so connected to the earth back then. Crazy Woman Canyon— my mother’s requested final resting place. Fitting, for a wild woman like her— someone who ran with the hippies, the cowboys, the bikers. Someone who could run with anyone, and everyone. Wild. I’ll head there this fall, as an Ode to mom— finally giving her the life she dreamt of, next to a mountain stream. Sounds of peace— talk about a sound healing. I may even take a dip. I have my freedom, but I don’t have much time Faith has been broken, tears must be cried Let’s do some living after we die Wild horses couldn’t drag me away Wild, wild horses, we’ll ride them someday Wild Horses by The Rolling Stones.
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