A Change in the Weather

Chaos theory tells us that a tiny change in one system can dramatically affect the output in another; you know, a butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon and you end up with a hurricane in China? Always seemed a little bogus to me, even if the romantic child in me wished it to be true. But now, I can’t help but wonder—had Darla never forgotten her pen on my desk that one day, would I ever have found myself here?

I ponder how a simple, seemingly insignificant event can lead to magnificent ones as I lumber through the garden. I pause to pick a sprig of lavender, pinching it to breathe in its sweet perfume, hoping I can infuse its calm and resilience into my being. I stop to squat on a rock, letting the sun warm my face, soaking in its energy. Life, abundant, all around me.

Funny thing is, I don’t even know where that pen is now. Martin’s Garage it declared in block letters. It was one of those cheap kinds that you can order by the hundreds. We used to get them, too, in our office. Most would crap out after a few months; some were dry coming out of the box. But this one, black with white letters, was somehow different. So smooth in the hand, stocked with ink, and just wrote nice, you know? (My coworkers didn’t get it either, and I can already envision you rolling your eyes in the future when I relate this again years from now, but as someone particular about their office supplies, I promise you it was a damn good pen).

The rock has grown uncomfortable. I can’t stay seated for too long, feeling hot and thirsty and uncomfortable now. Hydrate. I harvest some mint from its overflowing patch and a white cabbage moth flutters out from the depths. It’s hard not to marvel at these things now.

Would I have paused to appreciate this small beauty that Friday night last year? I’d had an exhausting week of early mornings and grumpy clients, and what I had most wanted was to disconnect from the world with some overly buttery popcorn and trash TV. But Angie was in town for the weekend, and had commenced guilt tripping us into socializing. I remember sitting there on my couch, already in my sweats, composing and re-composing the text, trying to come up with a valid excuse to bail. But, “I’m not in my 20s anymore and you can’t make me,” didn’t feel right.

And here’s another flap of the butterfly’s wing—what if Lori hadn’t been craving tikka masala the night before and happened to browse the local paper while waiting for her takeout? She wouldn’t have known they’d reopened The Lodge down off Highway 147. How we laughed when she described the hipster hotspot it had supposedly evolved into, from the roadside cowboy dive we’d once known it as. Fine, for old time’s sake, we’d check it out, fine. 

Iced mint tea in hand, I can’t help but be drawn outside again. I spin and rock in the sunlight, sharing its radiant energy. Finding that my movements are becoming less conscious now, my body does and my brain follows.

And so we went to The Lodge. After a few tequilas, the tiredness had evaporated and there was only the thrum of laughter and music. The edges blurred and we forgot ourselves. We threw our bodies towards a beat, eyes open, eyes closed, orbs flashing, movement and light. We twirled and swayed, tossed sweaty strands of hair behind our ears, threw back our heads and cackled at our sheer humanity, the audaciousness of our existence.

I can feel the music in me now, taking control as I grasp a nearby tree with both hands. I circle, circle, circle, my hips, the rhythm pulsing inside me, guiding me. I surrender to its power, letting myself be led in this primeval dance, breathing, ahhhing. I vaguely sense the skies darken, the air cool. It passes. Sun re-emerges. Breathe.

At some point I made my way to the bar, feeling shiny and bright. But as I waited to be served, something caught my eye: an arm patch on a uniform shirt. Martin’s Garage it proclaimed, in that same sturdy font. “Martin’s Garage!” I hollered out in my merry state, hazily navigating my brain in search of meaning.

I said the name a few more times to myself (and now, as I sway back and forth, I find myself muttering it like a mantra) and by the time I made the connection, the owner of the arm patch had turned to regard me. “I have a pen!” I yelled at him. He laughed and leaned closer, trying to understand.

I learned the shirt was a thrift store find (a shame, I'd thought at the time, as I’d always had a bit of a thing for mechanics), but he did have dark, kind eyes and strong-looking arms, he smelled like wood and soap... soon he'd said something smart that made me laugh and then we were kissing. I giggled at his prickly mustache and beard, but they didn’t bother me and before long, I’d wrapped my arms around his neck and we’d decided to go talk in his car, where it was "quieter".

It is not quiet now. I howl and rock each time the rhythm grabs me, and like that intoxicating night, the colors and lights around me take on a psychedelic quality. I am in a vortex, a tunnel of energy. Distantly, thunder rumbles.

Lori, on her way out of the bathroom, stopped me at the back door, checking in as women do. And yes, I let her know, I was fine, a consenting adult.

And consent I did. First up against his car, despite the chilly autumn air, and again in the back seat of his Chevy. Fleetingly, my thinking self tried to raise a flag of caution, but her voice was drowned out, as I could only hear the music of the night, some primal paean to touch and abandon.

So Life had her way.

And I knew, once I knew, that when you came it would be in the time when the lavender blooms. When the air grows thick with anticipation each afternoon and the clouds start rolling in heavy. And I knew that each year after, I would take your hand and show you, and we would nuzzle our noses into the soft stalks and I would say, “Can you believe this gift? This magic that blossoms for you...”

And now… I briefly sense the lush green of creation, vibrant all around me, around us, it hums and buzzes, chirps and twitters. Pauses and resumes. The air rich with energy, electric before a storm. One thousand moths unfolding their wings, ancient songs of life, a quilt of sound and movement, patterns amid the chaos. The heartbeat of the Earth pounds underneath it all, and I am the heartbeat, we are the heartbeat. Wild, I know only my breath, the beat, the vortex. You.

I call for you, come now. Be born. Come, my child, my force of nature, my little hurricane.