Waiting for the Storm Isaias

Indira Ganesan, Before the Storm I, 2020

I am watching the changing light from my balcony window.  The color shifts from bright yellow to darkening threat, and back again.  The trees rustle like silk saris, and as I watch, I sense a downpour.  We could use the rain.  Elsewhere, Isaias has struck with the force of a hurricane, ripping through the Carolinas, leaving all of NJ in a state of emergency.  My mother texts, We have had no power for four hours, and no sun.  An hour later, All is well, with the power back, and the sunshine.  It is late in the day here.  I am reheating pizza on a skillet, and idly wondering what in the world am i doing in a town where after nearly a decade I know hardly anyone well.  Everyone in town is a neighbor or a stranger.  Yet if I go to my local market, I know I will receive a warm welcome, and if I were to wander, in pre-Covid days, into the radio station, I would receive the same.  If I hop in my car, and drive ten minutes to the next town, I can find old friends.  And right here, in the distance, on the horse farm, two horses with identical coats of chestnut stand side by side; all that is different is their size; one is a miniature horse. How priviledged, how lucky am I to live in such proximity to nature, to a farm. But I wonder about this life.  So much of it is spent looking out the window.

i am not a walker, or a sun-worshipper.  The beach has little interest for me beyond the shape of the waves.  I dislike summer, though i loved it as a child because it meant I could read.  Now, I am grateful for the farmers markets, and I know that if one were to live someplace during a pandemic, a beach town is pretty capital.  I have been to some some amzing concerts locally, seen great films, and attended superlative dinner parties.  So what is it that I am missing?  I wondered aloud to a frend if i had become a shut-in, but her reply was that we are supposed to be shut-ins at this point in our lives.  The mourning birds returned to coo, and I wonder if they are thinking of a third brood.  I hope they will wait for the storm to pass.

When I lived in Long Island, a friend said that we don’t have communities anymore exactly, except for what we cobble together of far-flung friends.

The storm still has not arrived.

What would it be like if my balcony were in Venice, or Delhi?  Yet one always packs a little loneliness, it seems. All is well.

Indira Ganesan, Before the Storm II, 2020

 

An Eventful Week

The weather app kept promising rain, which never truly arrived. The fans on at full blast, the two cats draped on the countertops to cool their bellies, the drapes drawn. Lunch was ice cream, dinner was yogurt.

Even as I type the hummingbird visits the salvia which is full flower, as is the jasmine. The roses are bravely putting out a second flush of blooms.

And the little baby mourning dove came back for a long visit, opening and closing her mouth, in memory, perhaps, of being fed by her parents not so long ago. Her head is small for her body. Perhaps she will return to nest in a few years.

 

Another Leavetaking

They did it again. The adult mourning doves returned to the balcony and were nesting by June 17. June 30 saw not two but only one baby. This time, I did not take as many photos, but checked in every day. Today, worried for the rain, I saw the baby who had been left on its own last night was still there, and when I checked back a few hours later, saw it take its first ( for me, anyway) steps on the grates of the balcony. Then I came back in two hours and discovered an empty nest. Once again, I rushed down the stairs to see if it was in the yard. I saw a snake lying in an S shape a few yards away, but surely, it could not have eaten the baby. From a distance, I tried to see of I could make out a lump in its stomach. I heard a mourning dove coo faintly from deep in woods. Had the baby simply flown? It had been a month, after all, and it had received food meant for two.

Tomorrow, I will once again clear away the nest, and clean up the umbrella. Maybe I can have my balcony back. To sit outside on a chair, and read, maybe with the umbrella installed and open. Or will the parents return for a third brood?

It is tomorrow, and I still hear the faint cooing. A giant moth has attached itself to the window screen. If mourning doves symbolize new beginnings, moths suggest a person pay attention to discern the unreal from the real. Sitting at my desk, overlooking the balcony, I see a world unfold. The bee that’s discovered the pansies which are still blooming, and the fuschia. The two hummingbirds that visit the salvia. Oh, there is one now. The larger world is filled with death and life, and this balcony is a microcosm. A play of entrances and exits. Above, the canopy of sun and starlight. Below, the earth in its radient charm.