July Ghosts

Halfway down the trail I paused, sat on one of the small rocks that are not entirely successful at keeping 4-wheelers off the trail, and I simply experienced the twilight. The sounds of the highway were muffled, and the birdsong was sporadic. The wind rustled through the grasses, and then, a fox rustled by - he too paused when he caught sight of me - and then he moved on. A few moments later, two smaller foxes scurried by in the other direction, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes.

On my way back up the hill, I like to sit for a moment at the crossroads by the mining museum - there's a little metal bench that gives a perfect view of the Pintlers and every evening it's different and beautiful. This evening did not disappoint - the skies a rosy pink just above the horizon. That time of evening is full of rich silhouettes - and I noticed something unusual up the road - a bird on a fencepost? No .. a deer had paused and was just stepping delicately across the road to disappear into the evening.

The past week has been busy - friends visiting, the folk festival, and the annual picnic for the watershed committee. I appreciated the rising heat today - the slower day - the time to do what I needed to do at my own pace.

July has, in the past, been a challenging month for me - and this past weekend - a challenging set of memories for me. July 10th is the anniversary of my first husband's death, and the 12th is the anniversary of his funeral. July 11th, oddly enough, is the anniversary of the divorce from my second husband. When I received the notice of that particular court date - it sealed my understanding of the finality of the ending of that relationship - bookended, as it was, by the memories of death.

I've written about the re-claiming and re-invention of self that has gone on for me since I've settled into Butte. Many others have noticed a similar experience as they make a new home, a new life here. Last year, my first summer in Butte, was the first year that the 10th - 12th of July wasn't centered around mourning - but instead - centered around joy and celebration. The folk festival was a significant part of that, as was my involvement with the arts foundation and the community that I'd discovered.

This year - I again celebrated Life rather than death. The opening night I danced to the rich Chicago blues - I was surrounded by the landscape that I have come to love so well - and I reconnected with a friend who has also become dear to me. The memories I carried gently through the weekend were no longer bitter - they were simply sweet.

Whale Watching

And for another perspective ... read this fascinating article in today's NYTimes on Whales.

Blossoms

In Butte America, the big public fireworks display is held on July 3 over the Big Butte. It's also the highlight of the community fireworks season - when the public display is over ... the private displays respond ... and the entire city is full of the thunderous delight in what Barbara Kingsolver describes as "men trying to mate with the sky".

Last year on the fourth of July I had the good fortune of being caught up in a thunderstorm that led me to take shelter on the porch of the World Museum of Mining. Yesterday evening, I walked down the trail at sunset and watched the skies in the west full of lights and clouds and glorious beauty. I turned back up as darkness began to settle in the valley and watched the city, spread out below me, begin to blossom with the colored lights. I listened to the sounds from the 'flats' that was like popcorn in the microwave and the louder blasts of the uptown celebrators in the neighborhoods surrounding the trail.

I decided to take shelter, once again, at the Museum. I settled into a chair, put my feet up, and watched the blossoms of color below me in the city and above me from the Butte. The fireworks were non-stop, bursting out and fading away - the sound following the the light. The child in me delighted in the experience. The adult in me considered ... how many of those celebrators gave any particular thought to the meaning of the day - a decision by famous men (and mostly unknown women) 233 years ago to take hold of freedom. Freedom from what they considered tyranny. Freedom to choose for themselves. At each blossom created by hundreds of unknown souls - did they think of anything more than the freedom to set fires in the night?

Earlier in the day I walked over the weekly farmers' market and was enticed by a 50% off sign - I brought home a new plant. This led me to look over the plants I'd been growing in the apartment over the past year and more - and I realized that they needed a little freedom themselves - freedom to grow! I ran down to the flats to pick up potting soil, planters, and yes - I was tempted by yet more plants.

I spent the afternoon happily gardening in the shady comfort of my kitchen. Separating and replanting my old friends and creating healthy homes for my new friends. This past winter solstice I planted a hope ... it grew, but never flowered, and finally died. Some hopes are like that. So ... I put it into the compost bin, washed out the planter, and put a new plant in its place.

This plant was already full of blossoms - some were fully open to the sun - others were still tight buds waiting for the right touches to open. The blossoms were the same tawny color as my favorite fireworks from the night before.