If you could see yourself sometimes

It has a feel today of the beginning of fall. I know that sounds bizarre, but there you are. It’s lush and jungle-like and green, but there’s a certain hint to the coolness, by my guess about 11 days early. It’s not the end of summer, just the turning, ever so slightly.

Other than for the birds, all is still. It’s Sunday, and there have been a few seconds without freeway noise before the steady stream starts up again, and then another pause. Three seconds, and then a loud motor and the whir. Such a rhythm to it – cars approaching, arriving (right below the fence), passing. It’s hard on these mornings to tell if it rained or if it’s morning dew making the ground wet, but the freeway speaks of rain having fallen. There are clues everywhere.

Yesterday, Angie got home as I was taking garbage out. She turned from her car and asked, “Are you okay?”

I said, “Yes. Why?”

She said, “If you could see yourself sometimes!”

I was at a Native American ceremony all day – the grandchildren of my friend Lou were given their Indian names. There was feasting afterwards and preparations galore beforehand, but the meaning of the day was never lost. It was for the children, but I saw a turning point for Lou too. I saw Lou being honored as a grandmother in a way that expresses the power of the grandmother, and of a woman becoming an elder.

My shirt was stained with coffee after all that kitchen work and, though I hadn’t changed my shirt, I’d put on a pair of navy knee-high sweat pants and had on my navy knocking-around shoes, my hair pulled back. I imagine I looked frumpy and disheveled and that my white legs glared in the early evening sun. I’m sure I was listing to the right with the handle of the garbage bag thrown over that shoulder and the weight of it knocking against my side. I’m no good at all-day events. I was weary.

But I couldn’t see myself. If you could see yourself sometimes!

(Angie laughed and kissed me, poking gentle fun.)

I think I did see myself in the reflection of my friend…as if I visibly witnessed her arriving at that turning point at which I too stand. How nice to have a culture (or to witness one) that honors such times for young and old and where the symbolism isn’t symbolic only. There are such times in white culture. A baptism is a naming ceremony. There’s graduation. Marriage. Maybe retirement is meant to fulfill the passage into elder…or could.

I just know there’s something you feel when you see such honoring of passages. When you pick up on the clues. When you get a glimpse of something that isn’t imposed or bestowed but acknowledged as already there.