A crow visited me on May 1st with a friend—a jay of some kind who’s typically in my yard all day eating the seeds I leave out on a large plate. The crow visited me a second time, this time me alone, and bent down to scrape his bill against the curve of an arched trellis. Same one he announced himself from when the jay accompanied him. The same one that holds high the arms of the boysenberries growing underneath it (if I bother to entwine them in between it’s rusty-brown four-inch squares… so far I haven’t.)
He “cawed” once—the crow—paused, possibly looked at me, then took off towards the East over my neighbor’s yard.
Hmmmm. I wondered: What’s the significance of a black crow visiting me on May 1 the day of the full moon in Scorpio landing in aspect to my natal Neptune in my third house of communication?
Rather than look it up, I wrote it down. Here. If he visits a third time, I’m ready for his close-up. And to listen for whatever else he has to say.
Meanwhile, I wait and stare into the silent beauty that is my garden. I rub 4 o’clock seeds between my palm, sifting the sand through them to remove a light residue from their surfaces. Something that accumulated on about half the seeds in the storage jar. Kind of like the harmless bloom on dark chocolate after a certain time in the pantry.
Four o’clock seeds are dark black—like that crow—and oval-round in shape. At first glance, they look like mouse droppings, but when held and examined up close, they resemble intricate, miniature urns with a well-closed and tight fitting lid, seemingly functional. Something the Borrowers could put to use.
Today is a good day to plant flowers according to the biodynamic calendar I follow. I use that and the ephemeris to guide me these days and I’m getting good at it. Seasonal weather doesn’t ground me between the Earth and the sky as much as it used to—although it certainly cannot be ignored. Probably everyone feels it now. That experience of our climate changing and comparing it to whatever signal we remember re-occurring that is now out of place or altogether absent. I remember the five long years it took to publish that book on atmospheric rivers —the seasonal storms that keep California only just barely in hydrologic balance, only just barely from drying up or washing out completely every 2-7 years or so.
So I look to the stars and consider different aspects in space and its cosmic weather to fill in the gaps: between gravity and lightness, between my mother here and my father there.
My father died on Earth Day in 2018, in the middle of that period when we were editing the book. I didn’t know it then, but the year after, when I didn’t plant a garden, I discovered just how much she gives back. Technology, people, and science, on the other hand gave me absolutely nothing that year. And I continue to contrast what I uncovered in 2019, the year I first felt the absence of my father in physical form. I wasn’t wholly unmoored, but I wasn’t held either. I wondered how I was going to do this without knowing he was there. I have evolved. I’ve had to evolve quickly, always and readily, to find my feet again and again. Over time, I re-learned how to walk, and then again to run. And, my Dad and I, we always have a quiet, clear conversation going.
I’m very lucky to call him my father. There has been no other example in my life of what true manhood—what true divine masculine energy—expresses in physical form. Respectful, kind, attentive, supportive, and protected. Not just toward me, but toward every female, every woman in his life, that I know of. Now as my mom said, “You would never know if your father truly didn’t like a person. He held too much grace to make that known.“ No, instead, what he was able to do was take something indigestible, truly abhorrent, meant to ruin you, in small doses. Like Socrates and hemlock. Besides, he was a person who had much purpose, energy, strength, and dedication and applied all these towards betterment of his own imperfect humanity. He actualized that humanity, and counciled me to “vote and vote often.”
His example gives me the courage to do many important things. No matter how big or small. His curiosity and reverence for nature has allowed me to remain that way—plugged into Earth and its inhabitants, rather than “inhaling the technology,” as my daughter describes, with a smile.
About all of us: Two legged, four legged, eight petalled, four-sided. Red, yellow, black, blue, brown, orange. It’s all a grand display and a mystery. Life is something that inherently is good and while also scary, it can be faced with courage, dignity, and purpose. It’s equally true that every moment can be met with calm, openness, and acceptance. So the natural range and deep center I hold found good soil by father’s example and care. And I’m just so grateful and lucky he chose my mother.
Today these four o’clock seeds will be the first that I plant intentionally this season—just for me. Not shared with others (for now), not sown for others, either. That giving is already done. Long done. Over many of my generations. We’ve served.
It’s interesting I sensed there would be the right time for me to plant my first seeds, So let it be today. May Day. During a time of rest, after accomplishments, and reflection. A personal spring, and a moon full for planting new seeds.
With care and solidarity,
