An Octave Above Thunder
An Octave Above Thunder
Meditation on All Things Wild
. . .Her voice rose,
an octave above thunder.
—Carol Muske-Dukes
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The first long rumble wakes me, an echo of a forgotten dream. I lie perfectly still. Probably, I hold my breath.
No. The though rises as mist before I sink back to sleep.
Later—who can say how long in this restless night in an endless series of restles nights when the cat paces and yowls, forever inconsolable—I see the flash reflected against closed eyelids. At first I think it is the last potent wallop of this week’s super full moon or a trick of my too tired mind; I have been dragged from sleep so many times this night as I have on most nights for nearly a year by the irritable cat that I no longer trust my senses. But then I hear the distant sound of boulders shifting their weight—a reverberation missing its boom, gentle almost. The echo slips over the gulch and slides down and down the valley, until it finally fades.
Still, the cat’s voice rises, an octave above the thunder.
I rise, too, to try to feed her something new, ignoring the four open cans of food on the kitchen island.
Outside, a tapping, the sound of rain on the metal roof. I am fully away now to the flashes of lighting in tree tops, the storm intensifying, the clatter of rain rising. This thunder lacks the drama of summer thunder when a clap might cause me to jump. Instead there this tender reverberation, the sound of summer moving like a lover across autumn on the mountain.
Later, when I again wake with the cat, I notice half an inch of soggy snow illuminating the deck outside, as if the sound of thunder has taken form in the cold air.
The Farmer’s Almanac says thundersnow foretells of a cold winter, which might give lie to the gloriously warm fall we have been having. Just yesterday, I had all the windows and doors open, had moved the still-blooming nasturtiums back outside after a brief, end of the week snow. The pots are in full second bloom even though now aspens lift bare limbs to the sky.
But, in truth, both Greg and I have noticed, how the birds descend in clouds when we put out seed. Yesterday, I counted a dozen Clark’s Nutcrackers along with a frenzy of Steller’s Jay. They gobble seeds in minutes and then squawk for more: hungry, perhaps storing up for what they know is to come. In the trees, the croak of a raven who watches the thick-coated fox in the yard.
Perhaps this winter will indeed be deep. Or perhaps the thundersnow is an omen of a different sort.
As I write, the fireplace ticks and flames lick and curl in the dark, late-dawn that presages winter. The wind rushes outside while the cat clacks along the wood floor with her too long nails and goes to the bedroom door to yowl for Greg to get up. She is a tiny tyrant, ordering out days with à la minute demands for food and a lap to sit in.
We try to soothe her, try to be patient even when we have been hauled from sleep again, but the truth is we are both holding our breath for a sign that her time has come. I have been saying since before River died, that I didn’t think Dottie would last another three months.
I wonder too often if she is in pain, if her time has come, but no sooner do I voice the thought than Dottie produces a dead mouse.
Not yet, she says.
So Greg and I lumber, sleep-deprived and cranky ourselves, through these days, trying to be kind to each other and to the old cat, who after all, wants only comfort.
It’s what we all want.
There will come a day when Dottie’s voice will not rise an octave above thunder, and so the thundersnow reminds me that each moment is precious. Then I will smile and laugh at how a four and a half pound cat ordered our days and remember the miracle of thunder and snow and know in my bones that sometimes the mystery reaches out and hauls you from sleep to say, pay attention.
And thank you for reading.
Big love,
Karen
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What’s New:
Fishtrap 2025 Yearlong Workshop with Karen Auvinen
A Walk in the Woods: Mapping New Territory and Exploring the Terrain of Your Book-Length Story
“A journey of a thousand miles is begins with a single step” —Laozi
Just as a walk in the forest reveals hidden paths and surprising discoveries, this Yearlong workshop invites you to uncover the path of your own story by learning to trust your intuition and the act of putting one foot in front of the other.
Applications Open November 1, 2024
I am very excited to announce I have been asked to return to Fishtrap in lovely Lake Wallowa, Oregon to lead the yearlong book project (summer 2025-summer 2026). My last yearlong cohort finished in 2023.
Fishtrap is a one of a kind experience. I would love to have you join me!
Click this link for more information. The yearlong workshop includes two in-residence workshops at Fishtrap (summer of 2025 and 2026), monthly zooms, comments on monthly submissions, personalized book recommendations, writing exchanges with your cohort and a optional winter retreat.
Here is the promo video from my 2022 Yearlong Workshop: The Year of Writing Generously:
Please join me for this space-limited workshop and begin the journey of your book-length Story.
A Woman’s Place is in the Wild is a reader-supported weekly meditation on all things wild. If you want to read more of my work, check out Rough Beauty: Forty Seasons of Mountain Living.
Or read my most recent story, “One of Our Own,” on Terrain.org
Good one! Great in fact. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you.