Dragonfly on the Clothesline

Part of my summer morning routine, along with watering the lawn and garden, is to hang out at least one load of laundry before I go to work.  I like to think I'm at least doing my part for the earth . . . or at least, that hanging out these loads somewhat offsets the other damages I do with my large family.  This morning, as I reach up to hang another pair of jeans,  a dragonfly lands on the line.  Events like this deserve mention:  we live far enough from the creek to not often see dragonflies, and it was still early morning, not yet the heat of the day.  Nonetheless, there it was . . making me smile and remember.

Years ago, when Maria was not yet one year old, I attended a writing retreat at the South Dakota ranch home of my friend and mentor, Linda.  While I was there, I stayed in a small, cheery room named the "Dragonfly."  Linda, ever passionate about the prairie surrounding her ranch/retreat, had named each room for a creature of the earth surrounding us.  As I left the retreat, changed in my view of myself and my writing in ways that live with me still, I decided that a dragonfly would become my personal totem.

The Native Americans who lived on this high prairie, both where Linda's retreat home lies, and where our ranch stands, would understand about totems.  A totem was, and is, a personal symbol of a higher life.  A young man with a bear totem would be reminded to be courageous and strong . . . both qualities a bear might represent.  A young woman with a lioness as totem would try to live her life with both the extreme tenderness and the protective ferocity of that animal.

My totem, however, doesn't work in the traditional way.  I don't know that dragonflies necessarily possess any qualities I want to emulate.  Instead, seeing a dragonfly reminds me not to let my dream of writing and publishing become buried under the daily-ness of life.   Seeing a dragonfly, for me, is the Universe's push to get back to the desk, to the computer, back to myself and my thoughts, and to spend time trying to capture them on the page. Seeing a dragonfly tells me that the woman who attended that writing retreat, who took time out of a busy life even back then to write and talk and read, still lives inside me.

This morning started off like any other Monday morning:  I was up and doing  before I was fully awake, trying to cram too many things into too few hours.  But summer only lasts a few short months, and dragonflies only happen to land on the clothesline on rare occasions.  The ideas in my head buzz in and out like an elusive insect, beautiful and sparkling, but gone in a breath's time.  I can only hope that they keep landing in my life.