Thursday, July 5, 2012
Photos
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Buzz
8:30 sit on deck tonight with husband
Air abuzz all around us: junebugs, Japanese beetles, mosquitoes, and a pine sawyer - a kind of insect I love - who landed in my hand as I was sitting. About every 3 seconds, I caught a glimpse or earful of some winged being zooming near me.
It is our grand apple tree's time of year to hum. It happened last year, too: for a few days, upon arriving on our lands, the Japanese beetles court the apple tree so abundantly that to walk under it is like walking below a monstrous beehive. The entire tree buzzes loudly.
A large dragonfly chased bugs as we sat. It veered off course toward a junebug or Japanese beetle at one point, then turned back once it got a closer look at the insect - too big?
Birdsong abounded.
Most gray tree frogs have left the waters, and are calling from the forest now, but not high in the trees yet. One called from our rooftop tonight, near enough the chimney to sound like it was in our woodstove as I rocked my daughter beside it at bedtime tonight. Another tree frog called in our little pond, which this week's rains returned to us.
One new fellow croaked from down the road, a two-part, low rumble of a croak, not sure who.
The dark form of a large owl glided silently down the neighboring driveway, before rising up to settle in an aspen.
Air abuzz all around us: junebugs, Japanese beetles, mosquitoes, and a pine sawyer - a kind of insect I love - who landed in my hand as I was sitting. About every 3 seconds, I caught a glimpse or earful of some winged being zooming near me.
It is our grand apple tree's time of year to hum. It happened last year, too: for a few days, upon arriving on our lands, the Japanese beetles court the apple tree so abundantly that to walk under it is like walking below a monstrous beehive. The entire tree buzzes loudly.
A large dragonfly chased bugs as we sat. It veered off course toward a junebug or Japanese beetle at one point, then turned back once it got a closer look at the insect - too big?
Birdsong abounded.
Most gray tree frogs have left the waters, and are calling from the forest now, but not high in the trees yet. One called from our rooftop tonight, near enough the chimney to sound like it was in our woodstove as I rocked my daughter beside it at bedtime tonight. Another tree frog called in our little pond, which this week's rains returned to us.
One new fellow croaked from down the road, a two-part, low rumble of a croak, not sure who.
The dark form of a large owl glided silently down the neighboring driveway, before rising up to settle in an aspen.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Day 20: Into the Earth
6:45 sit tonight
Lost a duck two nights ago, and last night my husband scared away the black fox who'd probably come back for more. Tis the season of hungry pups.
On the way to my tree tonight, I pondered the groundhog hole near its trunk. Down on the ground, peering as far in as I could, into the darkness, into the body of the earth. Roots, lumpy earth, rocks line the sides of the hole. I was suddenly struck by how holy, how immeasurably sacred and perfect it must be to be carried by an animal into the earth after death. To be carried down, into the darkness, into the belly of the earth from which we all come.
Lost a duck two nights ago, and last night my husband scared away the black fox who'd probably come back for more. Tis the season of hungry pups.
On the way to my tree tonight, I pondered the groundhog hole near its trunk. Down on the ground, peering as far in as I could, into the darkness, into the body of the earth. Roots, lumpy earth, rocks line the sides of the hole. I was suddenly struck by how holy, how immeasurably sacred and perfect it must be to be carried by an animal into the earth after death. To be carried down, into the darkness, into the belly of the earth from which we all come.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Day 19: Jungle
A Gray Treefrog has been trilling from our deck for a few days, and he showed himself today long enough for the children and me to get a good look at him. He's been taking shelter in the folded cover of our barbeque grill that lies in a heap on our deck, holding the rain in numerous little pockets. The frog was dark gray to match the grill cover. He let my boy pat his back gently ("It's sticky!"), and stayed long enough afterwards for my girl to inspect him closely (she wasn't ready to touch him yet). Then he scooted himself backwards into a tiny cave behind him.
Tonight, though, the deck is silent; the calls all issue from the pond near the base of the deck. Have all the treefrogs made their migration to water by now? When will we start seeing eggs? Will our four ducks get to all the eggs before we can fish some out for safekeeping?
9:15pm sit
65 degrees
Humid tonight, and still. Seven Gray Treefrogs are calling loudly throughout the neighborhood (three in our pond), which, along with the humidity, make it seem like a rainforest tonight. One or two peepers still singing hopefully to the south, and crickets in the yard to the north.
The night felt full of life, like there was a creature every inch, be it worm, moth, aphid, raccoon, dove, frog. I felt timid about climbing the tree when I got to its trunk, and stood for a bit, taking in the feel of the darkness and the noise of the frogs. I had let my hair fall down over my ears and around my neck to keep the mosquitoes off, but felt vulnerable with my ears partially covered, and tucked it back after all. On reflection now, I wonder if my nervousness about climbing the tree was due to my inability to hear the usual night noises over the noise of the treefrogs. Heightened alertness from a compromised sense.
Saw a flash of light in a memorial garden in our family's yard, and remembered a family friend who died young last year; Karolina, bright and ballsy and vibrant. With her inspiration, I climbed up into the dark tree. The leaves of the little maple that grows amongst the pine trunks have grown so much as to completely obscure my path, and I ascended through the leaves as a plane climbs through clouds, unable to see what was just above me.
Sat on my branch listening to the treefrogs, peepers, crickets, cars. Realized, in the moist air, what a treasure our home is, our yard. As much as I yearn to live where I have the privacy from neighbors and greater distance from the road, this land we live on is such an immense blessing to my family. The dear plum trees we planted a few years ago that carry the stories of my son's and daughter's first tastes of the fruit, of the day almost every male in our family - and a dear friend - came to help us relocate the trees so they would have more room to grow. The stories of our garden, laid out by my husband and mother-in-law several years back, with so many cherished memories of us and our children, and our little old dog Fritz who used to pick peas with me in the early summer. So much richness in this land, such a wealth of habitats just on our 3/4 acre plot: the soggy marshy area down low, the "pond" (formed by the crater of an above-ground pool), the pine tree forest, the open yard amidst it all. We are so blessed.
Sitting in the tree, I felt called to climb down even before I knew my time was up. I hesitated, wanting very much to fit in to the stillness of the night, of all the other creatures around me. I didn't want to fill my usual daytime role of HUMAN crunching over the land. I wanted to fit in to nature.
Tonight, though, the deck is silent; the calls all issue from the pond near the base of the deck. Have all the treefrogs made their migration to water by now? When will we start seeing eggs? Will our four ducks get to all the eggs before we can fish some out for safekeeping?
9:15pm sit
65 degrees
Humid tonight, and still. Seven Gray Treefrogs are calling loudly throughout the neighborhood (three in our pond), which, along with the humidity, make it seem like a rainforest tonight. One or two peepers still singing hopefully to the south, and crickets in the yard to the north.
The night felt full of life, like there was a creature every inch, be it worm, moth, aphid, raccoon, dove, frog. I felt timid about climbing the tree when I got to its trunk, and stood for a bit, taking in the feel of the darkness and the noise of the frogs. I had let my hair fall down over my ears and around my neck to keep the mosquitoes off, but felt vulnerable with my ears partially covered, and tucked it back after all. On reflection now, I wonder if my nervousness about climbing the tree was due to my inability to hear the usual night noises over the noise of the treefrogs. Heightened alertness from a compromised sense.
Saw a flash of light in a memorial garden in our family's yard, and remembered a family friend who died young last year; Karolina, bright and ballsy and vibrant. With her inspiration, I climbed up into the dark tree. The leaves of the little maple that grows amongst the pine trunks have grown so much as to completely obscure my path, and I ascended through the leaves as a plane climbs through clouds, unable to see what was just above me.
Sat on my branch listening to the treefrogs, peepers, crickets, cars. Realized, in the moist air, what a treasure our home is, our yard. As much as I yearn to live where I have the privacy from neighbors and greater distance from the road, this land we live on is such an immense blessing to my family. The dear plum trees we planted a few years ago that carry the stories of my son's and daughter's first tastes of the fruit, of the day almost every male in our family - and a dear friend - came to help us relocate the trees so they would have more room to grow. The stories of our garden, laid out by my husband and mother-in-law several years back, with so many cherished memories of us and our children, and our little old dog Fritz who used to pick peas with me in the early summer. So much richness in this land, such a wealth of habitats just on our 3/4 acre plot: the soggy marshy area down low, the "pond" (formed by the crater of an above-ground pool), the pine tree forest, the open yard amidst it all. We are so blessed.
Sitting in the tree, I felt called to climb down even before I knew my time was up. I hesitated, wanting very much to fit in to the stillness of the night, of all the other creatures around me. I didn't want to fill my usual daytime role of HUMAN crunching over the land. I wanted to fit in to nature.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Day 18: Flicker in a dust-bath, and attendance
Here's a video of a male Northern Yellow-Shafted Flicker in our front yard today, using one of our chickens' many dust-baths.
His dusting technique is so different from the chickens, who lounge on their sides for minutes at a time, throwing clouds of dust up over themselves with their feet and wings. The flicker is clearly more concerned about self-preservation, and the approach of the motorcycle sends him flying away.
I've been hearing his call for a few days and trying to get a good enough look at him to identify him. He has been "PEEE-OOOoooo"'ing loudly in our yard and the neighbors', but I could only ever catch a glimpse of him flying: bigger than a robin, white rump, yellow under the wings. He called today while digging for bugs in the grass, and I located him and got to see his long beak. Heard him again this afternoon when I was in the house, and I ran to the window. He was close enough for me to see his markings, so I was able to positively identify him as a flicker, and also got to take this fun video of him!
8:30 pm sit
Sat beside our little forest this evening, feeling like I should be there rather than up in the tree. Crickets and loud bass from neighbors' music were the prominent sounds. Chattering of thoughts in my head. Green green everywhere outside of myself. Blackberry bushes waist-deep in the pine forest, mosquitoes searching for a landing spot on my long-sleeved body.
Felt tonight like I just needed to show up in the woods, like I just had to be there so my head could be counted for attendance. It was a very passive experience, standing there like that. Not like I was doing it just so I could say I'd done my sit for the day, but like I was doing it because the universe needed me there, then. Like I was being part of a backdrop to someone else's life for a spell.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
My Day 17: Details
3:30 pm sit
Misting, 61 degrees
Sank deeply into details today for some reason. Had to keep wrenching my attention out of what was in front of me in order to check in with bird calls, weather, etc.
I have been noticing that I'm far more receptive to my intuition lately, following "feelings" more fluidly than I usually do. When I have a sense of when to do something, for instance, I've begun just following it rather than thinking through it to figure out if this seems rationally like the best timing. And invariably, when I follow this inner guidance, things work out more smoothly than when I try to bend them to my own preferences or reasoning.
Felt called to sit at the base of my tree today rather than in the branches. From my new vantage point, I noticed a gash in the trunk near the ground that was actively dripping sap. The crystal-clear droplets, dangling from the bark and just about to fall to the earth, glistened in the sun. I leaned in to blow my breath against them, but they didn't move a hair. They were completely solid, like an unbearably fragile, frozen moment. A dandelion seed joined them in their stillness, hovering in the air a couple inches away, captive to an unseen spider's web. Snapshots of a moment held in this tiny enclave against the tree trunk. They recall to me Eckhart Tolle's line that goes something like, "Die before you die, and discover that there is no death."
The new growth of the tiny beech is about ten inches long now, the tender stems still holding their white down. The leaves are ironing themselves out, the sharp ridges from their emergence beginning to relax and smooth. A crane fly clumsily barreled into one, skidded across, got its bearings and continued on through the branches.
A sapling growing beside the beech is showing some bright orange spots on its leaves, one of them with a ring of tiny orange pods all around it, resembling insect eggs.
I ascended the tree when it felt right, being careful not to wedge my bare foot too far into the gap between the trunks. As I sat, a horsefly bumped into my head, then flew a short way off to perch on a twig, its head and torso upright, like the dancing spider from a couple of weeks ago.
Robins, chickadees, three birds I didn't identify. Crickets, our ducks. The tree frogs seem to be spreading out all over the land these days. One moved onto our deck yesterday, it's high trill resonating through our porch. Another climbed up the front of our house to the gutter, singing shyly as I worked in the front garden this afternoon.
Misting, 61 degrees
Sank deeply into details today for some reason. Had to keep wrenching my attention out of what was in front of me in order to check in with bird calls, weather, etc.
I have been noticing that I'm far more receptive to my intuition lately, following "feelings" more fluidly than I usually do. When I have a sense of when to do something, for instance, I've begun just following it rather than thinking through it to figure out if this seems rationally like the best timing. And invariably, when I follow this inner guidance, things work out more smoothly than when I try to bend them to my own preferences or reasoning.
Felt called to sit at the base of my tree today rather than in the branches. From my new vantage point, I noticed a gash in the trunk near the ground that was actively dripping sap. The crystal-clear droplets, dangling from the bark and just about to fall to the earth, glistened in the sun. I leaned in to blow my breath against them, but they didn't move a hair. They were completely solid, like an unbearably fragile, frozen moment. A dandelion seed joined them in their stillness, hovering in the air a couple inches away, captive to an unseen spider's web. Snapshots of a moment held in this tiny enclave against the tree trunk. They recall to me Eckhart Tolle's line that goes something like, "Die before you die, and discover that there is no death."
The new growth of the tiny beech is about ten inches long now, the tender stems still holding their white down. The leaves are ironing themselves out, the sharp ridges from their emergence beginning to relax and smooth. A crane fly clumsily barreled into one, skidded across, got its bearings and continued on through the branches.
A sapling growing beside the beech is showing some bright orange spots on its leaves, one of them with a ring of tiny orange pods all around it, resembling insect eggs.
I ascended the tree when it felt right, being careful not to wedge my bare foot too far into the gap between the trunks. As I sat, a horsefly bumped into my head, then flew a short way off to perch on a twig, its head and torso upright, like the dancing spider from a couple of weeks ago.
Robins, chickadees, three birds I didn't identify. Crickets, our ducks. The tree frogs seem to be spreading out all over the land these days. One moved onto our deck yesterday, it's high trill resonating through our porch. Another climbed up the front of our house to the gutter, singing shyly as I worked in the front garden this afternoon.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Day 16 (for me): Rain
9pm sit in tree, barefeet
Heavy mist. Rain arrived as I sat, like a blanket spread over us all in the cozy dark. Cool air slithered through the trees and to my bare feet as the rain fell on the treetops. Crickets stopped their chirping, but peepers and tree frogs carried on.
Visited memorial garden in our yard on way to house, crickets singing away there.
Heavy mist. Rain arrived as I sat, like a blanket spread over us all in the cozy dark. Cool air slithered through the trees and to my bare feet as the rain fell on the treetops. Crickets stopped their chirping, but peepers and tree frogs carried on.
Visited memorial garden in our yard on way to house, crickets singing away there.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Day 15: Change in schedule
As a means of improving the sustainability of both my sitting and my writing, I've decided to let go of my commitment to sitting and blogging every night this month. Instead, I'm going to sit as often as I reasonably can (probably about 4 or 5 times a week), and write about twice a week. This change is intended to make it feasible for me to keep on with it all even after this month is up. Sitting and writing every night has been hard on the rest of my life, as I typically like to devote about an hour and a half to it a night, which doesn't leave time for much else.
6:30 pm
Overcast skies, bright, drizzling. About 60 degrees, no mosquitoes or crickets yet tonight.
Robins, a couple of birds I didn't recognize.
Took my sit in the yard tonight to try and locate one of several gray treefrogs who have either moved into our area or simply become vocal in our area. I finally was able to identify them today, thanks to Charlie sharing the great frog call website! These tree frogs are the "ree...ree..." frogs I've been hearing across the fields for a couple of weeks now.
I located one under our old deck in the yard (waiting to be cut up into firewood), one about a 30-second walk away in the woods, and three more spread out in neighbors' yards, all about equidistant from one another. I love listening to their calls, now that I know who they are and what they look like!
6:30 pm
Overcast skies, bright, drizzling. About 60 degrees, no mosquitoes or crickets yet tonight.
Robins, a couple of birds I didn't recognize.
Took my sit in the yard tonight to try and locate one of several gray treefrogs who have either moved into our area or simply become vocal in our area. I finally was able to identify them today, thanks to Charlie sharing the great frog call website! These tree frogs are the "ree...ree..." frogs I've been hearing across the fields for a couple of weeks now.
I located one under our old deck in the yard (waiting to be cut up into firewood), one about a 30-second walk away in the woods, and three more spread out in neighbors' yards, all about equidistant from one another. I love listening to their calls, now that I know who they are and what they look like!
Monday, May 14, 2012
Fourteenth day: Photos!
 |
| View of our little forest from our yard. My tree is the one on the left. |
 |
| The view while climbing. |
 |
| Lichen near my sitting branch. Can you see the laughing pig? |
 |
| Eggs gathered on the way back to the house. |
 |
| Heating pine needle tea for the little ones and me. Such delicate beauty to be found in the most unexpected places. |
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Thirteenth day: Rediscovery
3:30 pm
Barefeet today, celebrating the 70s we enjoyed.
Lawnmower working during my sit, rendering me essentially deaf for the duration, which helped me to focus on my physical sensations and my vision. Felt exposed in the tree with the lawnmowing nearby, standing on the limb in daylight. Experimented with different sitting/standing positions to find some cover amongst the branches. So different from the other night, when I felt so hidden and secure.
Wove my way through the tiny forest behind our house and our neighbors' houses on my "different way home." Rarely go through these woods, as they extend behind our neighbors' houses and I like to support their privacy, so it was a treat to have the excuse to explore them today. Delighted to discover a small stand of false solomon's seal, and gathered some of the feathers of a favorite hen I lost to a predator a couple of weeks ago.
Approaching my house from the wrong side of our fence, I found myself channeled around the garage to the front door rather than up the deck to the back door where I usually enter the house after my sits. Something about coming to the house in this way prompted me to visit my sparse and wildly overgrown front garden, which happens to be the only place that perennial flowers are safe from children and marauding poultry. I rarely visit this part of my yard as I am usually accompanied by one or both of my little ones, and this garden is too near the fast road we live on. But today, I sat down next to it, pulled some weeds, and noticed with a bit of awe how much color was in it already, thanks to the spreading violets and grape hyacinth. The sage, oregano, blue flags, and lilies that I have managed to throw in the garden over the few years we've lived in this house are growing strong, despite being surrounded by wild plants.
I was filled with the serenity of having a flower garden to sit beside and tend, a pleasure which I have not known for a few years now. These quiet moments today, of tender awakening to and appreciation of this lovely place on the earth, the beauty and nurturing possible in this one spot, was one of the best parts of mother's day for me. Thank you for the suggestion to take a different way home, which is the path that led me to this discovery.
Barefeet today, celebrating the 70s we enjoyed.
Lawnmower working during my sit, rendering me essentially deaf for the duration, which helped me to focus on my physical sensations and my vision. Felt exposed in the tree with the lawnmowing nearby, standing on the limb in daylight. Experimented with different sitting/standing positions to find some cover amongst the branches. So different from the other night, when I felt so hidden and secure.
Wove my way through the tiny forest behind our house and our neighbors' houses on my "different way home." Rarely go through these woods, as they extend behind our neighbors' houses and I like to support their privacy, so it was a treat to have the excuse to explore them today. Delighted to discover a small stand of false solomon's seal, and gathered some of the feathers of a favorite hen I lost to a predator a couple of weeks ago.
Approaching my house from the wrong side of our fence, I found myself channeled around the garage to the front door rather than up the deck to the back door where I usually enter the house after my sits. Something about coming to the house in this way prompted me to visit my sparse and wildly overgrown front garden, which happens to be the only place that perennial flowers are safe from children and marauding poultry. I rarely visit this part of my yard as I am usually accompanied by one or both of my little ones, and this garden is too near the fast road we live on. But today, I sat down next to it, pulled some weeds, and noticed with a bit of awe how much color was in it already, thanks to the spreading violets and grape hyacinth. The sage, oregano, blue flags, and lilies that I have managed to throw in the garden over the few years we've lived in this house are growing strong, despite being surrounded by wild plants.
I was filled with the serenity of having a flower garden to sit beside and tend, a pleasure which I have not known for a few years now. These quiet moments today, of tender awakening to and appreciation of this lovely place on the earth, the beauty and nurturing possible in this one spot, was one of the best parts of mother's day for me. Thank you for the suggestion to take a different way home, which is the path that led me to this discovery.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Twelfth evening: Brilliant world
5:30 pm
Sunny day today, 70s. Spent the day with my husband and our kids out on an island off our coast, precious and exhausting time. Took some rose wine up the tree with me when we got home this afternoon and settled in.
Earlier sit than usual. Robins had all kinds of new words to their songs tonight, like they'd been traveling. Whole new verses I hadn't heard before! Cricket chirped more rapidly than other evenings. A crow cawed once. We see them flying through our yard often, but this is only the first crow I've heard during a sit this year.
Spotted a regular avian visitor of late whom I only ever see the taillights of: long brown tail, brown wings, bigger than a robin, with white under its tail. Thought I caught a glimpse of green-yellow on the underside of the wings today. Thought it was a thrasher at first (haven't seen one in years, so my recollection was a bit fuzzy), but they don't have the striking white under the tail that this one has. Have also heard a single sharp note that I believe was from this new bird. Will try to memorize it if I hear it again to help with the identification.
Both the beech sapling and the young maple growing at the base of my sit tree have shot up, putting on six, eight new inches since my sits began less than two weeks ago. It's astonishing to see how quickly they can grow, like life is just exploding within them and that's the only way it can get out. The sun shone through the branches of the pine as I sat, and every now and then shone brilliantly through, onto the leaves of the little maple. I had been studying the maple leaves, noting how they are almost full-grown but still as tender as when they were tiny. When the sun shone brightly on them all of a sudden, their whole appearance changed. They had gone from being dimly-lit leaves hovering in the shadows to exquisite specimens of the earth with layers of shadows dancing across them, mingling with the dazzling sunlight, all bright green and sharp-toothed edges. It reminded me of how, when we pay attention to things in our lives and share our attentiveness with others, we transform the world for one another.
Sunny day today, 70s. Spent the day with my husband and our kids out on an island off our coast, precious and exhausting time. Took some rose wine up the tree with me when we got home this afternoon and settled in.
Earlier sit than usual. Robins had all kinds of new words to their songs tonight, like they'd been traveling. Whole new verses I hadn't heard before! Cricket chirped more rapidly than other evenings. A crow cawed once. We see them flying through our yard often, but this is only the first crow I've heard during a sit this year.
Spotted a regular avian visitor of late whom I only ever see the taillights of: long brown tail, brown wings, bigger than a robin, with white under its tail. Thought I caught a glimpse of green-yellow on the underside of the wings today. Thought it was a thrasher at first (haven't seen one in years, so my recollection was a bit fuzzy), but they don't have the striking white under the tail that this one has. Have also heard a single sharp note that I believe was from this new bird. Will try to memorize it if I hear it again to help with the identification.
Both the beech sapling and the young maple growing at the base of my sit tree have shot up, putting on six, eight new inches since my sits began less than two weeks ago. It's astonishing to see how quickly they can grow, like life is just exploding within them and that's the only way it can get out. The sun shone through the branches of the pine as I sat, and every now and then shone brilliantly through, onto the leaves of the little maple. I had been studying the maple leaves, noting how they are almost full-grown but still as tender as when they were tiny. When the sun shone brightly on them all of a sudden, their whole appearance changed. They had gone from being dimly-lit leaves hovering in the shadows to exquisite specimens of the earth with layers of shadows dancing across them, mingling with the dazzling sunlight, all bright green and sharp-toothed edges. It reminded me of how, when we pay attention to things in our lives and share our attentiveness with others, we transform the world for one another.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Tenth evening: Robins
7:30 pm
With my littles sleeping, I walked out under a double rainbow to collect eggs and close the hens in for the night. We had a downpour an hour ago, and the wild birds now seemed triumphant in their cheery calling, so many joining the song.
Miles of dramatic clouds moving at a steady pace. Dark and heavy patches with the thready wisps that talk of rain falling. Flaming orange bursts where the sun was streaking through, leaving its mark.
Barely a hint of wind, but the apple blossoms still sent their fragrance across the yard to where I stood on the porch, wrapped in my fleece blanket given me by a long-ago friend.
Awareness was a companion to me today, seeming to hold my hand (or maybe my arm), pressing me to stay awake during different points in my day when I would typically be lost in thought. "Hey now, hey there! C'mon, you've got it in you! Stay with me now, stay with me..." it seemed to be saying at every turn. I am accustomed to awareness being a tender thing I have to nurture with great care, not this assertive creature who drops by unannounced. This new version works for me!
Ducks dabbled in the new puddles in the grass, cocking their heads to eye me every now and then.
Peepers still holding strong at some distance from our yard. No "ree...ree" tonight. Robins, robins, robins! Some cheerio'ing, some teent'ing, and some piping their high-pitched tut-tut-tut. Never have I been awake enough, alert enough, to hear these three robin calls all in the same moment!
A new voice in the evening chanting, one of my favorites and as-yet unidentified song: the liquid gurgling song that only emanates from woods, never from fields or the air. Who are you?
With my littles sleeping, I walked out under a double rainbow to collect eggs and close the hens in for the night. We had a downpour an hour ago, and the wild birds now seemed triumphant in their cheery calling, so many joining the song.
Miles of dramatic clouds moving at a steady pace. Dark and heavy patches with the thready wisps that talk of rain falling. Flaming orange bursts where the sun was streaking through, leaving its mark.
Barely a hint of wind, but the apple blossoms still sent their fragrance across the yard to where I stood on the porch, wrapped in my fleece blanket given me by a long-ago friend.
Awareness was a companion to me today, seeming to hold my hand (or maybe my arm), pressing me to stay awake during different points in my day when I would typically be lost in thought. "Hey now, hey there! C'mon, you've got it in you! Stay with me now, stay with me..." it seemed to be saying at every turn. I am accustomed to awareness being a tender thing I have to nurture with great care, not this assertive creature who drops by unannounced. This new version works for me!
Ducks dabbled in the new puddles in the grass, cocking their heads to eye me every now and then.
Peepers still holding strong at some distance from our yard. No "ree...ree" tonight. Robins, robins, robins! Some cheerio'ing, some teent'ing, and some piping their high-pitched tut-tut-tut. Never have I been awake enough, alert enough, to hear these three robin calls all in the same moment!
A new voice in the evening chanting, one of my favorites and as-yet unidentified song: the liquid gurgling song that only emanates from woods, never from fields or the air. Who are you?
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Ninth evening: Stranger to the dark
8:30 pm
Overcast and cool tonight, misty and nearly dark.
Moved through the wet air to my tree, felt called to stand still for a long moment before climbing it, then climbed up when I felt the "go ahead" signal. In the darkness, I didn't pay any mind to the sappy spots on the branches that I usually try to avoid in the light. Tonight they were invisible, and I was able to focus simply on the act of climbing rather than thinking about cleaning sap off my clothes or hands. I climbed more like a child.
Peepers, "ree...ree..." frog (still need to identify), one cricket joined by another later on. (Do they chirp more on humid nights? How do their weather-forecasting chirps sound different from one another?)
In the growing dark, the clusters of pine needles looked soft and fluffy against the weak gray of the clouds, like green fleecing. Looking up and outward from my branch, I imagined that the needles at the ends of the branches were the shell of an egg, the crisscrossing branches the blood vessels, and me its tiny curled embryo.
The cool, wet air pressed on my skin, reminding me it was there.
I felt very secure in the tree, snug and hidden in its branches. Cars passed, neighbors arrived home, and no one would have ever known I was there. I could have stayed all night (maybe tie myself in like Katniss!), safe in the darkness. I was entirely content to be there.
On the walk back in, though, I noticed how strange our yard looked, how deep and unknown the expanse of my family's yards seemed in the darkness. The only evenings I have spent outside these past four years have been my sit spot nights.
Overcast and cool tonight, misty and nearly dark.
Moved through the wet air to my tree, felt called to stand still for a long moment before climbing it, then climbed up when I felt the "go ahead" signal. In the darkness, I didn't pay any mind to the sappy spots on the branches that I usually try to avoid in the light. Tonight they were invisible, and I was able to focus simply on the act of climbing rather than thinking about cleaning sap off my clothes or hands. I climbed more like a child.
Peepers, "ree...ree..." frog (still need to identify), one cricket joined by another later on. (Do they chirp more on humid nights? How do their weather-forecasting chirps sound different from one another?)
In the growing dark, the clusters of pine needles looked soft and fluffy against the weak gray of the clouds, like green fleecing. Looking up and outward from my branch, I imagined that the needles at the ends of the branches were the shell of an egg, the crisscrossing branches the blood vessels, and me its tiny curled embryo.
The cool, wet air pressed on my skin, reminding me it was there.
I felt very secure in the tree, snug and hidden in its branches. Cars passed, neighbors arrived home, and no one would have ever known I was there. I could have stayed all night (maybe tie myself in like Katniss!), safe in the darkness. I was entirely content to be there.
On the walk back in, though, I noticed how strange our yard looked, how deep and unknown the expanse of my family's yards seemed in the darkness. The only evenings I have spent outside these past four years have been my sit spot nights.
Eight evening: Sleeping
Still sick, fell asleep putting the kids down tonight and didn't get back up to do my sit. (Woke up 12 hours later feeling great!)
Monday, May 7, 2012
Seventh evening: Easy prey
Sick today, husband sick, rough evening. Sat for a few minutes on porch at about 9:30 pm.
Barely aware of anything other than the absolute necessities of the day, which were a struggle to tend to. Felt like all of my energy was turned inward, to healing, leaving me blind to the world going on around me. As an animal, I would certainly have been easy prey today.
Barely aware of anything other than the absolute necessities of the day, which were a struggle to tend to. Felt like all of my energy was turned inward, to healing, leaving me blind to the world going on around me. As an animal, I would certainly have been easy prey today.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Sixth evening: Arborial puppy ears!
7:30 pm
I'm finding that my senses are stronger and more easily accessible whenever I'm outside now, even when involved with my two little ones. This is a change I experience every year during the Challenge, and it still feels revolutionary, like I am becoming a different person, a wildly alert animal-person.
I approached the pine from a different angle tonight and discovered a funny little tree, not three feet high, that appeared to be impersonating a beech. It held the long, thin, scaly brown buds of a beech in winter, only they were massive, at about four inches long, longer by far than any I've beech buds I've ever seen. As I examined it, it occurred to me to wonder whether I had *perhaps* let my beech identification rest on its laurels once the winter was over, and that I had never bothered to actually watch what those pretty little pointy buds turn into come springtime. Bingo.
This is the closest image I could find of the stage my beech is in now, from the Peterson Institute of Natural History website:
I'm finding that my senses are stronger and more easily accessible whenever I'm outside now, even when involved with my two little ones. This is a change I experience every year during the Challenge, and it still feels revolutionary, like I am becoming a different person, a wildly alert animal-person.
I approached the pine from a different angle tonight and discovered a funny little tree, not three feet high, that appeared to be impersonating a beech. It held the long, thin, scaly brown buds of a beech in winter, only they were massive, at about four inches long, longer by far than any I've beech buds I've ever seen. As I examined it, it occurred to me to wonder whether I had *perhaps* let my beech identification rest on its laurels once the winter was over, and that I had never bothered to actually watch what those pretty little pointy buds turn into come springtime. Bingo.
This is the closest image I could find of the stage my beech is in now, from the Peterson Institute of Natural History website:
The more closed buds in this picture are more representative of what ours look like right now. I nudged one open to peek inside when I was still puzzling over the type of tree, and was astonished to see the fragile hair-covered, wrinkly, newborn puppy ears inside!
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Day five: Spider kites
1:30 pm
Sat on the porch while the babe napped and the boy watched a little show.
Sun snuggled warm in my lap at first, then disappeared with clouds and a breeze. A wasp flicked its way around a dark patch on the porch railing - a spot of bird poop? An old water splash from the children? Groomed its antennae, its face, then flew off.
Robins, bluebirds, red-winged blackbird, the chipping somebody, and our resident tree swallows.
Freddy, one of our two male Indian Runner ducks, rose up out of the water in a way I haven't seen him do before, and made a new, very un-duck-like noise while doing it. I can't remember how it sounded now, just that it was small and sounded vaguely like a rodent. The drakes left the water, groomed their feathers, their bills clack-clacking against the shafts of their beautiful, strong wing feathers.
I went in to nurse the little one back down to sleep, peeked in at the boy, then back out to sit longer.
Yellow dandelion heads and gray seed heads adorn the grass, while heavy, billowy clouds interspersed with cirrus looked down from above.
Black flies around my face. White butterflies, yellow butterflies. What kinds? What plants do their young feed on?
Spiders on the porch railing! A light brown one, 1/8 inch long and 3/4 inch wide, flat as a drawing. Skittish, hiding between the boards whenever I brought my face near. Another, pearly-black like an ant, and carrying its body almost above its legs the way an ant does. Whenever I leaned in to watch it, it turned to face me, walked quickly towards me if I didn't retreat, and raised its body up comically high and pointed its abdomen toward the sky, like nothing I've ever seen before. It quickly relaxed when I pulled away from it a bit, and continued along the railing. It spotted another spider, an equally small, roundish person with tiny black dots in an arc on its yellow abdomen, like eyes. The black spider approached it swiftly, abdomen pointed to the sky again, pounced on it for a moment, then hopped right back off and continued on its way as the yellow spider ambled away, apparently unharmed.
The black spider then raised its abdomen toward the sky and released a thread into the wind, standing still as the wind caught the thread, carried it first one direction, then another, held it taught, and then dropped it flat down beside the spider. It had never occurred to me before that this could happen. It was like watching a spider's kite go down.
Sat on the porch while the babe napped and the boy watched a little show.
Sun snuggled warm in my lap at first, then disappeared with clouds and a breeze. A wasp flicked its way around a dark patch on the porch railing - a spot of bird poop? An old water splash from the children? Groomed its antennae, its face, then flew off.
Robins, bluebirds, red-winged blackbird, the chipping somebody, and our resident tree swallows.
Freddy, one of our two male Indian Runner ducks, rose up out of the water in a way I haven't seen him do before, and made a new, very un-duck-like noise while doing it. I can't remember how it sounded now, just that it was small and sounded vaguely like a rodent. The drakes left the water, groomed their feathers, their bills clack-clacking against the shafts of their beautiful, strong wing feathers.
I went in to nurse the little one back down to sleep, peeked in at the boy, then back out to sit longer.
Yellow dandelion heads and gray seed heads adorn the grass, while heavy, billowy clouds interspersed with cirrus looked down from above.
Black flies around my face. White butterflies, yellow butterflies. What kinds? What plants do their young feed on?
Spiders on the porch railing! A light brown one, 1/8 inch long and 3/4 inch wide, flat as a drawing. Skittish, hiding between the boards whenever I brought my face near. Another, pearly-black like an ant, and carrying its body almost above its legs the way an ant does. Whenever I leaned in to watch it, it turned to face me, walked quickly towards me if I didn't retreat, and raised its body up comically high and pointed its abdomen toward the sky, like nothing I've ever seen before. It quickly relaxed when I pulled away from it a bit, and continued along the railing. It spotted another spider, an equally small, roundish person with tiny black dots in an arc on its yellow abdomen, like eyes. The black spider approached it swiftly, abdomen pointed to the sky again, pounced on it for a moment, then hopped right back off and continued on its way as the yellow spider ambled away, apparently unharmed.
The black spider then raised its abdomen toward the sky and released a thread into the wind, standing still as the wind caught the thread, carried it first one direction, then another, held it taught, and then dropped it flat down beside the spider. It had never occurred to me before that this could happen. It was like watching a spider's kite go down.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Fourth night: Generations in boughs
7:30pm
Got to sit in the tree tonight, my husband in with the little ones.
Overcast but bright sky, with mist hovering at the treetops. Raindrops from today's many showers still clinging to branches here and there. Walking past the apple tree, saw the scattered pink and white blossoms blessing its craggy bare branches.
The hens were unusually soggy from the rain, with mud up their legs from scratching in the newly-tilled garden.
Picked up pieces of trash under the tree's branches. The pine I sit in grows in a small forest with several other grand pines, on land that other members of our family hold title to but share with us. Over time, they have made use of this area in their own way. Some trees have come down, several of my pine's branches were cut to make room for a large portable garage that now sits about ten feet from the base of the tree, and in addition to the blackberry brambles, an off-duty snowplow now rests directly under the branch I sit on. The original forest floor under half of my tree has been covered with fill and gravel that were brought in to level out the land for the portable garage. This forest that is precious and sacred to me is simply usable land for others. I fret sometimes to think that they may at some point find it necessary to cut off the branch I sit on, but I am reluctant to divulge my secret spot to them. I covet the privacy I can eke out, living in such proximity to so many of...well...us.
Robins were cheeriup, cheerio'ing tonight. Mourning doves changed branches above me as I approached the tree, but didn't fly away when I ascended. A few minutes later, other doves cooed from across the yard. Someone else sang a chippy song, I don't know who.
The air was still during my sit, but for one lone breeze that timidly crept through the pine, sending a few branches swaying. Water dripped from the branches now and then, and a few raindrops gleamed as they clung to the elbows of the twigs.
A four-wheeler buzzed through the forest on the other side of the street.
There is a little maple whose growth I have been witnessing over the past few springs during the Sit Spot Challenge. One of its limbs extends directly into the center of my pine's seven great trunks, reaching for the sunlight it knows is beyond them. This tender little branch, no thicker than my pinky, is sporting new little shoots a couple of inches long now, adorned in half-dollar-sized maple leaves, their surfaces all wrinkly and delicate as a newborn baby's skin. It is like a young parent, someone's teenaged child who has miraculously transformed into a parent, with its own little universe of leaves it has been nurturing. And the limb this teenager grows from? A grandparent now?
Trees are an embodiment of hundreds of living generations, each bough begetting the next generation, and so on. So much like us animals in their regeneration, and yet the trees, the blessed trees, they get to stick around for the young ones! They get to be there for their grandchildren, their great-grand-children, their many-times-over great grandchildren. The grand-folk of every past generation remain, supporting the young.
Does this account for the generosity, the wisdom of trees? For the gifts they offer us in the form of comfort and guidance when we let go, when we lean back on their rough bark and just listen?
I was lost in thought for much of my sit today, and found, on my way back across the yard to the house, that a sense of panic was rising in my throat. I had not settled into the out-of-doors yet, had not tasted the sweetness of listening/smelling/sensing/seeing all of the delicacies that the evening had to offer, and I felt desperate to do so. I watched this feeling. I wrote in an earlier post that I have become familiar with many of my emotions and reactions during my sits, but this was a new one. There are always many times during Sit Spot Challenges when I barely manage to be aware for one full minute during my 20-minute sits, but I don't remember ever having this keen a reaction.
Got to sit in the tree tonight, my husband in with the little ones.
Overcast but bright sky, with mist hovering at the treetops. Raindrops from today's many showers still clinging to branches here and there. Walking past the apple tree, saw the scattered pink and white blossoms blessing its craggy bare branches.
The hens were unusually soggy from the rain, with mud up their legs from scratching in the newly-tilled garden.
Picked up pieces of trash under the tree's branches. The pine I sit in grows in a small forest with several other grand pines, on land that other members of our family hold title to but share with us. Over time, they have made use of this area in their own way. Some trees have come down, several of my pine's branches were cut to make room for a large portable garage that now sits about ten feet from the base of the tree, and in addition to the blackberry brambles, an off-duty snowplow now rests directly under the branch I sit on. The original forest floor under half of my tree has been covered with fill and gravel that were brought in to level out the land for the portable garage. This forest that is precious and sacred to me is simply usable land for others. I fret sometimes to think that they may at some point find it necessary to cut off the branch I sit on, but I am reluctant to divulge my secret spot to them. I covet the privacy I can eke out, living in such proximity to so many of...well...us.
Robins were cheeriup, cheerio'ing tonight. Mourning doves changed branches above me as I approached the tree, but didn't fly away when I ascended. A few minutes later, other doves cooed from across the yard. Someone else sang a chippy song, I don't know who.
The air was still during my sit, but for one lone breeze that timidly crept through the pine, sending a few branches swaying. Water dripped from the branches now and then, and a few raindrops gleamed as they clung to the elbows of the twigs.
A four-wheeler buzzed through the forest on the other side of the street.
There is a little maple whose growth I have been witnessing over the past few springs during the Sit Spot Challenge. One of its limbs extends directly into the center of my pine's seven great trunks, reaching for the sunlight it knows is beyond them. This tender little branch, no thicker than my pinky, is sporting new little shoots a couple of inches long now, adorned in half-dollar-sized maple leaves, their surfaces all wrinkly and delicate as a newborn baby's skin. It is like a young parent, someone's teenaged child who has miraculously transformed into a parent, with its own little universe of leaves it has been nurturing. And the limb this teenager grows from? A grandparent now?
Trees are an embodiment of hundreds of living generations, each bough begetting the next generation, and so on. So much like us animals in their regeneration, and yet the trees, the blessed trees, they get to stick around for the young ones! They get to be there for their grandchildren, their great-grand-children, their many-times-over great grandchildren. The grand-folk of every past generation remain, supporting the young.
Does this account for the generosity, the wisdom of trees? For the gifts they offer us in the form of comfort and guidance when we let go, when we lean back on their rough bark and just listen?
I was lost in thought for much of my sit today, and found, on my way back across the yard to the house, that a sense of panic was rising in my throat. I had not settled into the out-of-doors yet, had not tasted the sweetness of listening/smelling/sensing/seeing all of the delicacies that the evening had to offer, and I felt desperate to do so. I watched this feeling. I wrote in an earlier post that I have become familiar with many of my emotions and reactions during my sits, but this was a new one. There are always many times during Sit Spot Challenges when I barely manage to be aware for one full minute during my 20-minute sits, but I don't remember ever having this keen a reaction.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Third night: Short posting
10:30pm
Couldn't go to my sit spot tonight so sat on porch again.
Peepers calling, their thin, drawn-out violin note. No word from the "ree....ree...." frog, who was still calling at 8 tonight when I put the chickens in.
Coolness of the breeze seemed to push against me.
Fighting a cold, eager to go in and go to bed. After a while, I caught myself thinking that the time would go by faster if I just shut myself down and didn't try to pay attention to anything going on outside. Fantastic games our minds play.
Couldn't go to my sit spot tonight so sat on porch again.
Peepers calling, their thin, drawn-out violin note. No word from the "ree....ree...." frog, who was still calling at 8 tonight when I put the chickens in.
Coolness of the breeze seemed to push against me.
Fighting a cold, eager to go in and go to bed. After a while, I caught myself thinking that the time would go by faster if I just shut myself down and didn't try to pay attention to anything going on outside. Fantastic games our minds play.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Second night: Diligence and discomfort
Sat in my tree tonight, for the first time in months. It's a great white pine out in the small forest behind our house, just uphill from our chicken coop. It's been my sit spot for the five years I've been sitting during the challenge - first sitting beside its trunk, then moving up into its branches.
Tonight, I had made a particularly difficult decision regarding a friend of mine immediately before my sit. A decision that may hurt my friend somewhat but that will ultimately be more respectful of our friendship. As I walked outside, my hair was up in two buns, and the cold air chilled my exposed neck. It felt appropriate, the taughtness of my hair pulled into the buns, the mild discomfort of the temperature: When we keep ourselves reined in in our attempt to live respectfully toward one another and toward the earth, there is a necessary tension about it. This tension, this firmness, is required to keep ourselves from simply slacking off and indulging ourselves at every turn. There is a discomfort about it that keeps us awake, alert, on guard. One of my favorite gifts from Eckhart Tolle, his advice to "Be the ever-alert guardian of your inner space," encourages me to accept this balance between diligence and discomfort, helps keep me facing toward the direction I want to travel.
Robins, ever alert themselves and insistent tonight in their calls, shouted throughout a tree near me, then flew off to other trees across the clearing. Traffic sounds, peepers, and a frog that I've been thinking was a wood frog but whose call doesn't match the recordings I've found on the web. "Reeee!....Reeeee!"
The tree I sat in was so still, so motionless compared to the commotion and bulkiness of the thoughts in my head.
I'm finding during this year's challenge that I've come to know myself better from these sits; there is a cumulative knowledge base about myself that I've unwittingly been earning during all these moments spent sitting. When I am lost in thought and am struggling to pull my attention back to the moment, I am familiar with all of the nuances of that struggle. I'm familiar with the patterns of my thinking, of my awareness, of my intuition. This sounds so simple on paper, and yet what complexities are brought to light, what layers upon layers of self-knowledge we gain in our quiet moments.
Though I only spend a month on it out of every year, the limb I sit on might as well be a couch for how comfortable it has become to me, how comforting and familiar. Even today, after so long a hiatus, I felt immediately at home when I arrived there despite how much growth has gone on since my last sit. Life has continued to flow around and within everything at my sit spot in every moment that I have been away.
Tonight, I had made a particularly difficult decision regarding a friend of mine immediately before my sit. A decision that may hurt my friend somewhat but that will ultimately be more respectful of our friendship. As I walked outside, my hair was up in two buns, and the cold air chilled my exposed neck. It felt appropriate, the taughtness of my hair pulled into the buns, the mild discomfort of the temperature: When we keep ourselves reined in in our attempt to live respectfully toward one another and toward the earth, there is a necessary tension about it. This tension, this firmness, is required to keep ourselves from simply slacking off and indulging ourselves at every turn. There is a discomfort about it that keeps us awake, alert, on guard. One of my favorite gifts from Eckhart Tolle, his advice to "Be the ever-alert guardian of your inner space," encourages me to accept this balance between diligence and discomfort, helps keep me facing toward the direction I want to travel.
Robins, ever alert themselves and insistent tonight in their calls, shouted throughout a tree near me, then flew off to other trees across the clearing. Traffic sounds, peepers, and a frog that I've been thinking was a wood frog but whose call doesn't match the recordings I've found on the web. "Reeee!....Reeeee!"
The tree I sat in was so still, so motionless compared to the commotion and bulkiness of the thoughts in my head.
I'm finding during this year's challenge that I've come to know myself better from these sits; there is a cumulative knowledge base about myself that I've unwittingly been earning during all these moments spent sitting. When I am lost in thought and am struggling to pull my attention back to the moment, I am familiar with all of the nuances of that struggle. I'm familiar with the patterns of my thinking, of my awareness, of my intuition. This sounds so simple on paper, and yet what complexities are brought to light, what layers upon layers of self-knowledge we gain in our quiet moments.
Though I only spend a month on it out of every year, the limb I sit on might as well be a couch for how comfortable it has become to me, how comforting and familiar. Even today, after so long a hiatus, I felt immediately at home when I arrived there despite how much growth has gone on since my last sit. Life has continued to flow around and within everything at my sit spot in every moment that I have been away.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
First night: Mail on the wind
Once again, I join hundreds of others in Wilderness Awareness School's Annual 30-Day Sit Spot Challenge. This challenge is designed to encourage folks to move part of their day out into nature by sitting in one spot outside for at least 20 minutes each day for a month, reawakening our awareness of and connection to our natural world. This will be my fifth annual Sit Spot Challenge, a precious and difficult rite of spring for me.
Night sit. Wrapped in a blanket on the porch, standing in a chill drizzle. Trained my ears in each direction in turn, opening my awareness to the night. The four ducks we keep talked quietly to each other in the darkened pond. The scattered remnants of spring peeper choruses emanated from nearby wetlands. A steady faucet of rain spilling from the gutter, heavy and light dripping patterns playing on the wood of the porch. Cars buzzing past on the wet road.
My mind jumped intermittently from this auditory task to thoughts of family matters and yard work that needs doing. Upon completing the task, I returned to my body to find it standing stock still in the cool air.
The light, delectable scent of wood smoke drifted by. Mail from the wind.
My hearing sharpened at times, as though my ears had suddenly expanded to the size of saucepans, picking up every sound from one direction or another. I envisioned mouse ears, deer ears, lending keen hearing to their owners. These creatures have their hearing, others their swiftness, their wings, their sharp vision, their sense of smell. Each creature seems to claim a particular strength. But we humans? Hearing, sight, speed, smell? Indeed, we are a little heavy on the mental side of things, but in terms of our physical sensing of the natural world, our physical activity within it, we seem ill-equipped compared to everyone else, lacking any one main strength.
The blanket warmed my shoulders, my legs. My rain boots let the cold in to my ankles and feet.
After twenty minutes, I fox-walked into the cave-like entryway of my house, strangely still and muted after the expansiveness, the liveliness, of the outdoors.
Night sit. Wrapped in a blanket on the porch, standing in a chill drizzle. Trained my ears in each direction in turn, opening my awareness to the night. The four ducks we keep talked quietly to each other in the darkened pond. The scattered remnants of spring peeper choruses emanated from nearby wetlands. A steady faucet of rain spilling from the gutter, heavy and light dripping patterns playing on the wood of the porch. Cars buzzing past on the wet road.
My mind jumped intermittently from this auditory task to thoughts of family matters and yard work that needs doing. Upon completing the task, I returned to my body to find it standing stock still in the cool air.
The light, delectable scent of wood smoke drifted by. Mail from the wind.
My hearing sharpened at times, as though my ears had suddenly expanded to the size of saucepans, picking up every sound from one direction or another. I envisioned mouse ears, deer ears, lending keen hearing to their owners. These creatures have their hearing, others their swiftness, their wings, their sharp vision, their sense of smell. Each creature seems to claim a particular strength. But we humans? Hearing, sight, speed, smell? Indeed, we are a little heavy on the mental side of things, but in terms of our physical sensing of the natural world, our physical activity within it, we seem ill-equipped compared to everyone else, lacking any one main strength.
The blanket warmed my shoulders, my legs. My rain boots let the cold in to my ankles and feet.
After twenty minutes, I fox-walked into the cave-like entryway of my house, strangely still and muted after the expansiveness, the liveliness, of the outdoors.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)