morning sit.
Little Red and Big Gray sprinting from the feeder upon my opening of the slider, reminding me to be awake and aware each time i enter the outdoors.
jays calling across the yards to one another. mourning doves, paired up in our bare birch, cooing. goldfinches are remembering their songs. woodpecker drumming for food. someone else i didn't recognize.
little gray insects, all climbing slowly upward on the pine as i sat.
the needles of the pines are green-blue, not the deep forest green that i think of them as being. one tree holds green-yellow needles; is it another type of pine, or a sickly tree?
no drips from the roof, the snow held my weight for most of my steps, but it's warm enough that the rhododendron leaves are open in front of our house.
this is a still day, waiting for the new storm to come.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Day 9, Thursday, March 6
losing track of which day i'm on. when i think of going out now, it's just "my sit", not "sit number x out of thirty sits."
brief night sit, as the little one called me in after only a few minutes. i've started over with kamana one, having stopped halfway through a few years ago. tonight my evening kamana task is to offer the thanksgiving address for all of the people in my life, so here i am, holding one of the most important ones. having come inside abruptly as i was just settling into my time outdoors, i can feel myself more keenly aware than usual, the energy arising from my committed time outside coming in with me and coloring this space with the sharpness of my alert outside eye.
while i was out under my tree, i was astonished that the still, silent, sleeping field and forest were the same as the crashing, roaring ones of the sleet storm two days ago. how can one place hold such opposite extremes of activity?
brief night sit, as the little one called me in after only a few minutes. i've started over with kamana one, having stopped halfway through a few years ago. tonight my evening kamana task is to offer the thanksgiving address for all of the people in my life, so here i am, holding one of the most important ones. having come inside abruptly as i was just settling into my time outdoors, i can feel myself more keenly aware than usual, the energy arising from my committed time outside coming in with me and coloring this space with the sharpness of my alert outside eye.
while i was out under my tree, i was astonished that the still, silent, sleeping field and forest were the same as the crashing, roaring ones of the sleet storm two days ago. how can one place hold such opposite extremes of activity?
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Day 8, Wednesday, March 5
morning sit today. sleet.
Little Red Squirrel and i suprised each other as i stepped outside. it scampered away across the field from beneath our sunflower feeder, leaving the holes it had dug, shells extruded and spread about. Big Gray Squirrel had visited our porch earlier today, taking refuge in the apple tree when it saw me come to the window.
went out to my pine. found squirrel tracks leading from its base to another, followed them for a bit. a half inch of sleet over crusted snow holds sharp tracks. returned to my pine and sat.
sleet sprinkled all around me, bouncing off the flattened collar of my jacket. on the crest of a nearby snow mound, silhouetted by the dark trees beyond it, i could see the snow leaping up in miniature splashes with each grain of sleet that struck, a swarm of minnows breaking the surface of white water.
the sleet slowly collected in the creases of my sleeves, my snowpants, my gaiters. i felt myself a mountain, a boulder, in whose valleys the snow collects, each crevice telling the story of the snow after it has passed. my crossed legs formed caves and overhangs for small creatures to shelter in.
crow called, lord of the forest for that half hour.
sleet. louder from the little forest behind me than on the field of snow. popping of sleet on brambles, snagged leaves, bare bushes drowned out the steady crackle on the exposed field.
then it fell heavier, a roar of ice spraying and coating everything and me.
thought about this log, what pleasure there is in knowing that even one person will read it; the satisfaction of sharing my experience and having someone else receive it. how we hunger to be heard, to share our world with others.
now my son sleeps across my belly, my hair clenched in his little fist to hold me in place, to keep me holding him. our friends call to say their babe has been born and is well. joyous day.
Little Red Squirrel and i suprised each other as i stepped outside. it scampered away across the field from beneath our sunflower feeder, leaving the holes it had dug, shells extruded and spread about. Big Gray Squirrel had visited our porch earlier today, taking refuge in the apple tree when it saw me come to the window.
went out to my pine. found squirrel tracks leading from its base to another, followed them for a bit. a half inch of sleet over crusted snow holds sharp tracks. returned to my pine and sat.
sleet sprinkled all around me, bouncing off the flattened collar of my jacket. on the crest of a nearby snow mound, silhouetted by the dark trees beyond it, i could see the snow leaping up in miniature splashes with each grain of sleet that struck, a swarm of minnows breaking the surface of white water.
the sleet slowly collected in the creases of my sleeves, my snowpants, my gaiters. i felt myself a mountain, a boulder, in whose valleys the snow collects, each crevice telling the story of the snow after it has passed. my crossed legs formed caves and overhangs for small creatures to shelter in.
crow called, lord of the forest for that half hour.
sleet. louder from the little forest behind me than on the field of snow. popping of sleet on brambles, snagged leaves, bare bushes drowned out the steady crackle on the exposed field.
then it fell heavier, a roar of ice spraying and coating everything and me.
thought about this log, what pleasure there is in knowing that even one person will read it; the satisfaction of sharing my experience and having someone else receive it. how we hunger to be heard, to share our world with others.
now my son sleeps across my belly, my hair clenched in his little fist to hold me in place, to keep me holding him. our friends call to say their babe has been born and is well. joyous day.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Day 7, Tuesday, March 4
day sit.
gentle, steady rain fell as i stood under the pine. warm today, 50 degrees. the snow was soft from the rain, made moving through it easy. thoughts continued to hold sway over my awareness, so i created another wake-up call: i leaned slightly to the side so that my cheek held a blackberry twig upright. when i drifted off into thoughts, i'd stand upright and the twig went flying, waking me up.
gave prayers today for a friend who is laboring her little babe into the world right now. also gave prayers for a friend who's been found to have cancer.
the rain made a sparkly sound on the snow, with the occasional familiar loud drops plummeting down as collected rain fell from branches. the pine trunk is mostly exposed now, and the needles that were gathered at the juncture of its trunks spilled down in a motionless waterfall toward the ground, woven loosely together.
mist formed as i stood, first only a few feet above the ground, now up above the treetops. it hovered in place for a bit, then slowly began sliding over the land, down the slopes, across the field.
gentle, steady rain fell as i stood under the pine. warm today, 50 degrees. the snow was soft from the rain, made moving through it easy. thoughts continued to hold sway over my awareness, so i created another wake-up call: i leaned slightly to the side so that my cheek held a blackberry twig upright. when i drifted off into thoughts, i'd stand upright and the twig went flying, waking me up.
gave prayers today for a friend who is laboring her little babe into the world right now. also gave prayers for a friend who's been found to have cancer.
the rain made a sparkly sound on the snow, with the occasional familiar loud drops plummeting down as collected rain fell from branches. the pine trunk is mostly exposed now, and the needles that were gathered at the juncture of its trunks spilled down in a motionless waterfall toward the ground, woven loosely together.
mist formed as i stood, first only a few feet above the ground, now up above the treetops. it hovered in place for a bit, then slowly began sliding over the land, down the slopes, across the field.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Day 6, Monday, March 3
another evening out.
trapped in this log tonight, thinking what i was going to say about my sit as i sat. something would speak to me, then i'd write about it mentally, missing everything that continued on around me. the snow finally offered me an anchor into the present, its sharp bite on the hand i rested in it. i could feel the crystals shifting, melting beneath the warmth of my hand. i still drifted into reflections, imaginings, memories from time to time, but was drawn regularly back by my body's protests.
studied the shape of my tree tonight, its branching habit, to deconstruct the stock "tree" image that's ruled in my brain since childhood. how can i teach my son to draw as he sees, not to draw as others draw?
the air was warmer tonight than it's been. boots, snowpants, gaiters, five top layers, plus hat and scarf were still just right, but no need for my usual tea.
cars reigned over the silence tonight, constant surf sound in the distance.
noticed on the way back that snow on south-facing slopes holds more weight than that on north-facing; i imagine that the surface melts during the day, then freezes stronger at night. ribbons of tracks celebrate the land, my dog's and mine. watched my husband dancing gently through the house with our son as i returned home.
trapped in this log tonight, thinking what i was going to say about my sit as i sat. something would speak to me, then i'd write about it mentally, missing everything that continued on around me. the snow finally offered me an anchor into the present, its sharp bite on the hand i rested in it. i could feel the crystals shifting, melting beneath the warmth of my hand. i still drifted into reflections, imaginings, memories from time to time, but was drawn regularly back by my body's protests.
studied the shape of my tree tonight, its branching habit, to deconstruct the stock "tree" image that's ruled in my brain since childhood. how can i teach my son to draw as he sees, not to draw as others draw?
the air was warmer tonight than it's been. boots, snowpants, gaiters, five top layers, plus hat and scarf were still just right, but no need for my usual tea.
cars reigned over the silence tonight, constant surf sound in the distance.
noticed on the way back that snow on south-facing slopes holds more weight than that on north-facing; i imagine that the surface melts during the day, then freezes stronger at night. ribbons of tracks celebrate the land, my dog's and mine. watched my husband dancing gently through the house with our son as i returned home.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Day 5, Sunday, March 2
found out today that my mother-in-law, living behind our yard, saw a red fox pass through her yard two days ago, so there it is!
sat at night today. all the while, icicles tinkled down around me from the trees above me, a thin little breeze moving through them.
on the way back to the house, saw that orion, canis major, and my lark are all heading down into the western horizon at 9:00 these days, and leo is up high, taking center stage now. satellites with their faint lights crossed the sky, and one plane, its roar following along behind it.
sat at night today. all the while, icicles tinkled down around me from the trees above me, a thin little breeze moving through them.
on the way back to the house, saw that orion, canis major, and my lark are all heading down into the western horizon at 9:00 these days, and leo is up high, taking center stage now. satellites with their faint lights crossed the sky, and one plane, its roar following along behind it.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Day 4, Saturday, March 1
i've noticed, since going to my sit spot for three days now, that when i step outside to let the dog out or to take in the weather, the frantic racing of my mind eases into the quiet of observing nature more rapidly and more consistently. before my regular sit-spotting, it was more rare that i would shift my consciousness in this way, even when outside.
sat during the afternoon today. a robin at the tip-top of a nearby tree called as i went out to my spot. lots of thoughts, i wanted just to sense.
the branches weighed down with today's heavy snow made it feel like i'd left and returned 100 years from now, when the trees were more filled in and the branches touched the ground. everything felt old. as i sat, milk dripped.
when, after 20 minutes, i stood up to go back indoors, i thought i should just do the two minute loop through our back yard, since the babe was with my husband and i had the chance. shortly i came across a patch of disturbed snow with a turkey feather, thinking i'd found a turkey scratch spot. then i saw a band of turkey feathers and a small scat next to them, and knew it was a predator's tracks that marked the snow. i lifted the feathers and sniffed them, looking at the flesh fusing them at their base, and could smell canine urine. the tracks were quite fresh - the snow had only stopped about two hours before, and they had no dusting of snow in them. i put down the feathers and my tea mug, which had grown cool during my sit, and followed the tracks backwards, to see where else in our yard the creature had been, to see if i could find where it had eaten the turkey. i passed over and under spaces on the edge of the forest i'd not bothered to go before, them being off the path, and felt the exhiliration that comes from breaking out of the usual blind routine. quickly i came upon another small pile of scat, high on a mound of snow, with fur, bones, and what looked like seeds. following on, the tracks emerged from under one of our grand white pines, dense around the bottom with close bare branches, and i circled around the outside of the pine to find where the animal had entered its canopy. the tracks entered from the other side, but were covered in 1/4 inch of snow, so i knew i had to brave the sharp branches and crawl under the pine, to see where the animal had spent the end of the snow storm.
the tracks were muted by the snow all the way in to the trunk, and then there, under a cluster of low branches, was a round little spot of tamped down snow. i saw tracks leading around to the other side of the trunk, and lost my wool hat four times on the way around, branches snagging it off my messy, sweaty hair. on the other side of the pine were three more wonderful spots where the creature had lain down. based on the canine tracks, the wild scat, and the petite little bed, i guessed it was probably a fox. (time to return to my kamana one work!) i collected two little tufts of fur that were stuck in the snow of the beds, and followed the tracks a bit more. but i knew my son would be growing hungry, so in i went, carrying my story and the fur with me.
sat during the afternoon today. a robin at the tip-top of a nearby tree called as i went out to my spot. lots of thoughts, i wanted just to sense.
the branches weighed down with today's heavy snow made it feel like i'd left and returned 100 years from now, when the trees were more filled in and the branches touched the ground. everything felt old. as i sat, milk dripped.
when, after 20 minutes, i stood up to go back indoors, i thought i should just do the two minute loop through our back yard, since the babe was with my husband and i had the chance. shortly i came across a patch of disturbed snow with a turkey feather, thinking i'd found a turkey scratch spot. then i saw a band of turkey feathers and a small scat next to them, and knew it was a predator's tracks that marked the snow. i lifted the feathers and sniffed them, looking at the flesh fusing them at their base, and could smell canine urine. the tracks were quite fresh - the snow had only stopped about two hours before, and they had no dusting of snow in them. i put down the feathers and my tea mug, which had grown cool during my sit, and followed the tracks backwards, to see where else in our yard the creature had been, to see if i could find where it had eaten the turkey. i passed over and under spaces on the edge of the forest i'd not bothered to go before, them being off the path, and felt the exhiliration that comes from breaking out of the usual blind routine. quickly i came upon another small pile of scat, high on a mound of snow, with fur, bones, and what looked like seeds. following on, the tracks emerged from under one of our grand white pines, dense around the bottom with close bare branches, and i circled around the outside of the pine to find where the animal had entered its canopy. the tracks entered from the other side, but were covered in 1/4 inch of snow, so i knew i had to brave the sharp branches and crawl under the pine, to see where the animal had spent the end of the snow storm.
the tracks were muted by the snow all the way in to the trunk, and then there, under a cluster of low branches, was a round little spot of tamped down snow. i saw tracks leading around to the other side of the trunk, and lost my wool hat four times on the way around, branches snagging it off my messy, sweaty hair. on the other side of the pine were three more wonderful spots where the creature had lain down. based on the canine tracks, the wild scat, and the petite little bed, i guessed it was probably a fox. (time to return to my kamana one work!) i collected two little tufts of fur that were stuck in the snow of the beds, and followed the tracks a bit more. but i knew my son would be growing hungry, so in i went, carrying my story and the fur with me.
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