Awoke to perfect sunshine and birdsong. Since today is the end of the holiday weekend, folks were packing up around here. And since the sun was beating down on us by 9am, I knew I'd need a shadier camp. I casually walked about, sizing up the perfect spot, shaded by a canopy of ancient cottonwood. Then I waited like a leopard in the brush to pounce on the site when the occupants drove away. Lucky me, they even left firewood behind!
Another longish hike today, along the river, and then back into the forests and up to the tops of hills to see the historical markers and remnants of buildings from 1862, in which the Dakota people were forced to live and learn to “convert” to white culture. The whole thing failed, of course, and the Dakota were removed from their sacred land of abundance and placed on reservations where even lizards struggled to survive. I thought about all the times I complained about having to move as a child. It's like complaining about shoelaces coming untied to a person who has no feet.
Towards the end of our hike the sky became frothy with clouds and cooled us quite nicely. I had just enough time to set up the portable canopy (which I broke in the process) when a thunderstorm moved over us and rattled my bones.
A simple dinner of vegie tacos, a shower, and now a little reading by the fire…
I keep thinking of my favorite poem, looking for what is behind the curtain, who we truly are and all the ways to avoid doing it. I am reading,and listening as I walk to Geneen Roths newest book, Women,Food and God and see, yes,how my crazy busy life helps me avoid the deeper feelings of young and sad, how busyness and stuffing food numbs me to the moment, even the wonderous ones.. But You are taking the time to really be with yourself Jane, to feel the opengings,the cracks, the marvels..all of it. WHat an awesome woman.
ReplyDeletehere is the poem, jane HIrschfield,who is the best in my opinion.
"Three Times My Life Has Opened"
Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and
starts to remember each time it enters the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from
her leaves like a woman in love with winter, dropping
the colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip
of light stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on
the floor, or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.
Oh golly. I"m crying again. Yes, this poem comes with a melt-down. It feels like you wrote it and I hummed the tune of it.
ReplyDeleteI think I will remain speechless. Ol'Deb
ReplyDeleteSo fun to read your latest adventures! I see by your latest photo that your little gargoyle has returned to her normal day time appearance. heehee
ReplyDelete