When we last saw our heroine, she was taking a two month break from blogging to "focus on other things", including her embryonic novel. Eight months later, the novel is still embryonic, though the unexpected ending has revealed itself (beginning, ending...it's just all the words in-between the first and last pages that are the sticky wicket). Eight months later there have indeed been other focal points, but perhaps none particularly more satisfying. Then up popped a reminder that this site was due for renewal, and unable to bear letting it go forever, our mountain-womon heroine has returned to 'confessions' once more, for better or worse,
vowing to blog for her own edification, with a little less judgment of her efforts and a little more pleasure.
vowing to blog for her own edification, with a little less judgment of her efforts and a little more pleasure.
Today I took a spur-of-the-moment vacation day. I was aching to be outside wandering, feeling the change of season, thinking (and not thinking), putting words to paper and later to this blog page, just....be-ing, without work or chores weighing on me. And so I headed out to Ramshorn Livingston Sanctuary.
There was a full moon in the infant hours of this morning, and it lured the tide high. Its remnants were pooled along the pathways even as the water raced back to the river, leaving naked, muddy banks and marsh leaves.
There was a full moon in the infant hours of this morning, and it lured the tide high. Its remnants were pooled along the pathways even as the water raced back to the river, leaving naked, muddy banks and marsh leaves.
Morning was well-along when I got there, even though the sun was slow to break through the clouds. The birds were only just waking, flocks of red-winged blackbirds in various stages of coloration, tiny goldfinches, the ever-funky flickers...and the mosquitos--winged demons determined to drive me away. It was hard to slow my mind as I walked; it wanted to assess and obsess, identify and name, race ahead and wander back. I made myself stop a couple of times, flanked on either side by towering cattails, goldenrod and joe-pye weed, and just breathe. Arriving at my destination, the marsh-side observation alcove, I donned a long-sleeved shirt to deter mosquitos, pulled out notebook and pen, binoculars and water bottle, and just....was.
A single turkey vulture, then a second, rose from the trees across the marsh, soaring and circling in a pas de deux that felt serenely ecstatic. I often wonder about turkey vultures, especially when I see a dozen or more, spiraling and gliding with grace and a beauty that belies their ungainly, even ugly, appearance and unsavory (if necessary) life purpose. Their flight seems joyous; do they feel joy? Is the spiral dance misleading, simply a more efficient way of seeking food, a means to an end, glorious to the observer but simply a mundane function of survival? I like....no, need...to think that it is joy, an ecstasy in living and flight intrinsically theirs, bestowed upon them perhaps because of how they live in this world.
There were no eagles today, or herons (they were probably all devoured by mosquitos). Of late I've had numerous close encounter heron-in-flight sightings. Being me, I look for meaning in the out-of-the-ordinary, and always when I have unexpected heron encounters, I feel the words stillness and silence echoing inside, even when the herons are in motion, pterodactyl legs hanging behind as the long, strong wings slowly and precisely carry them forward....and then, there's the glide and noiseless landing. A heron sighting renews my vow to embody silent peace and emotional stillness. That's what sent me to Ramshorn today, alone, without a dog in tow, the aching need to be still and silent; the time spent on the little observation deck is as close as I come to the heron's quiet watchfulness. And today,into that stillness bubbled grief....both from the recent loss of one of our dogs, and a different, more bitter grief over what hasn't yet been born, in many ways due to my own flailings and failings. I'm grieving for dreams, my own and those shared with Linda, that haven't yet come to fruition....that may never see the light of day, and the grief roils my longed-for stillness, a muddied turbulence that could easily suck me down into its depths.
Yesterday morning, after letting the chickens out, I was heading back towards the house when the unmistakeable scent of Fall surrounded me....some combination of fading leaves and cooling soil rose from the damp stone walkway and signalled the inevitable change of season. Too soon, I thought....not from an "oh no-not yet" mindset, but a sense that September 4 was too early for this, that Mama Nature is confused and heading down that path too early. But facebook offered up its On This Day memories, and there were three different blog posts, from three different years, all written on September 4th, marking the seasonal changes, the last hurrah of summer and quiet arrival of Fall, tied not to the equinox, but to fading leaves and weary grasses, busy chipmunks, and changing light.
And so I watched the marsh, and its creatures, sought to still myself again, and acknowledged that in this little microcosm we call home, all is as it should be: leaves are giving way to change, and letting go. Bees are determinedly gathering the last nectar and pollen from goldenrod, asters, and knotweed. The wrens have left and the chickadees are back. Cattails are growing plump and geese are gathering on harvested cornfields. We've seen Monarch caterpillars, fat and strong this year, and at Ramshorn today there were quite a few Monarch butterflies drinking their fill on their way to Mexico. Cool night breezes whisper us to sleep, and Fall's treasures are just beginning to be revealed.
In our wee part of the world, all is as it should be for this moment and (a reminder for myself), all is happening at exactly its right time.
There were no eagles today, or herons (they were probably all devoured by mosquitos). Of late I've had numerous close encounter heron-in-flight sightings. Being me, I look for meaning in the out-of-the-ordinary, and always when I have unexpected heron encounters, I feel the words stillness and silence echoing inside, even when the herons are in motion, pterodactyl legs hanging behind as the long, strong wings slowly and precisely carry them forward....and then, there's the glide and noiseless landing. A heron sighting renews my vow to embody silent peace and emotional stillness. That's what sent me to Ramshorn today, alone, without a dog in tow, the aching need to be still and silent; the time spent on the little observation deck is as close as I come to the heron's quiet watchfulness. And today,into that stillness bubbled grief....both from the recent loss of one of our dogs, and a different, more bitter grief over what hasn't yet been born, in many ways due to my own flailings and failings. I'm grieving for dreams, my own and those shared with Linda, that haven't yet come to fruition....that may never see the light of day, and the grief roils my longed-for stillness, a muddied turbulence that could easily suck me down into its depths.
Yesterday morning, after letting the chickens out, I was heading back towards the house when the unmistakeable scent of Fall surrounded me....some combination of fading leaves and cooling soil rose from the damp stone walkway and signalled the inevitable change of season. Too soon, I thought....not from an "oh no-not yet" mindset, but a sense that September 4 was too early for this, that Mama Nature is confused and heading down that path too early. But facebook offered up its On This Day memories, and there were three different blog posts, from three different years, all written on September 4th, marking the seasonal changes, the last hurrah of summer and quiet arrival of Fall, tied not to the equinox, but to fading leaves and weary grasses, busy chipmunks, and changing light.
And so I watched the marsh, and its creatures, sought to still myself again, and acknowledged that in this little microcosm we call home, all is as it should be: leaves are giving way to change, and letting go. Bees are determinedly gathering the last nectar and pollen from goldenrod, asters, and knotweed. The wrens have left and the chickadees are back. Cattails are growing plump and geese are gathering on harvested cornfields. We've seen Monarch caterpillars, fat and strong this year, and at Ramshorn today there were quite a few Monarch butterflies drinking their fill on their way to Mexico. Cool night breezes whisper us to sleep, and Fall's treasures are just beginning to be revealed.
In our wee part of the world, all is as it should be for this moment and (a reminder for myself), all is happening at exactly its right time.