I love living here, on this planet. I love
knowing that it's round that it's in a solar system, A galaxy of enormous,
unfathomable proportions. In a universe, set within many.
I love that, like Le Petit Prince, none of us know what is up or down, because there really is no up-and-down.
I love finishing walking the spirited young shepherd, stick him in the car, and then stroll on my own, up Summit Road.
Gazing at the mountain range, at the almost full moon, suspended up in the sky. Looking so close, it's as if I could touch it. When really, it is so so far away, visible only due to reflecting the sun's light. What is a miracle if that isn't?
Further up the fields are Barstow's cows, confined to tiny places most of the year, but in the summertime? Groups of them are let out into the fields. It's such a precious thing to them,so when they're let out, they all race and gambol about, playing games, running. Where they are now, here in the evening as it approaches.
After a mid to late summer with virtually not one mosquito, in the last two days I've seen one or two each day. Another miracle! As it rains every other day, as everything happily drinks and grows and grows and flourishes . As all of the babies born this year study flying in the flock, have their hawk parents keening to them, sing them to learn things, before they grow older; before the winter comes or they migrate.
The sky turns pink, with small blue wisps of clouds in the distance. All about me are these tall-as-elephants-eyes fields of corn. Small Crimson flowering tops to them, with the sunset's light falling upon one after another.
Across the street, lies the Connecticut River, and I listen as so many boats power their way up and down, people having a wonderful time, all that exhaust waste going into that beautiful water. Such is life.
As the smokestacks in Chicopee, somewhat visible, blink blink their red lights in the distance.
As the cicadas here and at my home down the street call and call to each other. Here a myriad of crickets sing away to one another, as the night falls.
I overhear someone larger making their way through the underbrush of the forest next to me, perhaps a deer, or someone else. Foraging, or maybe making their way home, after a long day out.
All the birds are now asleep. None of them calling any longer. All of them tucked together or apart, in all their places. Beaks nestled under wings. Tired, played out.
Only the dragonflies remain there, darting circuitously, eating their dinner still, perfectly situated between the time of birds, and the time when the bats will awaken, and get to feed themselves.
Everything I see has a dark outline, intricate leaves and branches and hills and mountains and fields of corn.
The winding Summit Road and it's long yellow lines stretch up in front of me, and then around the corner, out of sight.
A dog off in a yard up the mountain noticed my presence, and begin sounding the alarm. Calling out. As I slowly head back to my waiting car. T shirt, flip flops , all well, cool night air rising .
As the mist begins to roll up toward me from the river, swept up by the small summer breeze, heading up the mountain range.
My beloved is sitting on the BioMat, watching something on Netflix too scary for me! The biscuits are in the oven, the lentil soup simmering on the stove, the greens ready to be steamed. The carrots from the garden cut neatly and diced.
Sometimes there is so much difficult, in life. For ourselves, for those around us, for those far away, things we only hear about.
Sometimes it's so good to pull in, pull in and nestle ourselves under our own wings , into this moment in this life, where we have knowledge of what is worrisome, we know what could happen, and then we just let go. Settling into the gift of our lives , in this moment now.
I love that, like Le Petit Prince, none of us know what is up or down, because there really is no up-and-down.
I love finishing walking the spirited young shepherd, stick him in the car, and then stroll on my own, up Summit Road.
Gazing at the mountain range, at the almost full moon, suspended up in the sky. Looking so close, it's as if I could touch it. When really, it is so so far away, visible only due to reflecting the sun's light. What is a miracle if that isn't?
Further up the fields are Barstow's cows, confined to tiny places most of the year, but in the summertime? Groups of them are let out into the fields. It's such a precious thing to them,so when they're let out, they all race and gambol about, playing games, running. Where they are now, here in the evening as it approaches.
After a mid to late summer with virtually not one mosquito, in the last two days I've seen one or two each day. Another miracle! As it rains every other day, as everything happily drinks and grows and grows and flourishes . As all of the babies born this year study flying in the flock, have their hawk parents keening to them, sing them to learn things, before they grow older; before the winter comes or they migrate.
The sky turns pink, with small blue wisps of clouds in the distance. All about me are these tall-as-elephants-eyes fields of corn. Small Crimson flowering tops to them, with the sunset's light falling upon one after another.
Across the street, lies the Connecticut River, and I listen as so many boats power their way up and down, people having a wonderful time, all that exhaust waste going into that beautiful water. Such is life.
As the smokestacks in Chicopee, somewhat visible, blink blink their red lights in the distance.
As the cicadas here and at my home down the street call and call to each other. Here a myriad of crickets sing away to one another, as the night falls.
I overhear someone larger making their way through the underbrush of the forest next to me, perhaps a deer, or someone else. Foraging, or maybe making their way home, after a long day out.
All the birds are now asleep. None of them calling any longer. All of them tucked together or apart, in all their places. Beaks nestled under wings. Tired, played out.
Only the dragonflies remain there, darting circuitously, eating their dinner still, perfectly situated between the time of birds, and the time when the bats will awaken, and get to feed themselves.
Everything I see has a dark outline, intricate leaves and branches and hills and mountains and fields of corn.
The winding Summit Road and it's long yellow lines stretch up in front of me, and then around the corner, out of sight.
A dog off in a yard up the mountain noticed my presence, and begin sounding the alarm. Calling out. As I slowly head back to my waiting car. T shirt, flip flops , all well, cool night air rising .
As the mist begins to roll up toward me from the river, swept up by the small summer breeze, heading up the mountain range.
My beloved is sitting on the BioMat, watching something on Netflix too scary for me! The biscuits are in the oven, the lentil soup simmering on the stove, the greens ready to be steamed. The carrots from the garden cut neatly and diced.
Sometimes there is so much difficult, in life. For ourselves, for those around us, for those far away, things we only hear about.
Sometimes it's so good to pull in, pull in and nestle ourselves under our own wings , into this moment in this life, where we have knowledge of what is worrisome, we know what could happen, and then we just let go. Settling into the gift of our lives , in this moment now.
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