12.27.15 Thick soup days

Today is a welcome quiet day , of a kid visit , of his carpentry, of quiet reflection by the broad expanse of the living room window ; the thick fog arrived and settled into the neighborhood when we woke , and then uncharacteristically remaining still.

When my kids were small, we'd wake to these funny warming winter days now and then . And on Sundays we went outside trumping through the woods anyway. 

So I'd tell them it was a thick soup day.

We'd put on coats and boots, grab sandwiches and apples and water to stuff in my backpack, and then happily release ourselves.

To the soft focus of tree limbs and trunks. To the sense of mystery and unknown .

They'd walk further away, ask asking me if I could still see them now? And now? Til, fascinated and laughing, we'd find the distance where the fog would obscure them to my sight.
I never had to say a word about keeping up or keeping together, which I wondered at sometime . Til I realized we were a bonded band of humans . A pack, a flock, a tribe, a clan. Moving together , calling out to call attention . To this bright notch in the stream. To that smallest miniature tree nestled into that stone wall, far far out here. 

So I'd stop, look around. And say "I wonder who was standing here 100 years ago? Lugging rocks to clear a field here?" 
And we 'd all stop and wonder , looking about at the new growth forest , certainly older than any of us.

Til something would catch our eye, and off we'd go once again. 

Filled to the brim with the pleasure . Of wandering about, together .