When my kids were
young, we would go out.
I was terrible. Instead of making sure all the dishes
and all the laundry and all the cleaning and all that bed making and the lunch
or dinner's cook prep or bean soaking were done , I'd tolerate the housework
til they were nuts and we couldn't stand it anymore , and then we would go out.
We would burst out of the house like a bunch of wild lions , released into that
which we sought, and yearned for. Dogs let off leash, children set free in all
directions .
All things settled outside. My
fatigue and their fights and our sadnesses or money worries ... It all settled
in the great endlessness of outdoors. All that running and leaping and tumbling
and hiding and herb gathering and hand holding and stories , and then the
simple delight of jars of clean drinking water to quench us, fresh cut apples ,
and rice crackers with almond butter smeared to please.
We'd run or gather or explore or do
projects, and then hunker down in some field or by a fast flowing stream , and
devour our sweet common snack.
I taught them that if it was early
morning , we tasted the dew, which was the nectar of that plant. A small song
given to the tip of your tongue .
If it was snowing , we leaned back,
laughing , tasting the snow that fell from the heavens; then looked down close
and fast , to see those intricate formations . Sit back on the cold wet ground,
the lot of us, just taking that miracle in.
If it was frosted , we tasted the cold beautiful crystals . Raining? We
stretched up to pungent Pine boughs and tasted the stories of grand old trees.
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