7.8.14 Heading Down the Path; Rounding The Turns

     On the way back from driving my beloved to work, I saw the pup becoming restless, on the seat next to me, where he does not quite fit-his front legs slipping out slipping out from under him , as he strives to be by my side.
     I thought, "Poor young thing- no walk for 2 days. Why not? Just a small one".
And so, as we drove from the high Hadley fields into the forest of the mountain range, I dropped the car into the tiny break between guard rails alongside the forest, and snuggled the car in to park.
     Elated but polite, locked on leash for a bit, until far enough away from the road, he finally was let free, and thundered across the woods in dogish delight.

The torrential rain last night, combined with the aspiring but failing tiny tornadoes, cleansed the forest, so that today I see debris here and there and everywhere.

As well as the delicate blossoming Pippsissewa, dusting the forest with their unique white momentary flowering . 

Up and around and down we wandered along the mossy , little used path, until he reached the top that joined a horizontal trail, and immersed himself in the tiny stream of cold Mountain water. 

One small moment of sun , on an overcast day, appearing overhead, and then sliding down through the forest ; these shafts of brilliant light turning golden this branch, that stand of trees, this grouping of ferns lightly bobbing in the intermittent summer breeze.
And then, unfortunately, I tire, and instead of marching across the Seven Sisters range here, on toward the Appalachian Trail, across the nation, and continuing to other lands... instead we turn down the woodland trail, on our way back. 

We pass this large reclining mossed rock alongside the trail, smooth with small curves. 
Whatever I gaze at this rock, no matter the season, I wonder what it has seen. Millions of years. Who has wandered by ; who has hunted - the storms on the land here, and the wild winters. So many years. Has it been pushed or rolled? Or stayed right here long before you or I were born? All the stories within the rock. Its shape inviting to any human or mountain lion or creature , to lower themselves in comfortable repose. 
Heading back down the path, rounding the turns, Dante hears something alarming off in the woods - something crashing about, going about their day. 
Around here, as is true with many places, this is a time of bear cubs; we all know this.

So of course, I look and holler some, as in "Hey over there, pain in the butt beings over here, beware!" 
And then request of my shepherd that he come to me, and now.
For some reason, despite his ruff up and his leaping vertically to ascertain what is off in those woods, he has the good sense to come right over to me, and I leash him, getting us right on out of there, amidst more whooping and very loud singing , just to let them know exactly where we are. 
We finally get down far enough that I let him play for a bit again on leash, dragging a 15 foot branch, which catapults itself over bumps in the path as he pulls it, seemingly alive! Leaping upon it with glee. 
And then he begins drag dragging it sideways down the path once again. 
I furtively look up the path, just in hopes that no large dark figure is lumbering near.

Yes we encroach on them; we keep building and building , and they have their traditional neighborhoods that they were brought up in, that their parents were brought up in, that are theirs. Their homelands.
And in all of our vapid human species-centric shallowness, where the only intelligence or value in life is accorded humans , with machines, who speak in the manner that we do, we remain painfully immaturely self centered when it comes to realizing that all of these creatures have homelands too. And that we happen to share. 
But I don't hold my breath on this count- simply am a bit satisfied when one or two of my brethren now and then seemed to recall that this earth, or these woods, or this day - somehow ( ludicrous) underwent creation, and NOT with only humans in mind .

7.5.14 Letting The Wind Take You

As for many of us, a tropical storm has skirted the edges of our neighborhood ; come, and gone.I have been sick and I have been gone ; yesterday I was back home.

Yesterday here a babe was born , right next door. Peacefully, in a living room ; as were my three, long long ago.

Yesterday the outskirts of that storm did pass, and all the land was bathed clean; thirst quenched, as the trees gently swept high and low, in the wild wild winds.

  

Today we have the bright morning after, where everything is resplendent, shining ; glistening. 

    

                                

The volume of baby birds , fresh from their feathered nest birdhouses, are hungrily scouring small moths and insects and worms , with great ability, their small small selves wandering about the same safe harbor of the neighborhood here. 

                                                    We sit out, holding hands

 as a bald eagle dips gracefully by, and then far out of sight

The hills in the distance a deep indigo blue ; the Tibetan Peace Pagoda barely visible, always a white dot nestled into that far off land, filled with those who hold great faith, ever, against great odds , each step and breath an assertion of the freedom and gift of this present moment. 

  

Tiny bees 

The beautiful choreography of asexual mating slugs. 

      

And here,in this land filled with infants,

 we watch fondly; with baby Bluebirds, the tiny new Sparrows, tufted topped Phobes , and of course, the Pines Siskins ; perched sideways upon Mountain Laurel and aged Oak, their incessant interactions sweet and pitch perfect and soothing . 

   

We find ourselves awash with delighted newly-hatched gallivanting butterflies and newly unfolded dragonflies.  

For, we forget all the ones whose gestation is so evident- eggs and chrysalis and due process .

Years ago I sat on a dock on a pond far up in New Hampshire, and I watched the transformation of a dragonfly , as it came out of it's case, found it's sea-legs , slowly unfurled the length of its body, in the hot summer sun and the vast pond breeze,as it's intricate wings began to dry. 
It's body actually inflated as it unrolled before me- as I sat, stock still, breathless. Watching someone. Brand new. Transform.

And then it stood, winged for the very first time- outstretched, entire body unfurled, somehow knowing just how to wait in the sun ,in the gentle wind , until just the right moment, which did come, and they did know, because suddenly, in the blink of an eye, they knew what to do, and they were gone.

Now my beloved has left for the day, and I am still sitting out, watching the baby Bluebirds frolic and interact as they drink from the birdbath and feed here and there. 

An agile, brash Doe makes her youthful way far down across the newly shorn Conservation field, nibbling the soft grasses and enjoying the warm sun on her back, intermittently looking up to check upon me, sitting here, watching.

And I watch back, as , all about her, the elegant neighborhood swallows sweep and soar across the field, at times flying high above for a, yes, bird's eye view- and at other times , hunting down close to the ground, swooping and stopping to feed and feed and feed. 

The yellow finches are enthused with the bright yellow Mullein blossoms ,having ardent mis-en-mis, as two Redwing Hawks fly, so far overhead. 

Almost motionless. As one of them keens. This is late for mating? Are they on a break from parenting? Are all the children gone? Will they join and plummet, here and now?

                                 

But, there they are, on this gloriously gusty day- seeking food, and then suspended, almost too far up to be visible ; absolutely motionless in the wind streams. 

And in that moment , there I am, high above the land , with them. Letting the wind take me as it will. 

Far below, with rain and sun, the gardens explode and grow fast as a dirty, knee-scraped watermelon smeared kid in summertime. Fast as a weed. 

The quiet Box Turtle who scuttles beneath the shaded maples through the mosses. The remarkable rare moths who come to mate among the Pippsessewa. . Life abounding, all around us , if we stop and listen. And smell and feel it upon our skin : our closed eyelids and then our sight.
And I think of all the things we also know, the way a baby bird knows how to peck out of that egg and yearn to leave that crowded nest and test their wings . 

The way a butterfly or dragonfly knows how to wait after they unfurl until they are dry and then somehow miraculously ready to stretch and pause and then spirit themselves into the air; to avoid predators, and find sustenance that fits and will sustain them.

I mean, what does that feel like? 

The urge to flex your small insect legs and take flight? 

How similar is it to the way you and I experienced some ancestral, genetically linked urge to roll ourselves over the very first time. To press our arms out and push up up our weighty head, the better to somehow peer about? To shun hot things and pain and move toward that which was kind and of great interest and that mattered? 

So it goes . The very same. My neighbor knows how to be in labor. Her baby knows how to come into the world. To breathe, to find the breast, to rest and gaze and poop and sleep. Our needs. 

And so also, we humans know, if we put aside all the trappings we have created for fun and distraction, that do not always benefit us. 

We truly know so much of what we need, if only we can slow and remember and listen.

6.28.14 Morning Calisthenics.

  

   

 Already, the tiny feral Mary has chased him from the room , upon some mystery whim or built up irritation, only to find him ready to rumble and play. 
She's removed herself behind curtain number one; he's been chastised- and is awaiting, hopeful, further possible drama.
I tell them 'it's SIX! Saturday ! Does that mean anything to you all four footeds??'.
But you know and I know it doesn't - so I snuggle down into delicious buttery yellow ,not yet doggified , clean sheets, hoping to sneak a few more Z's. Let's see...