7.29.14 The Beautiful Gander, Rife With Freedom ; His Once Upon A Time

This is what I imagine . We have the ever present guardian goose....who one day long ago had his wing feathers grow long long, without some farmer keeping up...and discovered flight. and took it, the flight, and took off. 

Did he have an inkling he could fly, the way the Robins and the Sparrows and the wild ducks and the wild geese flew overhead, every single day, and then ,far and away? 

 Did he have any idea whatsoever? 

Did he feel it stirring inside of himself, this thrumming of some ability to have the strength within his wings and the innate knowledge of how to take a running start, and the liftoff that could happen? 

Did he discover it, and begin quietly practicing, when no humans were noticing? 

Did he plan his escape? 

For he did. escape. 

From the farm he was raised upon. 

He escaped and he flew anywhere he wished, and he somehow came upon the pond at Mt. Holyoke College, and has been there for years, ever since.

 Just take a gander at that happy Gander, eh?

He is a guardian, and takes care of visiting Canadian flocks, feeling his responsibility seriously; while evidently relishing the uncommon socializing, that often lasts almost a week    

He took seriously ,last year, staying by the small female Mallard who, without a male, hatched maybe 8 babies. He seriously stayed by them and protected them and helped to raise them and never left her side, guiding them to  bed down on rocks  in the safest part of the stream, between the small  bridges, and then  staying by their side, watchful and powerful, all of the night. 

He took seriously his love, a Canadian female, who spent long luxurious days preening him as he preened her, while two single male Canadians looked on, clearly frustrated. 

While he and she languidly swam about the pond together, as other Canadian couples did the same, courting and falling in love. 

But the life-long love was not to be, and after a few weeks, sadly, she was gone, maybe to settle for a life-long mate - who may not have had his joie de vivre, nor his fierce devotion, but could answer her call for mating and nesting and raising small ones. 

He is still there today, as the sun rises and as it sets- in coldest winter 

and the hot lazy summer days we are having now. 

Feeding deep into the mud. Spending time with Mallard friends. 

  Keeping watch.

 And every day - I am dreaming and  going and watching -  he is waking early, and rediscovering himself filled to the brim with the preciousness of his autonomy 
and the breadth of the life he has made for himself, rife with complete freedom.

7.27.14 You Must Understand

You must understand. First, there's the shower of raindrops, sprinkling everywhere upon you, all around you, each time the wind rustles through the tall old Maples overhead. Taking the rain which has sat upon each leaf and stem, and tossing it about into the air, falling like so many stars.

Then there is the song of the trees themselves, something you remember now from childhood, noticing, the song of the leaves, of tree branches overhead- changing timbre and song and rhythm and chorus, 

all according to the season, with or without leaves, frozen or besotted with the most recent summer's rain.

And then there are the Pine Siskins, tiny agile birds, all day every day quietly chirping to one another, as they go about their lives, climbing up and down pine trunks, right side up, upside down, their babies the most miniscule small avians you have ever seen - almost - plotting the capture of the even smaller moths, as daylight finally begins it's departure, once again, from the neighborhood.

And then there is the bright sunlight, that comes streaming through all of a sudden, like beacons, through the violet billowy clouds far up in the sky. All of a surprise, now and then, shining a bright light and warmth upon you , upon patches of mosses, and a scattering of lightening here and there through the trees.

There is the pup, sitting by your side, happily pulling out and then chewing up fresh juicy strands of long green grasses, as he observes the world about him ,in this small enclave upon the earth.
And it is Sunday, day of rest : free from problem-solving,and, if you're lucky, working. A day of reflexion, of remembering, and even more so-of gratitude. 

Gratitude, spilling out of you, spilling over you, with no relation to what you do or do not like about your life, nothing to do with what is difficult or easy or what has gone well or what has been heartfelt and difficult. Simple gratitude, multiplying all by itself, each and every time you pull it near. 

There's the sound and the smell and the feel of a day of rest, unfolding down from the range, across the hilly basalt land, down into the outwaters- teeming with life; down into the powerful rough old Connecticut, with its memory and it's wisdom and it's knowledge as it streams, with it's capacity simply to flow, as days continue by.