Good morning!
It’s Sunday, and I’ve taken us out the back door, along the edge of the field, through the birch grove, over the old stone wall, and down the steep wooded hill that leads to more woods, wetlands, and eventually the pond that’s a lake (that’s a pond).
We said hello to the cedar tree and the foot-tickling fungi, briefly rested on the green chairs I haven’t even told you about (I know! What mystery!), and then rolled up our pants for the final slosh through the bog and out to the edge of the pond that’s a lake (that’s a pond).
As we stand in the sunshine along with the birds and crickets and fish and frogs and all the other creatures we can’t see but know are here, we read a rather beautiful Mary Oliver poem. It’s called “Mornings at Blackwater.”
“For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.
And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.
What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.
So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.”―Mary Oliver
Shall we?
Clara
p.s.—You can also watch today’s video via this link.
August 11, 2024