Good morning!
It’s Sunday, and we’ve walked down the road and through the woods accompanied by the constant sound of water.
First it was a trickle, then a rush, then a trickle again. We sidestepped puddles. We paused to clear a gully that had been clogged with leaves. We squished along the forest path, tiptoeing across logs and sidestepping yet more puddles.
And where was all that water headed? To the same place we were.
Here, to the edge of that vast calming space called the bay—which, in turn, flows toward the sea.
This perpetual flow reminds me of a Lucille Clifton poem called “The Mississippi River Empties into the Gulf.”
“and the gulf enters the sea and so forth,
none of them emptying anything,
all of them carrying yesterday
forever on their white tipped backs,
all of them dragging forward tomorrow.
it is the great circulation
of the earth’s body, like the blood
of the gods, this river in which the past
is always flowing. every water
is the same water coming round.
everyday someone is standing on the edge
of this river, staring into time,
whispering mistakenly:
only here. only now.”—Lucille Clifton
Onwards,
Clara
p.s.—You can also watch today’s video via this link. Sometimes the resolution and colors will be more vivid than what Substack lets me embed in this email.
Share this post