March 24, 2024

Good morning!

It’s Sunday, it’s spring, and it’s snowing.

I’ve taken us down through the field, through the birch grove, through the opening in the old stone wall, and down, down, down to the pond that’s a lake (that’s a pond), carefully sloshing the last 20 feet of barely frozen bog so that we could stand here together. I have a poem for us to think about today. It’s called Mornings at Blackwater, by Mary Oliver.

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
it was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.
What I want to say is 
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.

—Mary Oliver

Shall we?

Onwards,

Clara

p.s.—You can also watch today’s video via this link.