Good morning!
It’s Monday. I’ve taken us deep into the woods, down the Hill That Requires a Commitment, across the Field I Haven’t Yet Named, along the base of the swamp I always assumed was Old Man Cooter’s territory, although now I’m not so sure. After following the tracks of the old oxcart path, we’ve tiptoed uphill and made our way here, to a part of the woods we call our cathedral.
It’s here, far from pole or pavement, where the hermit thrush sings us into a new week.
“Ask the world to reveal its quietude—not the silence of machines when they are still, but the true quiet by which birdsongs, trees, bellworts, snails, clouds, storms become what they are, and are nothing else.”
—Wendell Berry
Onwards,
Clara
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