Have you ever heard the earth breathe?

--Kate Chopin

southside of heaven

...and can't you see that a breeze is nothing but a change in pace

ends of the earth

woods

Ennui.  That's what Scott calls it when the cat gets in a mood, thumping its tail on the carpet and then ripping around the house after absolutely nothing (the French have the best words) --and that's what I've felt, a kind of otherwise nameless, restless sort of (I hate to say it) boredom, for which I know of very few cures.  Bring on a heavy dose of woods, which works immediately by wrapping me fully in all it's rich and thick and heavy and lush woodsiness.  Wild geraniums, each blossom host to a tiny black bee curled deep in its petals.  The trillium, which I've barely paid attention to, fascinating me suddenly -- their crepe-y fading blossoms seemingly more luminous in their decline. Mayapples in bloom.  Birdsong bright and clear in the low light.  Paw Paw flowers. They defy my capture every time.  My iphone hates them and refuses to focus on them at all. This time with the dslr I lie on my back on a fallen tree and hold my breath as I press the shutter button. Finally I give up, let out my breath and put the camera down.  It's just me, lying on my back, on a log, feeling all of this deep damp --  earthy dim -- late-spring -- closest thing to Nirvana I know -- woods -- closing in around me. 

birdsong

box of rain

look out of any window...

And it's just a box of rain, I don't know who put it there, 
Believe it if you need it, or leave it if you dare. 

-Robert Hunter

mystery

i've been working this over in my head.  it borders on epiphany, for me anyway.  i wander through the world of those who believe in knowledge or reason or faith.  they find security in what they know or rationalize or accept as true.  i've never felt any of that.  i have a difficult time ordering from the menu.  how to commit?  but i've thought about what i like, what feels right ... and it's not the things that explain or seek to dissipate the mystery.  what i'm after are the things that deepen it.

field notes

magic

The world is full of magic things,  patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

-W.B. Yeats

I woke this morning several times before I committed to the day but when I did, I had one over-riding thought.  Outside.  I just want to be outside.

I struggle (kicking and screaming sometimes) with the necessity of responsibility and delayed gratification, and I try to live in the moment, (oh, I try) but sometimes I just can't live comfortably in it, so I manage by living for it -- that other moment when I'm back in my own skin.

Set free, my first impulse is to run.  I've been cooped up for a little long.  But then I have the clear and simple urge to just sit in a field.  A long time ago, when I had a farm to roam -- and very little else to do -- the center of tall grass was one of the magic places. Magic, as in "what if I just chill here and see what happens (what is the difference between patience and laziness?)."  Today:  clouds, breeze, swallows, the faint lace of rain drops -- but not rain, sweet smell of spring grass, distant hum of tractors, pollen, sneezing, ticks...  There is also everything that is laid out plain in front of me.  I am looking at it for about an hour, then everything shifts.  Finally I see it. 

map of the world

heartbeat

But unexepectedly and secretly 
the giant heartbeat enters our being...
--Rainer Maria Rilke

the layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face,
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

-Stanley Kunitz

this time

This time, this time, this time,

Is whatever I want it to mean.

And everything and nothing is as sacred as we'd want it to be,

When it's really all,

Make it really all,

Compared to what.

fieldnotes

...from the trenches of the morel hunt, courtesy an ever-faithful correspondent:

Thanks John!

important

wander the path of the medium chill.

vivid

Thanks to the eye for knowing when to take the spirit by the hand...

...there just aren't that many days when you can see color so perfectly.