#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing. . .
Saint Francis and the Sow Galway Kinnell
Mysterious, synchronistic things happen in the woods. Even in rain––especially in rain? Such a wet walk, all the leaves dripping, and the color going, and the brown leaves slurping instead of crunching, they are soaked, and so are my feet. There is such a muted light, because days are shortening and the trees are letting go, letting go, and the snow is coming, the frost and ice, and cold. For most of the walk, I’m afraid of my mood. I want to be feeling spontaneously cheerful and grateful and eager outdoors. But am I only going through the motions, much of the way. Except when I am in the wetlands, and the straw under my feet is dry enough to let me creep through the cattails close to the winterberry, so bright, this food for birds. It must be exciting for the birds, these huddles and clusters of berries in the middle of the cattails, so hard for a human to reach. I need to charge my body a bit, move up the steep hill and down, I go up and down twice, and I head back home. By the brook is commotion. My dogs meet a neighbor dog, they must whine and growl. The dog’s human is there too, we must stop for hello, except I’m in a hurry to get ready for a client appointment and would avoid the conversation if I could. But I can’t be rude. We say hello, we exchange small bits of neighborly news. The dogs sniff each other, they’re friends. The brook is running, the birds are singing, her face is falling, cracking, trying not to. I have asked how she is. Not good, she doesn’t lie. So, this is a conversation that will happen. I listen. and I have some thoughts toward hope. Not superficial ones. But ones that I feel because she is telling me the truth, and these are some things I believe might help. And her face lifts a little. Her eyes flash when I say: “phoenix rising.” A new beginning, some day. She tells me a bit more. I tell her a bit more. She is accepting my suggestions. She is claiming some hope. But, more than that. See how my mood is transformed in this rainy wet woods. I have some ears and words. We cannot hug; there is a pandemic. But the trail between her and the brook is narrow, and I pass her, and feel it, the way this moment matters so much, to both of us.
