Hi Anna, hi Monkey. I'm on Southwest flight 1347, lifting off in a few minutes for Oakland, where Tildy will be leaping into my arms more frenziedly than a Tasmanian devil by 11pm Pacific time.
Storms... weather... taking a break from the human hamster wheel grind by going out on the land to places where remnants of nature can still be found... things experienced that way seem more real and more meaningful than stuff experienced in the city. I need to find some place wild and remote where I can just sit and watch the sky for a few days.
Fly safe, Nana.
Well, take the plane, but tell them to fly safely.
nana! I’ve wondered how you are. What a time you must have had, are having. You’ve been missed.
Art and nature, two good coping tools. Soft furry animals, those too.
Glad to hear from you. Take care of yourself. How wiseass are the flight attendants?
I don't know if you're a poetry fan. I am, but hope you won't hold that against me if you're not.
I'll leave you this poem by Mary Oliver, a poet who writes mostly about nature, the beauty and terror of it. She gets life the way people who spend a lot of time in nature do. I read it at my mother's memorial service and now it's indelibly connected with my mother. I read it again on the anniversary of her death every June.
btw, Blackwater Woods is a real place where you can go wander, in Provincetown. Oliver wrote this poem about the passing of her wife.
In Blackwater Woods
Look, the trees
their own bodies
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
the long tapers
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
to let it go.
Here's one of mine, called Crossing.
So sorry Nana!
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