Zane Kathryne Schwaiger

174 :: Thresholds

174_Belonging

On the beach tonight, I am watching them.
All four of them in their own worlds — coming together to show a rock, ask a question.
Then parting ways again, each beckoned back into the stillness
and constant motion of the lake.

Everything gets washed away here.
Petoskey stones scattered on the shoreline last summer —
are now under water.
The coral pattern makes them easier to spot when wet.

Thresholds.
Who is it that speaks so eloquently about thresholds?
David Whyte?
A threshold is a place where we stop the conversation
and become something new.

Maybe this is why we are so drawn to the beach?

When we need to step over a threshold:
that edge —
that becoming something new — we come to the big lake.
Here we can look out into the future,
and feel ourselves willing to be changed by it.
Willing to enter into the unknown blue.

174_Toes_in_the_Lake

174_Sand_Castle

174_Together

174_Mama_Love

173 :: Morning Walk

173_Morning_Walk

I am walking with Amabel in the morning, before breakfast.  Ellen likes to sleep in; and we like to go out early and greet the day.

First we let the chickens out.  We extract a couple of broody hens from the egg boxes and dump the bucket of kitchen scraps.  Then we walk along the edge of the driveway and watch a killdeer mother and two babies.  Another killdeer appears and pretends her wing is injured — hopping and trying to lead us away from her nest.  But we do not follow her.  We turn right onto our favorite trail, picking wildflowers as we go.

It is different without Harry.  We both notice his absence.  He doesn’t bark at the chickens and tease the neighbor’s dogs.  He doesn’t bound back and forth between us, encouraging us along.  He doesn’t wag his tail and look at us with laughing eyes.  We talk about him.  It helps.

Amabel collects flowers and notices a patch of delicate fern-like moss covered in drops of dew.  We see a vine overhead, hanging on a dead tree.  Then she shows me a fairy house she and Ellen built in an old stump.  We pick a goat’s beard puff for Wallace to clutch in his little fist.

Later that evening, when the moon is rising, I will think back on our morning walk and realize that this time together framed our whole day.

puffy bird

fern like moss

bug on his head