I see you sitting
in a tree
and calling out to me.
You want to be sure
I see you —
and I see the place you have reached.
You want to be apart
* * *
Now you are far away.
I cannot see you
or the tree in which you’ve built your nest.
I hear only stories
You say you have found
someone to be your witness there.
But I hear a voice telling you where to place each foot,
directing you so loudly —
the sound travels across the continent.
And I remember,
the way you knew how to find your own way
into the tree tops
as a child.
* * *
Your tree still grows
and you will find your familiar seat,
deep within its branches.
Illuminated by pink clouds.
They are playing in the swampy edge of the dune pond where the pollywogs live.
It’s bedtime but they don’t want to leave.
I don’t either, really.
I want to stay in overcast August evenings on the beach
with the smell of white pines and summer sand,
and the sound of our children
completely immersed in the wild.
Painting in our nature journals has become a treasured weekly ritual. This focused hour or two of gathering, sketching, and painting slows me down. I find myself noticing not only the details in the plants, insects, and other bits of nature we collect — but also noticing the girls and their patterns of learning.
It is such a simple exercise: sketching and painting what we find. But, not unlike my 365 project, the intention that I bring to the work makes it something greater.
“Sometimes the actual depth of your approach to a thing will be what coaxes the thing to honor that depth and yield more to you.” — John O’Dononhue
fading colors —
filled with busy bees.
Are they storing up honey for the winter now?
walk with us
through our garden jungle,
over the spongy earth.
They share our love for the hill
we call home,
and delight in the warm evening rain
soaking us all