I am watching him sit in the spring woods.
Light, filtering through newly budding trees.
Light so brilliant. So fleeting.
Tiny blooms cover the forest floor. Violets. Spring beauties. Trillium. Trout lillies. Where do they come from? Where do they go?
A carpet of vibrant green has emerged from brown earth. Green today. Brown again tomorrow.
This light, these flowers, the green — it will all fade away when the leaves fill out. The woods will transform into a place of dark and deep.
But, today, we have this.
Have you read “The Story of the Root Children” by Sibylle von Olfers? It is a beautiful classic children’s book. Amabel says Wallace looks like a “root child” in his brown wooly suit.
And today he did indeed look like he crawled out of the pages of that story land.
So many hours,
I linger here.
next to him.
Everything is Waiting for You
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
— David Whyte
Watching him sleep
not to escape and do something else
“get something done”
but to know him better
to wonder at who he is
to remember how much I don’t know
to let him be
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
— Robert Frost
My mom continually inspires me with her creative projects. And so I’ve decided to start a series: Susie’s Knits.
This delightful little blue bird (pattern from Itty-Bitty Toys) folds neatly inside its underbelly — transforming into a pale white egg.
The egg fits perfectly its furry, brown nest . . . where it snuggles for a while . . .
Until it’s ready to hatch back out again!
For every Bird a Nest—
Wherefore in timid quest
Some little Wren goes seeking round—
Wherefore when boughs are free—
Households in every tree—
Pilgrim be found?
Perhaps a home too high—
The little Wren desires—
Perhaps of twig so fine—
Of twine e’en superfine,
Her pride aspires—
The Lark is not ashamed
To build upon the ground
Her modest house—
Yet who of all the throng
Dancing around the sun
Does so rejoice?
— Emily Dickinson