My awe is like blindness; wonder exchanges for sight.
—-Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “Wonder”
Hello Lovelies—
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These days away from teaching are full of so much wondering, by which I mean the act of collecting wonder.
Of course there is the wonder of writing, how lucky I feel to have each day to work with words. I’ve set myself a goal of at least 500 words each day on my novel, Sister House, and this has helped me build a rhythm and put pages written toward what this book will become.
This summer, my writing spot is outside, on the deck, where first thing I take a cup of strong coffee first as a robin sings cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up, cheer up in the distance. Sometimes I can write for three hours before the heat descends, baking the pines boards with oven-like heat and sending me inside.
While I write, other wonders: I am visited by the resident fox, who is ever-hopeful, luxuriating in the cool yard where she circles a few times before lying down, or sometimes, elongates to torpedo her body through the dew-wet grass. She keeps an eye on me in case I decide to bring her an egg.
Then, come the birds. Descending to the deck railing are yellow-striped pine siskin and red-headed rosefinch, black and white chickadee and nuthatch, small birds who don’t mind the presence of others. There are Hairy and Downy Woodpecker and sometimes sky blue Steller’s Jay, but most amusing is the raucous band of Clark’s Nutcrackers, large birds who come and call and squawk and feed their even louder young who shriek in the frenzy of being fed. The whir and chip-chip of Broad-tailed hummingbirds at the two feeders is the constant sound track to these precious summer days.
After a few hours at work, I go for a walk in the woods, in part for exercise and in part for inspiration. This morning, I take the long loop over the hill into the next gulch. The forest floor crunches beneath my feet as I say another silent prayer for rain. Suddenly, I catch myself thinking I haven’t walked this path since last fall when likely, my companion was River.
The familiar trail is made unfamiliar by the absence of the dog and also by the wreckage of pines piled and blocking the once easy to find trail, casualties of the twin storms that brought five foot snow and ferocious 100+ mph winds late this spring. I pick my way around their fallen bodies and finally locating a quiet trail along a hillside dappled with sun. .
That’s when I spot them: the first blue columbines of the season.
Something about the orchid-like strangeness of a columbine makes a cathedral out of the landscape it inhabits. It likes filtered light and tends to grow in groves of aspen trees, in places where it can hide. I let my eyes adjust until I see a dozen or more of the otherworldly blue and white blossoms dotting the landscape, lifting their heads between juniper and among golden banner. The delicate flowers reveal themselves only when you take the time to take them in. You must earn their beauty with patience, with wonder.
Happily, I welcome them back to the mountain, open my arms in embrace.
In this season of growing and growth, of the moose mama and her twins bedding down in the yard and the yearling bear stalking the woods; of the squirrel I saw as I sat writing this morning tuck a plucked mushroom against the buddha sculpture as if it was the most secret place in the world for a cache, I am holding wonder—for the beauty of the season, for good writing, for the awe of these long summer days and the goodness of time on the mountain.
Thank you for reading.
Big love,
Karen
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I simply cannot wait to hold another one of your books within my hands.
I envy you your mountain days, but I’m glad you are finding wonder and writing. River is with you in spirit, too, I’m sure.