ready.

"At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready.” –Annie Dillard

The trail did not have her full attention. Work had a way of bugging her brain before and after hours. Was it not enough, she wondered, that they got her mind during? But she hated those ad-like phrases, encouraging outdoor-lovers to “leave life behind” and come adventure. Irresponsibility. That is what they were selling.

No, she thought, she had a job. She had to keep at it. Surely there was life that gave fresh-air freedom too. Maybe she needed to work for it. Most good things, you do.

When spring came she was ready. Boots unlaced at the door and hair braided for the hike. If the frogs were singing, she would be out there listening. If only she could leak out the other thoughts. If only the frogs were her only sound in those minutes.

And mountains never seemed so far as they did this time of year. Birds were the envy of her heart—to have wings, to go flapping into landscapes that made Hallmark cards cry. As a little girl she ran after them yelling, “don’t leave me behind!” As a woman she looked long and tried not to think the same thing.

She thought it.

Some do not hear the hills sing or streams whisper. Some hear but don’t have time to listen better. Some do though.

She would be one of the last some. Oh yes. Sure enough she’d work. But she’d work for the chance to listen—that was her decision. She’d work for time. Time to taste wind and to expedition. For the love of it, not the glory. Please.

And she would learn to silence the other sounds. She must.

The trail asked for more attention, for her own good. The trees agreed—let go. This was her finest adventure at present, if she could just enjoy it. She should be prepared, she mused, to revel in any quest before her—for life, it is now—and live ready to love it.

an ode to march.

There is something inviting about March. The warmth and the spring peepers, on a good year, tell us to sit still. Or run softly, if we must run. Listening is essential. Taking in, irresistible.

Geese float proudly across the lake and the dog ignores nature’s decree for silence. Now he startles the birds to the sky. Could it be endless—this peace? Not for the geese, I suppose. But if only it could remain still for us. I will it to be endless.

There is something in the smell of March that brings back childhood. I wrote then too. The worst sort of poems. But I imagine the trees appreciated the amateur effort I made on their behalf. No, on another thought, not even the kindness of trees could approve such misplaced words. Oh well. At least I tried.

I had all the intention of being accomplished, and none of the discipline for it.

We like the flowers best. But they have not come yet. The waiting is good too. And maybe the peace will last. There is always that chance.

Our wills play little, or no, role in the progressions of the world. But I find it builds stamina to will things, nonetheless. I am sure the geese appreciate my efforts.

There is something promising about March. Feels as though we could start over here.

Perhaps it will be endless.

fool.

We don’t listen to fools. They are ever so wrong about anything. And when we have them for tea it is not to be kind, it is to share in a good laugh once they’ve gone. Foolish people are, after all, so easy to have a laugh about. We hear them, we laugh. We don’t listen.

But the nasty bit is when they see us laugh, when they know we don’t consider them seriously. Dreadful to see their faces as their brains understand—we do not count them as one of us. They are on the silly level, they are a notch below. We hear and hear and hear. But hearing is nothing. When a Queen speaks we listen. For a Queen cannot be a fool. And listening is easily gotten out of us at the word of Queens. But fools, why, we could not listen to them unless we made a great effort. And great efforts are not to be made for fools.

Before you judge us, have a thought for the logic here. It is rarely rewarding to speak intelligently and listeningly to a fool. They talk nonsense and of course they haven’t a thing in common with us—that is the foolish part of them, see. To hear, looking near their faces and nodding, or saying “yes” here and “mhhmm” there, it is a chore! Chore enough for us. They do not appreciate the work we put into it, nor do they say anything worth hearing. So why listen?

If we listened we would have to care. Listening cannot be faked as hearing can. To listen we would have to say, “Forget their oddities and awkwardness, their way of saying things out of place.” Eyes would meet eyes. To listen we would have to accept and appreciate authentically. We would have to want to know. Not pretend to smile at them as they talk too much, so we can impress the people we hope smile at us. Don’t you see the bother of it all?

Before you agree, have another thought. I am more likely wrong about everything than I am right about anything.

And I am a fool. So are you.

We are all a fool to someone.