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.

what i make it.

I said I could do it. And I think I believed it too.

This moment is for classical music and a gulp of coffee.

Yes, after that pause, I am sure, I believed wrongly. Very much so. But isn’t that the way when we don’t know the routines and every little detail is difficult, just from the newness of it? Transitions are a terror. All that changing and feeling uncomfortably shoved into a mold that is not your comfort zone. There are surely those that enjoy this; thrive in it even. But I am not one of them, those changeful gurus.

No, no, I am best off here, drinking deep and wondering at the way all the trees seem to lean eastward. Or is it south? They appear eager for something and I am inclined to agree with them.

But she told me something today—a lady I labored alongside—“It is what you make it.” I presume she is not the first to think of such a brilliantly contented option, but she was the right soul to remind me. It is, I know it, I know it, what I make it.

There isn’t much sunlight left to see today, but I will be seeing with it for hours yet. I will carry a handful of it with me into the night and thank the trees for a lesson in leaning. It’s not always about loving where you are; it is always about loving whoever surrounds you. And if it gets me a little closer to the sun, I will lean too.

I pretend to still believe I can do it. That way I’ll survive. And when surviving feels less than enough, I’ll make it glorious. It is, after all, what I make it.

age.

There is a symphony in their faces—something delicate I suppose. But I prefer to say seasoned, or even weather-beaten. Not weak for the sake of it, weak for the many past years of strength. They have faced it, nearly the entirety of it, and we are pawns next to their knowledge. Life. They know the ins and outs, the troubles we believe shall never come to us and the victories we cannot yet recognize. We label them, “old people” and they call us “young hooligans.” But when the generations collide peacefully there is a depth of wisdom to be had.

There is something careless in their mannerisms. A way of living quite alien to myself. They do not bother about others’ estimations, they bother about the day. It is not, “what shall the world think of me this year?” it is, “what shall I be able to do today?” Certainly not all with age have such an ease, but certainly few without the age do.

I suspect it is odd of me, to want to share in their sentiments. I do. I want to feel less about how others see me, and I want to feel more in the victory of this day. Sip my coffee, elated at my taste buds, and walk under trees, awed. Proud to have the dishes washed. I can only wish to have a small piece of the wisdom that graces them; I wish.

I cannot yet speak as they do, saying whatever sentences I please, unabated. When such a young one does this, the mouths drop about the room and there is that awful sense that all was much better prior to one’s talking. When a seasoned one does this, everyone smiles politely and laughs about it later. “Oh to be old,” they say, “how it dulls the social queues and sensitivities.” Well, I like to think it is not a dullness to the unspoken rules, but a somewhat noble disregard for them, that prompts their unrestraint. “We have lived,” they cry through dentures, “and shall not pretend to be perfect as we once did.”

Hear, hear.

We young are a foolish lot, but it is the weather-beaten that best see our folly. They do sometimes judge us for it and we do always judge them for judging us. Silly.

If I could give a gift to us foolish, it would be this: That we might live joyfully accepting, “someday that worn one will be me,” and so we change.

foxes in the snow.

Tried to eat snow. But it was too fluffy and floated away from my reaching tongue. All this shuffling through flurries, wears me out in the good sort of way. Then it is the rushing as sled hits hill and I am sky-bound for a glorious collage of moments. I’m in a wonderland, if only for the last hour of daylight. And oh, the day this is now—so different from the one I awoke to. So much whiter and livable. Maybe hopeful.

After supper it is declared a time for development of art and intellect. Pens, pencils, books, paper. If only the little brother would stop jumping. But I would miss it if he did stop. Jump away. I will intellect on.

Of a sudden, he jumps and I see snow again. Curtsy and twirl. A dance of flurry fairies—all the forest has come to see. Little foxes prance with frost on their noses and tails. Between trees and across a frozen lake. We shouldn’t be able to see each other but for the oddest of unknowns, we do. A royal witnessing of wonder. I am not a queen though. I am a baffled bystander. Too often we make ourselves queens. I will be careful not to.

Just watch. And say thank you.

They smile—the intellectuals now—at their work on paper. And I look to mine; a grin of anticipation starts to crawl up my cheeks. But no good. It is empty.

Doesn’t seem to matter how greatly I think, there is no way of saying it. That’s that. So I must choose from these: speak and bewilder? Or just stick to thoughts, that I might appear correctly put-together? The choice is made, for this night at least. Don’t be so silly as to ask. There are words here.

cattail ventures.

We talk big. But we do, and we feel small. So small, and cold down to our bones. The wild is never so kind to us as we assume it will be amidst our anticipations. But we fight and carve out some enjoyment regardless.

We wilderness seekers, we think we know how to find our dreams. Then we get knee-deep into the looking and figure out we may not be content until after we have gotten passed what we hoped to get to.

The campsite is excellence, except for the thorn thickets which require hours of clearing. The hike is good, except for the endless hills and too-small shoes.

We argue and laugh, argue and laugh. Soon we short-cut and pretend we don’t care that we are “cheating.” But hot tea awaits us at the halfway point and we can’t believe how big the lake is there.

It is evident, on the getting there, that the map should be studied and a different course taken on the homeward journey. In the midst of tea and decisions we spill a quarter pound of sugar. Something for the forest folk to remember us by.

Go back by the frozen marshes—it is decided.

Cattails break dryly before our feet and their fluffy heads coat us in pollen. We laugh more and argue less. But we hurry. Our highway of ice starts to melt. Irony is a regular comrade on these ventures. We want it cold now, but as we shivered in our sleeping bags only hours ago, warmth was all we dreamed of.

We make it out, we make it home. And there we lie, exhausted. It is not that we aren’t glad we adventured, just that we need a bit of time before we are eager to do it again. One night should do.