So, I haven’t given up blogging so soon after I began.
No, no, no. I’m still here, throwing up random thoughts and sightings on this self-publishing site.
My little fam went up to the Biddick lake house in Northeast Oklahoma for the week. We left post-morning nap on Tuesday, just after the Memorial Day kick off of summer/overly crowded, boat-filled cove and returned early afternoon on Sunday.
I wasn’t really looking forward to the trip.* But as we drove up, I thought, “Wow. I forgot how tall the trees are.”
I kept thinking it the whole time we were there: while I looked over the still waters from the stone front porch, as we took the baby for long walks under the canopy of trees, and even as I glanced out the window as we watched the Thunder lose ( 😢).
I forgot how tall the trees are.
Something expands in my soul when I remember, something that’s inarticuable (yes, not a word, but is there a word for there not being words?).
And that’s just the trees! What good do the bright reds of robins, blues of blue birds, and quick-flapping wings of humming birds do? What does it mean to visit with a fox everyday, to watch a baby squirrel while carrying my own baby, to see a wild-growing berry patch?
It’s times like these that I wish I was a poet, that I could capture the rustle of the trees and distant chirping birds—or, at least, respond to it in such a way that I participate in the beauty that’s there.
Instead, here’s some more Richard Wilbur (who is, after all, my favorite poet; except maybe Wendell Berry is?).
The Beautiful Changes
One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides
The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like lilies
On water, it glides
So from the walker, it turns
Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you
Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes
The beautiful changes as a forest is changed
By a chameloen’s tuning his skin to it;
As a mantis, arranged
On a green leaf, grows
Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves
Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows
Your hands hold roses in a way that says
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes
In such kind ways,
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.
*I wasn’t dreading it, either. I just kept thinking: we have to move to the front of our duplex when we get back! I have to pack up all these books, and the insane amount of kitchen stuff we own… and all the other stuff, too.
(Confession: I typed this up while still at the lake on the ol’ Microsoft word as humming birds buzzed and the world was so still I could hear someone across the cove mowing the lawn.)