You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
Words to live by, for me, anyway. I remember driving up Hooper Avenue and seeing a family of geese in the grassy median. The mama would take a step into the road, prodding at her youngster to follow. The baby would take a tentative waddle to the edge of the curb, ready to take that first, daunting hop down just as the light changed. The parents would dive back up onto the median in the nick of time, squawking and frantic as two lanes of traffic descended upon them. How I sobbed watching them nip and flail at the confused gosling in a desperate attempt to call her back to the relative safety of the median. Surely they were bound to perish before my eyes as miles of cars sped by, brakes squealing with each narrow miss.
As you step away
We will be waving at you
Our hearts aflutter.
Thinking of it now reminds me of when you were much younger and we stopped to help those ducks trying to cross the boulevard. You couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but you knew just what to do. There I was, frantically trying to “shoo” the mama across in hopes her babies would follow behind her, but she was having none of it, fiercely trying to protect her young. Calmly, you scooped up a duckling and holding it tenderly but firmly in your tiny hands, you coaxed me. “Pick up the babies. The mama will know we are helping her and follow them.” With downy bits of fluff gathered in my shirt, I followed behind you.
Mother duck scolding:
The best way to cross the street?
Look both ways.
I wish I could give you more than that. Some pearl. This earth. Here it is: Stand for something. Care about something. Have a purpose. It doesn’t matter what, really. For me, it’s nature. When my mother died, I felt untethered. Like a balloon let go, in danger of floating free of the atmosphere where surely, the cold isolation of space would cause me to burst. You patiently held my hand as we travelled back in time through the layers of rock down the Bright Angel trail, grounding me again, bringing me back to myself.
Sandstone walls give way.
Each step out of the canyon
New vistas appear.
And maybe I have given you that after all. I know that among your tally of perfect days sits John Muir. How hushed and hallowed were the giant trees of Muir Woods. A cathedral if ever there was one to awaken the soul to knowing it’s true self. And later that day the warmth of Muir Beach, in contrast to the cool dim drippings of an ancient wood. I remember your delight as you crouched on the shoreline for hours seeking bits of polished glass hidden there.
The shush of water
Words to live by, for me, anyway. I remember driving up Hooper Avenue and seeing a family of geese in the grassy median. The mama would take a step into the road, prodding at her youngster to follow. The baby would take a tentative waddle to the edge of the curb, ready to take that first, daunting hop down just as the light changed. The parents would dive back up onto the median in the nick of time, squawking and frantic as two lanes of traffic descended upon them. How I sobbed watching them nip and flail at the confused gosling in a desperate attempt to call her back to the relative safety of the median. Surely they were bound to perish before my eyes as miles of cars sped by, brakes squealing with each narrow miss.
As you step away
We will be waving at you
Our hearts aflutter.
Thinking of it now reminds me of when you were much younger and we stopped to help those ducks trying to cross the boulevard. You couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but you knew just what to do. There I was, frantically trying to “shoo” the mama across in hopes her babies would follow behind her, but she was having none of it, fiercely trying to protect her young. Calmly, you scooped up a duckling and holding it tenderly but firmly in your tiny hands, you coaxed me. “Pick up the babies. The mama will know we are helping her and follow them.” With downy bits of fluff gathered in my shirt, I followed behind you.
Mother duck scolding:
The best way to cross the street?
Look both ways.
I wish I could give you more than that. Some pearl. This earth. Here it is: Stand for something. Care about something. Have a purpose. It doesn’t matter what, really. For me, it’s nature. When my mother died, I felt untethered. Like a balloon let go, in danger of floating free of the atmosphere where surely, the cold isolation of space would cause me to burst. You patiently held my hand as we travelled back in time through the layers of rock down the Bright Angel trail, grounding me again, bringing me back to myself.
Sandstone walls give way.
Each step out of the canyon
New vistas appear.
And maybe I have given you that after all. I know that among your tally of perfect days sits John Muir. How hushed and hallowed were the giant trees of Muir Woods. A cathedral if ever there was one to awaken the soul to knowing it’s true self. And later that day the warmth of Muir Beach, in contrast to the cool dim drippings of an ancient wood. I remember your delight as you crouched on the shoreline for hours seeking bits of polished glass hidden there.
The shush of water
receding through small pebbles.
Ebb and flow.
Dad and I hiked to the top of the ridge, leaving you there to your quiet pleasure. The trail was dusty and steep through the scrub, but filled with delights big and small: A Great Heron stalking in the tall grass just inches from me, a bright orange insect with a thou
sand legs undulating across a hot rock. At the top of the trail, we drank deeply from our canteens, washing the grit from our mouths, the water warm, but reviving my brain. The sea stretched out endlessly in a rich turquoise and my heart expanded to meet its vast embrace; a yellow kayak floating on the fishbowl flatness, kelp waving long feathery stalks far below the glassy surface. In the cove, a string of horses picked their way through the boulders on the trail far below. Along the thin C-curve strip of sand, 2 blond heads, bowed in nature’s prayer, the sun glinting off them in bright sparks, minute treasures to this bird’s view.
Amid the silence
Geese will be calling you home.
The nature of things.
Ebb and flow.
Dad and I hiked to the top of the ridge, leaving you there to your quiet pleasure. The trail was dusty and steep through the scrub, but filled with delights big and small: A Great Heron stalking in the tall grass just inches from me, a bright orange insect with a thou
sand legs undulating across a hot rock. At the top of the trail, we drank deeply from our canteens, washing the grit from our mouths, the water warm, but reviving my brain. The sea stretched out endlessly in a rich turquoise and my heart expanded to meet its vast embrace; a yellow kayak floating on the fishbowl flatness, kelp waving long feathery stalks far below the glassy surface. In the cove, a string of horses picked their way through the boulders on the trail far below. Along the thin C-curve strip of sand, 2 blond heads, bowed in nature’s prayer, the sun glinting off them in bright sparks, minute treasures to this bird’s view.Amid the silence
Geese will be calling you home.
The nature of things.
Laura,
ReplyDeleteThis is a lovely beginning. I'm looking forward to reading more! Margaret