Saturday, February 16, 2013

On a snowy day


Wanting to make the most of a sunny morning, right before the snow was scheduled to begin, my husband and I drove to the nearby Scioto Audubon Metro Park to take Lizzy for a walk next to the river. But the snow beat us to it and, as we arrived, it started flurrying with some insistence. Although Lizzy is not an enthusiastic car rider, like Rusty used to be, and tends to get car sick (which ain't pretty, let me tell you), she was very excited to get to the park and walk about a mile on the well-paved trail.


The sights along the path were lovely and my husband was able to take some good pictures of a lonely duck and of one of the many herons (standing, grave and silent, like a monk) on the icy river. There were many seagulls, which I love since they remind me of Boston, and it was all very tranquil and nice. A good way to spend part of a Saturday before returning to my "dungeon" in the basement to grade and prep classes for this coming week.



The accessibility of all these near and beautiful places is another reason why I love that we're back near the capital city. There's always somewhere new and not far to try out.

In that vein of new experiences, for the first time since college I requested a book of poetry from the local library (Mary Oliver's A Thousand Mornings). I saw it reviewed on NPR and decided to give it a try. I have no patience for poetry that is so obscure as to be unintelligible (at least to me) so I'm enjoying the short, observant poems that she crafts. Here's one of my favorites:

The Moth, The Mountains, The Rivers

 Who can guess the luna's sadness who lives so
briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone
longing to be ground down, to be part again of
something livelier? Who can imagine in what 
heaviness the rivers remember their original
clarity?

Strange questions, yet I have spent worthwhile
time with them. And I suggest them to you also,
that your spirit grow in curiosity, that your life
be richer than it is, that you bow to the earth as
you feel how it actually is, that we--so clever, and
ambitious, and selfish, and unrestrained--are only
one design of the moving, the vivacious many.

To make time for poetry, and time to see and feel the poetry of nature itself, is precious. Even on a  gray, snowy day, the soul can but rejoice.

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