Wednesday, March 4, 2015
There Can Be Calm In The Storm
On my walk this morning I took a little trail into the woods to pee and when I was walking back to the road, I looked down to see this feather and I think it is a hawk feather although it could easily be a wild turkey feather. The picture does it no justice. The colors of the bands are iridescent and change in the light. I am no good at this sort of identification and I followed the tracks of what looked to be a large dog for a long way down the dirt road although I never see dogs out on the loose. Too big to be fox and definitely not raccoon tracks or the paw print of a large cat. Coyote?
I do not know.
I do not know shit today.
Well, I know the wind is blowing on and off, great gusts which slam a door shut here or there in the house, making me sit up straight, take a breath. I walk into the kitchen to find my love notes from Mr. Moon scattered across the floor. Although the sun is out, I am hanging clothes on the line because it is not raining and this wind will take the wetness away and it is warm, too.
I have had three walks this week so far. I have reached the point where I cannot stand to put on clothes. Where nothing fits except for a few gargantuan garments, too ugly to wear anywhere but in my backyard, and stretchy skirts, etc. Bag dresses. And it's time to clean up the diet which of course is the hardest part.
To begin to eat all healthy and shit once more. Aw, but it is so easy to get lazy. To welcome cheese back into the diet like an old lover, to not quibble over a few crackers here and there.
Oh god. How boring to contemplate. How boring to read about.
This wind. It seems to be blowing things my way and all across my world. News of a mother's death, news of an upcoming, possibly life-altering journey. Changes in attitude. Changes everywhere.
The little black sugar ants are back already. Two days of warmth and they have crawled out of wherever they were to take up residence in the honey bear, the laundry basket where a tiny crumb of food had fallen. Another harbinger of spring, not as pleasant as the robins, the blackbirds, the buds, but just as surely so. Changes in lives, changes in thinking, changes in habit, changes in landscape, changes in season.
May we not be tempest-tossed and yet, not tied too tightly to the moorings to float over the waves that come.
It is a delicate dance, is it not?