Sunday, December 8, 2013
(Continued from page 1)
Back then, when we had to be canny about the way we moved through the landscape, lest we run afoul of an animal smarter and stronger than ourselves, we understood that we were part of something bigger than the narrowly and overbearingly human. We knew in our blood that we were a mere punctuation point in the long narrative that nature was spelling out.
But we forget that now, often and to our peril -- not only because we find ourselves needing to save the earth rather than subdue it into oblivion, but also because by denying nature, we self-destruct. Nature is in us as much as we are in it.
All that intricacy spun in me as the spring snowstorm swirled outside, as I grounded myself with commonplace tasks like chopping carrots and celery, potatoes and squash, for soup that was more like stew when it came to a boil. Even the roiling broth seemed a little like a steaming universe, spinning into a galaxy of simple things -- food, work, breath, love.
I try to keep things to a minimum at the edge of the woods, while I imagine the skies overhead, far south of here, filling with the urgency of birds and longer light. It might not seem so now in the evident stillness, but I am migrating, too.
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