I don't want to talk about death or dying today.
I don't want to weep.
I don't want to worry about students, teachers, or admin's numbers and goals.
I don't want to crease my mind with laundry like this.
I am sitting where, for three of four generations, people in this house have sat to look out and down the hill toward the river. The sun is cold in April. The air has widened. A fulvic aroma has seeped in, a black smell as swiftly encompassing as the melting river.
The geese that do are flying elsewhere. The snowbirds are returning home.
Changes come, revolving, repositioning, unstoppable.
Hills help me embrace change.
I have always sat on hills to think. They are natural confidants, and empathic.
Hills know how to accept suffering and happiness.
This particular hill has my nest, where I make things. It has now, for about a week, been humming
very quietly, underneath the hours, through the birdsong. This particular hum I am familiar with. It's an invitation to open out, to imagine, to breathe. I have yet to refuse such an offer.
I don't want to weep.
I don't want to worry about students, teachers, or admin's numbers and goals.
I don't want to crease my mind with laundry like this.
I am sitting where, for three of four generations, people in this house have sat to look out and down the hill toward the river. The sun is cold in April. The air has widened. A fulvic aroma has seeped in, a black smell as swiftly encompassing as the melting river.
The geese that do are flying elsewhere. The snowbirds are returning home.
Changes come, revolving, repositioning, unstoppable.
Hills help me embrace change.
I have always sat on hills to think. They are natural confidants, and empathic.
Hills know how to accept suffering and happiness.
This particular hill has my nest, where I make things. It has now, for about a week, been humming
very quietly, underneath the hours, through the birdsong. This particular hum I am familiar with. It's an invitation to open out, to imagine, to breathe. I have yet to refuse such an offer.
