I hear the deer again. A buck, rack held high, is dashing
about with the doe, engrossed in a game of tag. They race and chase about, oblivious to me in my tent as I
peer from the window. It's a
gorgeous autumn morning, a chill in the air and bright sun rising, perfect for prancing
about under the canopy of trees aflame with the reds and orange.
The other day I saw a young bear
playing with my bath towel that hung from the limb of a tree. He batted it back and forth with his
paws like any kid at the clothes line.
Then he meandered over to the garden and stood high atop his tippy-toes
to sniffle at the satellite dish. I
was surprised, thinking he'd only be interested in edible things. But no, he wanted to sniff and touch
and paddle about like any two-year old, investigating every new thing he hadn't
seen before, whether it was smelly or not.
And remember the bobcat,
somersaulting down the tree, with glee?
Animals at play — not something you see, really,
at least not in the wild. Dogs
tussle with old shoes. Cats bat
about feathers and balls of foil.
But wild animals? I thought they were all business,
burdened with the constant hunt for food, and with ferocity.
Not so. And to see them let go of daily discretions to clown and
cavort is such a treat, a delight. I
feel honored to witness them letting down their guard. They only need space, like
anyone else — free of threats and loud crashing
noises, free of faces leering too wildly from strange windows. Matter of fact — I
need this too, in order to rest!
It's been a long haul — this building of home, with quite a ways to
go to completion. I tire, but
daily soldier on. Then the animals come — remind me to play, to
take time for that. Don't let
autumn fly by in a rush of work! they say. Take time to laugh, to play; enjoy the changes going on. Go for a stroll under the canopy of trees. Enjoy the sound of rain.
So I do. And am renewed. Creativity flows, and as I turn to work
again the work itself turns into play, and satisfaction — like the brilliant yellows
spattering the woods — peaks, and I am so content.
Anonymous - Parker J. Palmer posted this Marge Piercy poem on his Facebook page, reminded me of you:
ReplyDeleteThe Seven Of Pentacles
Under a sky the color of pea soup
she is looking at her work growing away there
actively, thickly like grapevines or pole beans
as things grow in the real world, slowly enough.
If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,
if you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,
if the sun shines and you pick off caterpillars,
if the praying mantis comes and the ladybugs and the bees,
then the plants flourish, but at their own internal clock.
Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.
You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.
More than half the tree is spread out in the soil under your feet.
Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.
Fight persistently as the creeper that brings down the tree.
Spread like the squash plant that overruns the garden.
Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make sugar.
Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: Make love that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,
a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us
interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.
Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen:
reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing in.
This is how we are going to live for a long time: not always,
for every gardener knows that after the digging, after
the planting, after the long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.
Thank you so much. I love this poem. And yes, I do resonate with it.
DeletePamela