Resting by the shores of Lake Gardner has been restorative: the gentle waves breaking on the stones, some geese and a mallard duck came to visit, a variety of birds feeding outside our breakfast nook (as well as a relentless, infuriating, and ultimately amusing red squirrel who insisted on warfare over the bird feeder). There was sunshine and rain, quiet and a silence I'd long forgotten. We spent time by the lake and the ocean, on rocks and in the forest, and went into town, too, occasionally. We explored. We talked. We walked, slept, savored local goodies, wrote, read, and celebrated the chance just to be. I am grateful. St. Mary Oliver put it well in her poem: Today.
Today I'm flying low and I'm
not saying a word.
I'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I'm taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I'm traveling
a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
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