Four Years

Here we stand, Spencer and I, watching a classic November (but very mild) day unfold slowly around us. The sky is pale blue overhead, and the trees are bare. Geese are winging their way overhead, moving to and fro between the cornfields and the river. My sweet furry son has been with us for a little over a year now, and he is a fine companion for these late autumn rambles. He has turned out to be something of a philosopher, and he shares his thoughts on the workings of the great wide world as we potter along.

Me??? I was astonished when I realized that yesterday marked four years of blogging - four whole years of showing up here every morning and writing something, tucking in an image and then having the audacity to upload my mundane natterings to the worldwide web for fellow travelers to read. At times, my quotidian exercise strikes me as being banal, threadbare, appallingly self-indulgent and downright pathetic, but hey, these are my journal pages, my little stick men (and women), my wobbly scratchings on the rock wall of time. A lifelong devotee of the ancient, the mythic, the liminal and the mysterious, I like the cave art analogy, even it it is a tad wonky (and it certainly is).

These days, I almost always have the feeling that I am talking to myself on my wordy sunrise rambles, clucking away at this old hen, dishing out reminders, venting, admonishing, grumbling, exhorting myself to get my act together and perhaps even take it on the road. What is the point of reaching this ripe old age if I can't talk to myself?

As usually happens around now, I find myself wanting to overhaul this tatterdemalion realm, move the various elements around, jazz it up, add windbells and widgets, music and moonlight, sequins and finger cymbals, perhaps a tattoo somewhere. I suspect that changes will be small again this year - I rather like the place just as it is with its Zen-ish simplicity and understated color choices.

Health issues and other "stuff" aside, Spencer and I will simply continue to meander along at our own pace, watching mornings unfold in the village, trees swaying against the sky, and the last linden leaves raining dewdrops like honey in the park. Darling Cassie is always with us on our morning walks - sometimes we can hear her breathing and feel her rambling happily along beside us, but for the most part, her dancing feet make no sound in the fallen leaves. The words that came to mind as we three went along this morning are from Mary Oliver.

Every day I walk out into the world to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond

Dazzled and reflective are good things to be. Thank you for being here on the journey with us this year. You are more precious and wonderful than you can ever know, and we cherish you.