Poetry

Such Singing In The Wild Trees | a poem

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It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that’s when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last

For more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

-Mary Oliver

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M U D ::: Sensory Delight


Mud
by
Polly Chase Boyden

Mud is very nice to feel
All squishy-squash between the toes!
I’d rather wade in wiggly mud
Than smell a yellow rose.

It was a rainy Monday. Then the sun peeked through the clouds for a bright moment, she lit up.

“Mama, do you want to come and play in the mud!?”

Who can resist… We splashed and jumped, we oozed our toes through the gooey mud. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

We’re currently loving this song from our friends Dear Saint Isaac. Especially, when our darling belts it out. Enjoy!

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A R I S E

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  My beloved spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, come with me.
  See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
  Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
  The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”

Song of Songs 2:10-13

Daddy’s and Daughters

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When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry

Yes, Constance

In total, our time at the cabin was just 23 hours, but we feel like we were able to do so much and really enjoyed the short getaway. We were so thankful to our friend Melissa for suggesting Petra Field Camps to us and we’re sure to return.

It was sweet to celebrate our love and these last 17 years together with our children. When you are a freelance artist and have five children, it’s tough to get away alone (or at all), but we truly enjoyed having our complete family there (we did miss  having our dogs, but Petra doesn’t allow them in the cabin, though they do have a smaller house that is pet-friendly).

Wanted to close out this little series with the hilarious reality of having a feisty toddler.

No, Constance, you can’t color on the cabin floors:

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No, Constance, you can’t have marshmallows and chocolate for breakfast:

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No, Constance, you don’t play miniature golf by picking up each person’s ball and placing it into the hole:

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No, Constance, we can’t stay forever:

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Yes, Constance, you are loved and adored a gift to our family.

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Nourished.

All of life is aflame.

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We watch it burn. It warms us. Heals.

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He loves to stoke the fire. Drawing out the rushing, burning moments. Wild.

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Morning light through the pines. Fresh breath. Life. We breathe it in. All this holiness.

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Share a meal and laughter. This is love. This nourishes.

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A game of miniature golf among the flaming wild trees.

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Reminders of Uganda…dangerously made play-sets,
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barefoot babies,

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tire swings,

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freedom beyond fences.

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All this love, this life that surrounds. A gift.

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