Putting Place in its place

I spent an interesting and educational lunchtime today participating in an online nature writing course using Zoom. [Our crappy internet service via frontier only screwed things up three or four times due to limited bandwidth.] The theme is nature writing focused on place and its relation to people and culture and issues. Today’s guest writer was Cal Flyn. I hadn’t thought for quite awhile about the writer’s craft in consciously controlling the level of detail in written  descriptions, so there’s some cruft knocked off.

There are four more sessions for the next four Wednesdays. This is the second series of Writing from the  Roots. If you find the concept appealing, I think it’s still possible to register for the course,

a welcome change from all green

Photo by J. Harrington

One of the things I’ve been noticing as autumn’s colors have become more prominent on the landscape is an increased awareness of how briefly we get to enjoy them each year. The greening up in spring (often May in the North Country) is such a hopeful replacement of winter’s whiteness that I takes until mid-summer before I begin to become bored with the monotony of green, green, green. And yet I do desire a certain amount of certainty and constancy in my life. I’ve not yet come close to figuring out how to attain and maintain a happy balance of change and stability in my life.

I did come away from today’s session happier and better adjusted than after spending a comparable amount of time doom-scrolling social media and/or reading newspapers etc. Waaayyy back in school, I was taught that the proper definition of a problem is half the solution. If you follow Donella Meadows’ Dancing with Systems, you’ll find that structuring a proper definition is often a lot more complicated than it would seem to be at first glance.

The preceding is in alignment with my intent to honor arts and humanities this month. Remember, if you add Arts to STEM you get STEAM!

Wild Horses Drink from the River of History

Lois Roma-Deeley

Hours before dark, I follow the stony path
from the parking lot to the river bank. 
Along the shore I look for crushed branches and trampled grass,
the clearing where wild horses are said to appear.
Then, I hide behind a mesquite tree, hold my breath.
I want to know their secrets.

Finally the mares and foals emerge from the woods
and stand, ankle deep, among the dense reeds.
At once the entire herd bows their heads,
laps the cool water, takes the river into themselves. 

If I were brave, if I’d forget 
to move past the brokenness of my own family,
I’d approach these unclaimed, unnamed creatures.
I’d stroke their brown manes, 
feed them sugar apples and snow peas.
We’d share one fearless story.

Now the Mustangs dig their feet under the tall grass.
I step forward, snap a few pictures,
as if the camera could capture 
when my unsettled heart and theirs became one.
Overhead, the whir of helicopter blades
cuts through a questioning sky.

Suddenly there’s a thousand echoes,
galloping hooves ringing over badlands.
I turn and look back to the river
which flows on, relentlessly, carrying with it
every story of who or what has come and gone.

And the sun sets, dropping behind the mountain,
leaving a blue ridge, a dimming thread of gold.
I get into my car, head up switchbacks
that lead me to the open highway and down towards the city
where lights shimmer like the past of distant stars.

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