Writing is one more way of living forever, like digging in the garden, making bread, and bathing a child.
It’s a city lot, but if I walk the same narrow path through the yard to its every corner each and every day, my footsteps will form a scenic nature trail. Out, back, and around, in every direction and through all the seasons — who knows what I might see?
We took a leisurely stroll this morning through the old English walnut grove on the north side of Mission Lake — nuts falling, leaves yellowing, squirrels busy, birds chattering. We heard, but didn’t see, a raven. Despite recent rains, the lake, though higher, still wears a thick green coat of algae, through which we saw numerous ducks plowing their way. There were two herons standing in the muck. There is still some chicory in bloom, and a new carpet of grasses and broadleaf plants is sprouting in the path.
Read the forty-first and forty-second chapters of Middlemarch, finishing Book IV, “Three Love Problems,” bringing me to Book V, “The Dead Hand.” Vol. II, Page 220.
October 3, 2023.
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Categories: If It Had A Name
Tags: Be Here Now, Birds, Chicory, Ducks, Fall, George Eliot, Grass, Herons, Journals, Leaves, Middlemarch, Mission Lake, Nature, Rain, Ravens, Reading, Seasons, Squirrels, Walking, Walnuts, Writing
William Michaelian 