The Big Dipper is kind to streetlights — lets them boast, as a ghost might. . Now, you should know there’s a great being, gentle, wise, and invisible, who goes out at night and pulls up the roads, and carries them off in her arms, and who leaves trees, grass, and flowers growing in her path — To remind them, she says, and the breeze agrees, Yes. . Read the […]
How does a child learn to lie? It’s in the air, it’s in your eye. Word-drift. Intonation. Body language. Sigh. And when, a short time later, is disbelieved, is brought to deceive, little by little, by and by. . We were on a first-name basis. Now we just smile and nod when the wind blows. . Read the thirty-seventh chapter of Middlemarch. Moved daffodils from the plastic pot they’d bloomed […]
Stars and low-racing clouds. A spirit at the switch, grinning fall. My eldest brother is alive again. He’s forgotten to bring his driver’s license. Standing beside our mother’s old car, I tell him I’d better drive, though we have no particular destination in mind. With the arrival of rain and cooler temperatures, I’m reminded that the easiest way to adjust to seasonal weather changes is to spend as much time […]
I would describe most of my adult life as a great unlearning — a process moving gradually from prior conditioning and habit, through blindness, ignorance, intimation, denial, recognition, acceptance, and gratitude. Is the process done? Have I reached my destination? I don’t worry about it, or think in those terms. I’m simply amazed by my good fortune. I won’t even say that I know what I know. Do I? And […]
It’s not that nature answers all questions and problems, though it seems she does. It’s that she disposes of those not really worth asking or solving, and returns us, at least for a time, to a state of harmony with our most basic needs, and an understanding of how we’re connected to each other and all things. If you live in a city, even a single flower or plant near […]
The moon, hidden by a bright, sprawling cloud — an illuminated island, complete with inlets and shore, a drifting, conscious continent. Yesterday evening, and into the early morning hours, there was a very active thunderstorm. What was left of the day’s heat was quickly washed away, the air sweetened with rain mixed with small hail. The crickets became lightning bugs. At one point we heard laughter in the street; this […]
Dripping maples, full birdbaths, flowers bowing their heads. Since yesterday morning, the temperature hasn’t gone up or down more than two degrees. We leave the house open. Last night, we could hear the crickets. Rain or no rain, now is their time. Thoreau’s journal, February 1854. One day, he followed the tracks of a fox in the snow over a mile. No phone, no map, no app. Strolling vs. scrolling. […]
As hot as it is, as dirty the air — I could leave it there, except for the three hungry babies in our hanging basket, and the juncos, who have given us their trust again this year. . [ 1826 ]
Up and down, over rocks, our feet are covered with dust. Here’s a raven. A flower. Moss. Miles we walk. Down to the stream, out to the middle on high, dry stone. Pools, mirrors, circles, nothing square, no edges. To wash our feet here is to bathe them in infinite space. At home, we carry water to the blueberry and mint. Infinite grace. . [ 1803 ]
Flowers and bees. Computers and clocks. Hmmmm . . . . [ 1797 ]
William Michaelian 