Coming Home: Letter to Kate
I sit in the Pine Grove a bit shocked by all the small purple flowers, tufts of long, tender grass, and feathery, ferny stems springing up from what was a dense, brittle carpet of pine needles when I departed. I am wading in shin-deep greenery! The ground is vaguely springy. The rainy-season has also brought along other not-so-pleasant shifts—mosquitos. Surprise! There were never any mosquitos in all my prior years in New Mexico. I’m trying to wrack my brain for what good there might be in a mosquito…Now I have to put in screens or forfeit entirely the cool night breeze.
What stuns me is the quiet. The stillness. Of course the wind sings and the birds and insects make their diverse little chorus, but under all that infrequent music the land sits large and solid and silent. This is joy to me. I see a picture of my path—to be as connected to the large, solid, silent and enduring magnitude as possible and let the small movement around all that come and go.
Yesterday, as I was getting out my truck after moving two large plywood sheets, I looked up and saw a raven. It flew quite low, hovering over me with its legs hanging loosely down, talons half spread. It tipped and turned, a glowing blue-black spade, gently circling closer and closer. As it neared out came a soft gurgling. I’d never heard such a delicious sound. Then another, followed by a few light cracks, before it wafted away—the best welcome home I could ever have asked for. Its partner came along soon after and I haven’t seen them since. My ravens.
So I am home again at Ravenrock, waiting for all of me to arrive. Writing to you helps.
Much love to you ~