lost in the trees

2014-05-24 06.52.17

We didn’t plant the trees and flowers of our backyard. A woman named Ruth lived here before us, and for 14 years we have been blessed by the simple act of trying to not undo what Ruth had done.

We have, at times, failed at this, though usually through no fault of our own. Last year we lost our mulberry tree in the great ice storm, an event unspeakably sad for all of us. This tree was the shade—a treehouse-with-no-boards. Her sweet berries fed not only us, but multitudes of robins and, recently, one lucky tortoise.

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Other growing things thrive in spite of our ignorance and Mother Nature’s caprice. Today, they blossom, reminding me to step out my own back door and stand fully in wonderment.

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Finally, I catch sight of something deep within the branches of the lilac. It is my daughter’s skipping rope, laced upward and wrapped round the handle of a metal pail—a pulley system, perhaps, or some other keeper of benevolent secrets.

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When I at last come inside to write (dog flops at my feet—she sighs her disappointment that this exuberant morning was not celebrated by the tossing of a certain tennis ball) a small brown stick shakes itself loose from my hair and tumbles onto my notebook. Apparently I have been burrowing deeper into nature with my camera than realized.

And so it goes.

Welcome Saturday, a day for getting lost in the trees.

2014-05-24 07.09.38



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