Yesterday after work I was lying on my bed, just staring at my bookshelf and marveling at the fact that all of these authors felt and wrote of things that so touch and inspire so many people; thinking about the universality of their gifts. For whatever reason in that moment of connectedness I jumped up and grabbed Mary Oliver off the shelf and thumbed through until I found a poem that spoke to something inside me. I can't even explain to myself what possessed me to grab my jacket and hat, grab the book and get into my car. I picked TSO up at work and told him that we needed to do something spontaneous. I was amazed that he willingly went along with it without too much trepidation, and he even managed to tolerate me as I blathered on and as my thoughts ran one hundred different directions as they do sometimes!
And we found ourselves at the Lake in town. I pulled off the road into the snowy parking lot and we got out and made out way to the snow covered lawn leading down to the snow covered sands. The lake is no different than most lakes, I suppose, but what I love about our Lake is the vista from the shore. A body of water with a little island out in the middle, the water curving around a jutting strip of land--curving forever back, unfolding like a map--with mountains in the background. And what made the Lake so different and special yesterday was the smoky, almost blue gray look of the mountains in the distance, the hushed iced-over water, which under the shroud of its snowy cover felt as though it could be anything. A desert perhaps, buried in white; artic waters; a white sanded beach. But we knew better.
We moved forward onto this empty beach and TSO remarked that he had never been here in the winter, and that made all the difference. Neither had I and it seems in those moments there is something sacred. And in whatever it was that had compelled me to embark on this days' strange journey I just knew that I wanted to hear the words of the poem aloud. So, I entrusted Mary Oliver to TSO and he began, reading the first page of the poem, handing me the book to read the second page. As he read I marvelled at the silent stillness over the blanketed water, as I read I paused to look up as though addressing the very Lake itself. And in the same fashion that the spontaneity began it ended, with a journey, this time back to the Farm.
The glorious poem:
"Pink Moon - the pond"
~ Mary Oliver