banality lost in a soft evening

Mummy Dearest and I walked the three mile loop around the Farm tonight. It was humid--the sky having only spitted rain earlier--a mugginess which made our clothes cling to us and sweat trickle down unpleasantly; beads gathering on my forehead and along my temples, on the nape of my neck.

We hiked, leaving behind the Farm, walking past a neighboring farm and then on past houses. We walked towards dusk with the hopes of seeing a bear. All we saw were deer. Two deer, the first pausing in the road to stare at us as we approached, somehow making me feel as though we'd intruded upon something sacred. After disdainfully glancing upon us the first deer leapt into the woods followed closely by another. As we slowly made our way up the hill I glanced past Mummy and saw the deer watching us still, this time from the shadows of the woods, looking wonderingly at us one more time before bounding away.

While we walked I told Mummy how lately I struggle with my writing, since really isn't my life at the Farm mundane? Routine? Predictically rythmic?  But as we walked and we looked out over grassy fields, edged with wildflowers, dotted with fireflies, I wondered that a life like this could be anything but spectacular. There was nothing banal in the smell of the air as humidity started to crisp before the next rain showers; nothing ordinary in the dark, brooding storm clouds lazing over red barns and farm animals carrying out rituals of waning day. Sometimes the questions can't be answered without first being asked aloud.

Thinking about our walk hours later has led me to Rilke. Lovely Rilke.

"Once again the hour's turning silver,

mingled with soft evening, the pure metal,
and it couples slow returns of musical
calm with a slower beauty.
The ancient earth recovers, changes:
a pure star survives our labor.
Leaving day, scattered noises re-arrange
themselves and re-enter the voice of waters."

~ Ranier Maria Rilke, #23 from Valasian Quatrains


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