Is this the beginning of something? or the last of something ancient? And I don't mean the "being served at restaurants" part.
I'm no scientist so maybe this stuff isn't even that interesting to anyone. Maybe it's just old news. But I just love when new species are discovered. We read so much of the species that disappear -- it makes me even the slight bit optimistic about the planet Earth when I read "deep in the green jungles of Vietnam this lizard was discovered in 2010...." And I just can't help but think of those campy B movies where a village of super powerful women are discovered. I'd miss men though, for sure.
There was a snow ring around the moon last night. It was quite lovely. I think I might even be ready for the first real snow. Something quiet -- snow that begins falling at dusk and full of sparkle. We went for the Christmas trees last night. Now comes the decorating. I'm doing the upstairs tree in all birds. I have a funky purple owl for the top. She's already up there waiting for the rest to arrive. Hannah will decorate other tree with all the "traditional" ornaments we've accumulated during the lives of her and her brother. We love to pull them out and laugh at the ones they made in nursery school. Some full of scribble & haste but still garnering the perfect spot on the tree. If only the holidays were that easy....
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field, Mary Oliver
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
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