Monday, January 30, 2017

fogged out (maine, day 3)

We wandered around the shore and watched the tide come in, calling to the miracles of tiny crabs that danced in our hands.

We collected shells the color of indigo. We marveled at the robust heads of Queen Anne's Lace, one of my favorites, no matter its status as a weed.

When the tide went back out, we crossed the land bridge. I have a new soft spot: barnacles.

We edged into the State Park, but threatening skies had us turn back. One of the cousins cut his foot in the mass of barnacles and shells and rocks, and we'd had a long day. True to form, though, I was slowest, and we spotted something that made my meandering worth it.

A starfish, wedged beneath a rock, waiting patiently for the water to return.

Maya wanted to return it to the water, so I let her, and I hope the little creature was able to recover from the sudden attention. Fortunately, I think these critters are fairly resilient, all muscle.

I remember the way my children's hands would starfish as babies.

Muscle memory, coast.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

our big backwoods

The sun came out, a big glass orb we've missed for many weeks now. Maya took me to the broken-down fort she found with her father, and they showed me the appliance used for target practice, possibly by the previous owner. Some strange things back here we'll pull out, but it also serves as a reminder of the permanence of these woods as someone's. Not ownership in a possessive way, but in the sense that we could very well put a chair out there and have it available for knitting in, say, when the kids climb in the newly-built fort. Just as a for instance.

Maya brought her bucket and was determined to bring back some bits for closer study. She had a piece of bark, a stick with blackened fungus growing on it.

The best find, if one were to ask me, was the deer bed that clearly has been used multiple times. It has layers, unless that's from one night of deer-warmth, and it's certainly a lovely place. I kept thinking to myself, "You are welcome here."

It's kind of egocentric to say that: am I welcome here? This giant house plopped on a lot that maybe used to be more trees and more deer and more turkeys and the like. We'll try our best to be respectful, to provide as we can and be counted on to do so. In the meantime, we'll enjoy this place and its dips and furrows and be grateful that this is how it will stay throughout our time here. And our hope that our time here will be long and good and home. Which is how it feels, already.