Friday, March 07, 2008

Restless Feet

I woke up this morning with the strongest desire to go North.

I want to see the Oregon Coast while the whales are the on the move, heading toward the Gulf of Alaska.

I want to see the ghost forests, the shipwrecks, and the crumbling, rainbow gleaming iron spires that the violence of this winter’s storms uncovered on the beaches.

Maybe it’s the first portents of spring that are responsible for this wanderlust. There are small birds again, here on the backside of the mountain. I woke up in a room of blue this morning—early light filtered through the cracks in the blinds—and heard the sound of birdsong, despite the frost and the freezing air.

Post Script: Nearly twelve hours after posting this, I had Chinese food for dinner. The fortune: Now is a good time for you to explore. Take a Vacation. 19, 3, 31, 16, 41, 19 Well then, North it is.

Thoughts of an 19th century attic wraith on the seasons:


These are the days when Birds come back—
A very few—a Bird or two—
To take a backward look

These are the days when skies resume
The old-old sophistries of June—
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee—
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear—
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer day,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze—
Permit a child to join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake—
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

Emily Dickinson