If you’re John Muir you want trees to live among.
If you’re Emily, a garden will do.
Try to find the right place for yourself.
If you can’t find it, at least dream of it.
When one is alone and lonely, the body
gladly lingers in the wind or the rain,
or splashes into the cold river, or
pushes through the ice-crusted snow.
Anything that touches.
God, or the gods, are invisible, quite
understandable. But holiness is visible,
Some words will never leave God’s mouth,
no matter how hard you listen.
In all the works of Beethoven, you will
not find a single lie.
All important ideas must include the trees, the mountains, and the rivers.
To understand many things you must reach out
of your own condition.
For how many years did I wander slowly
through the forest. What wonder and
glory I would have missed had I ever been
in a hurry!
Beauty can both shout and whisper, and still
it explains nothing.
The point is, you’re you, and that’s for keeps.
This month has felt at once like a deep exhale and an emotional roller coaster. I am so thankful for all the friends I’ve hugged these past few weeks and for the entirely unique beauty of Montana in autumn but my heart hurts for our country as we navigate this difficult time. It’s worth repeating that our hope has to be in community, rather than on one leader. We must work for local change, be good neighbors & love those around us, as well as being engaged nations citizens. Please, I implore you: vote. Do your research and VOTE- for the president, for local leaders, for the ballot initiatives in your state. What a privilege we have- use it.
Lately I have been grateful for the moody days of autumn,
For tiny clubs and loud music and good friends,
For how the light looks in the late afternoon & for pit stops on my trail runs,
“Because we have forgotten our kinship with the land,” she continued, “our kinship with each other has become pale. We shy away from accountability and involvement. We choose to be occupied which is quite different from being engaged.” (from Refuge, Terry Tempest Williams)
photos taken at Glacier National Park, mid September
The garden is thriving while much of the other life around here is falling to winter’s grip. Smoke from the fires across the northwest fills our little valley, so much so that most days I cannot see the mountains across the lake. The cycle of fire & drought, of growth & death, of dark & light is natural, but nonetheless stirring, in this place. I’m thankful for the hope of each day’s sun, the bravery of those fighting these fires & the dependable way the seasons shift.
the summer air is now laced with autumn breezes. time is passing.
The leaves have bent their way toward winter, shrinking in size; their pigment scorching in death. The mountains around here are speckled with deep yellow as the golden larch trees show their fall colors. Up in the higher mountains of the park, the aspens have already begun to shrink, but they are still burning brightly here by the lake.
I have traded my long sleeve tees for flannel, and my chacos for boots. I often take a walk or go for a run after dinner; the chill in the air reminds me of so many nights spent outside camping as a kid. Autumn in the far north is different from the east coast seasons of my childhood, but bright blue sky and yellowing leaves always peak my spirit. Thankful for the opportunity to be in a period of transition along with the earth.