It is one of the perils of our so-called civilized age that we do not yet acknowledge enough, or cherish enough, this connection between soul and landscape — between our own best possibilities, and the view from our own windows. We need the world as much as it needs us, and we need it in privacy, intimacy, and surety. We need the field from which the lark rises — bird that is more than itself, that is the voice of the universe: vigorous, godly joy. Without the physical world such hope is: hacked off. Is: dried up. Without wilderness no fish could leap and flash, no deer could bound soft as eternal waters over the field; no bird could open its wings and become buoyant, adventurous, valorous beyond even the plan of nature. Nor could we.
~ Mary Oliver, Home from Long Life: Essays and Other Writings
Credits: Photo - The Lilac Road
So, you think you’ve have had a long week? Check out Mom and Dad Bald Eagles who are protecting two eggs while the snow falls and covers them. (Mom and dad will take turns sitting on the nest and usually it’s mom, while the dad hunts.)
See more unbelievable pictures and the story here: Grind TV – As snow builds, bald eagle parents endure
This world –
Behind the fear,
And behind that the vast sky.
~ Rick Fields
- Rick Fields bio and background: NY Times: Rick Fields, Poem and Expert on Buddhism
- Poem Source: Thank you Make Believe Boutique.
- Photograph: Cruising Outpost Magazine
- Post Inspired by “A poem should be wordless / As the flight of birds.” By Archibald MacLeish, from “Ars Poetica,” Collected Poems 1917-1982. Source: The Journey of Words
Source: themetapiicture.com. Thank you Susan.
Unfortunately, nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven; the brightest oriole fades into leaves. These disappearances stun me into stillness and concentration; they say of nature that it conceals with a grand nonchalance, and they say of vision that it is a deliberate gift, the revelation of a dancer who for my eyes only flings away her seven veils. For nature does reveal as well as conceal: now-you-don’t-see-it, now-you-do.
~ Annie Dillard, Seeing. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. (HarperCollins. 2009)