autumn wolf mountain love...

Seems every time in the last couple of years my soul has needed a soft place, I have returned to Wolf Mountain. I always think, "This, this is the perfect season to be on this mountain." Truth is, of course, any season is the perfect season; there is no better healer than the Great Mother. Lately, fear of death and illness--and the mad machinations of worry--have taken hold of my body, hijaked my brain, and left me forgetting how to trust the flow and abundance of life, forgetting my own honorable and luminous goodness. (Don't worry: we're all perfectly healthy and fine--I just get this way every so often, anxiously projecting and wringing my hands, especially if someone close to me suddenly has something heartbreaking or scary happen.) My husband and my two best girls patched me up and propped me up in the midst of the fear, just in time for me to catch a ride with Fate to the mountain. Thank. God. It was the perfect prescription for wholeness.

We drove up to the mountain for the day today to celebrate my dad's 59th birthday. Part of the afternoon was spent lounging on the deck, watching a family of hawks--there must have been about seven of them--glide effortlessly on the thermals. I have to think they were doing it not to hunt prey, and not simply because that's what birds do, but for the joy of it. The way they gave their bodies to their flight was the way children, legs outstretched and heads tilted back, abandon themselves to the complete and simple thrill of a swing.

Later we took a long walk in the glorious fall breezes and long, honey-lemon sunshine, and found ourselves at the top of the driveway in a field of tall grass. It was a day so beautiful, so perfect in every way, my dad and brother could not help but lie down right there in the field, the sun kissing their beaming, peaceful faces. The kids swam through the grass in fascination, brushing the soft grass tops with their cheeks, their silky palms. And many times Tavish paused to sit and be very still in the swaying, sparkling grass.

　
I cannot think of a better way to celebrate one's birthday, to find oneself quite happy to have been born, quite lucky to be on this green and breathing earth. I gave my father this poem for his birthday, written by one of the greatest poets ever to walk this planet, Pablo Neruda. The poem and the bliss of this day were kindred spirits woven together, singing me songs of reminders that life is good, and to be trusted.

Ode to Age
　
I don't believe in age.
　
All old people
carry
in their eyes
a child,
and children
at times
observe us with the
eyes of wise ancients.
　
Shall we measure
life
in meters or kilometers
or months?
How far since you were born?
How long
must you wander
until
like all men
instead of walking on its surface
we rest below the earth?
　
To the man, to the woman
who utilized their
energies, goodness, strength,
anger, love, tenderness,
to those who truly
alive
flowered,
and in their sensuality matured,
let us not apply
the measure
of a time
that may be
something else, a mineral
mantle, a solar
bird, a flower,
something, maybe,
but not a measure.
　
Time, metal
or bird, long
petiolate flower,
stretch
through
man's life,
shower him
with blossoms
and with
bright
water
or with hidden sun.
I proclaim you
road,
not shroud,
a pristine
ladder
with treads
of air,
a suit lovingly
renewed
through springtimes
around the world.
　
Now,
time, I roll you up,
I deposit you in my
bait box
and I am off to fish
with your long line
the fishes of the dawn!