Saturday, August 29, 2015

On Departure

It’s hard to leave this place, this haven, this quiet home in the woods, and I lie here in bed, a few short hours before my daybreak departure, missing it already. I feel her warmth beside me. I listen to the yip of coyotes in the ravine below. I sense the Aussie moving restlessly about the dark room, finding one cool spot after another to lie upon the smooth concrete floor.

They say that Alaska will change a man and I hope that it’s not true. I like who I am, where I am, what I am. But it’s the “what I am” that sends me that way, I suppose, so the risk must be taken. The rush is on and I’m more than excited.

But, already, I look forward to being back home.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

The Photo Bin - August 2015

They flew in from Chicago, our big-city kids, and spent a week here at Camp Redbud. A week away from the hustle and bustle of Gotham. A week in the woods. A week without Mom and Dad. A week without video games. A week where a traffic jam is three whitetail on the gravel road. A week of, well, let's just see.

Oh dear God. He's not going to post a bunch of pictures of his grandchildren, is he?

Yes. Yes I am.

The centerpiece of the visit is always the pond and the kids love it. At six and eight, they're both terrific swimmers and, with a couple of noodles (and when the bluegill aren't nipping at their appendages), they could stay in the water all day. That's fine with us.

And when you're too tired to be in the water, you can simply be on it, exploring the back corners of the big swimming hole.

And then there's the new tree fort that Grandpa threw up the week before. Just above the house, up the ridge a-ways, it's a great place for picnic lunches, card games, and a night under the canopy.

Photo by Mary York

But Camp Redbud is not just about swimming and playing in the woods. There's also some cutthroat games of Sorry...

...and blowing spit bubbles at the Durham Bulls ballpark...

...and watching Star Wars with Aunt Mel...

...and having just plain silliness with Uncle Amo and Zeppelin (who, by the way, has finally given up trying to herd the youngsters and simply has fun with them).

But all good things must come to an end and the ten-hour drive back north was quiet, contemplative,  and uneventful. (Okay, the iPad helped).

Photo by Mary York

But they'll be back. Oh yes, they'll be back. Camp Redbud always awaits.

What is a Photo Bin?

Monday, August 3, 2015

this blue moon

this limbo, this midnight, this blue moon

dark as Death at the edges
quiet as the grave but for the sweep of a paddle through still waters
and the soothing wash that trails a sixteen-foot Old Town under pull

when it's my Time, I forgo the ash,
lie it gently at my feet,
and slide silently towards the light

the spark manifests, full-faced, above the eastern tree line,
illuminating this liquid rent in the forest with bright monochrome
black and white, dark and light, somehow both

soundless to the center, in flight o'er the stars that shine beneath me,
waters as deep as the Milky Way reflected, the Universe above and below
I glide to a stop between worlds

here to sit
here to stay
here to spend my Forever in this stark transplendency

but I am mistaken, it's not my Time
as much as I might wish it to be
my immutable Forever's not yet mine

for there's one on the shore that awaits me
a love that keeps me afloat
so I must scatter the stars with my stroke, once again, and return

but not right away
a minute, an hour, an eternity I'll pause 
to savor

this limbo, this midnight, this blue moon