Sunday, March 11, 2012
Blustery March along the lake, bundled to my teeth for a walk Sunday afternoon, when what I thought I really wanted was to sink into the couch with the NYTimes. Glad as always that I opted to leave the house. Why is it sometimes so hard?
It wasn't until I was reviewing my photos that I saw that an eagle had passed before my viewfinder. I consider an eagle sighting to be a gift of good fortune, and I'm counting this as a sighting, blurred and dim as it is --
I was looking for a beavers' lodge that's supposed to exist just past the marina, but could find no trace of it as I slipped quietly through the reeds and red twig dogwoods. I want to believe that it does indeed exist, and that perhaps I'll never find it.
In 1965, the several-acre wood behind my house contained every bit of my imagination. And even though I knew intimately every path, tree, boulder, stump, fern and lily, I never gave up believing that somewhere there existed a hidden reliquary of water, a well of holy secrets that would never give itself away.