I was already late to work and scrambling to get out the door when I noticed this.
I stopped. I smiled. I took my keys and went back inside for the camera.
The photo does not capture even a fraction of the reality and breath-taking beauty of the sunrise, but I snapped it anyway. A memory to hold onto. To tuck away. But not nearly as vibrant as the real thing. And isn’t that the way of it?
Yesterday, we spent our holiday digging and building trails around the house. It’s short, not quite half a mile, but it will make for a nice place to do repeats, walk with the dog, and ride our bikes. Even in the dark hours of winter.
As I was raking out the piece of trail Rob had just dug out, I uncovered a very groggy and barely moving toad. He was hibernating. In light of my last post, I had to smile. I cupped him in my hand and looked at his tiny, fragile body, his paper thin white belly. He reminded me of a newborn, sort of squishy-faced and trying to shut out the disturbance by barely moving his still sleepy limbs. I dug a new hole, away from the trail, and buried him beneath the soil and leaves and wished him a peaceful rest. He’s got a little time left to sleep.
Harper Lee and Isaac worked hard packing the new trail down, with feet and bikes and a very enthusiastic Freckles. If poor Freckles, like most of our animals, wasn’t a head case and didn’t have so many “issues,” he’d make a heck of a trail dog. He may enjoy this trail more than any of us.
“We have such a brief opportunity to pass on to our children our love
for this Earth, and to tell our stories. These are the moments when the
world is made whole. In my children’s memories, the adventures we’ve
had together in nature will always exist.”
Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder