Often I wonder how my little friend, Thumbelina, is doing. Did she ever come to yearn for her winter in Mr. Mole's hole? Did she ever wonder why she didn't appreciate all that quiet time?
Yesterday on the way out to the Lake, on the way up the mountain where the clouds had come down to touch the earth, magical things were going on in the misty morning.
Houses were aglitter. Traps became sparkle. Scotch Broom, mostly thought of as a horrible, invasive and explosive species, wears the silver droplets like the finest jewelry.
Life slows to a drop still. The water cycle has begun. Harvest may be over. Some crops are in, some are not completely harvested. This is life. Here, in the earth bound cloud, all is quiet. When the drop lets loose of the Broom there is a sound like an exhale.
Yesterday my eldest daughter turned 38. Not one day has gone by that I've not been grateful for her presence. Oh, she can holler, pout, swear, lie, and stomp around. But, here's a secret: her cheeks invented dimples. Her black eyes invented dancing.
Is there anything to say about perfection? No. My impulse right now is to just jump in. Of course, we might advise, take note of who built the temptation. Check and see if you want to be dinner.
The rainy season may be upon us. The clouds moved in as predicted. They may move out. For now the drops are warbling down the drain pipes, dripping from the tall maple, drumming on the palms. I am loving this quiet, steady rain.
Swallowtail Butterflies are fresh and new by the first of April. Larabee is a hidden valley created by the Eel River. Perhaps I have lived here since time began, a butterfly in the willows on the banks of a Northern river.