A walk in the forest August 31, 2013.

“About five years ago I saw a mockingbird make a straight vertical descent from the roof gutter of a four-story building.  It was an act as careless and spontaneous as the curl of a stem or the kindling of a star.

The mockingbird took a single step into the air and dropped.  His wings were still folded against his sides as though he were singing from a limb and not falling, accelerating thirty-two feet per second per second, through empty air.  Just a breath before he would have been dashed to the ground, he unfurled his wings with exact, deliberate care, revealing the broad bars of white, spread his elegant, white-banded tail, and so floated onto the grass.  I just rounded a corner when his insouciant step caught my eye; there was no one else in sight.  The fact of his free fall was like the old philosophical conundrum about the tree that falls in the forest.  The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them.  The least we can do is try to be there.“

– Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

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Journal August 31, 2013 [Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary Aug 31, 1957]

Connecting with nature and with my memories of Mamma and Pappa, picking kantareller [chantarelles], reminiscing about our hours of searching, laughing, coveting, exploring, picking, relishing, knowing where to find the mushrooms, what part of the hill- which little glen- what sunspot- where they don’t grow- not by the Salal- but on the sunny side of the hill- by the orange jelly mushroom- but not by the ferns- right after the big rain- on that path- in that glade- by that stump…

Gleefully squealing when seeing the gold peek out.  The fierceness of protecting our spot from others.  The rush.  The coffee and crusty buns with swiss cheese, pepparkakor and laughing at the dog who ran wildly free and happy.