March 13, 2016


This morning I walked through the woods with my son Ursa.  We walked very slowly.  He held my hand willingly through the particularly slippery parts, explaining that patience and care-taking were gifts his fairy godmothers had given him when he was born.  We paused often to examine the forest: the striped turkey tail migrating across the fallen logs, the bright green moss that had been knocked off the tree branches by the birds, and the dark- blue stellar jay spraying its proud squawking song.  Ursa went down to the edge of the pond and looked the crooked blue-grey heron right in the eye, and then we lumbered on to the next miracle.  At one point toward the end of our walk, he stopped and said, “I wish you were better, because then we could run.” And I thought to myself, “I don’t. I am here, right now with you, moving slowly, taking care and it is perfect.”


Two weeks ago I tore a ligament in my knee, so the visit to the canyon this morning felt particular...

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