I am so full of life and love. Summer is a sweeping green of Ryan thumbing through pages of washington irving and reading stories aloud to me while I hang out clothes to dry on a twine line, or bundle flowers. Road trips to sleepy hollow to trample through cemeteries from legend and view tombstones of writers of old. The growing hum of insect life and the very real reminder that we live in the wilds, from dozing adult doe's in the ivy patches, red foxes running across country roads and rabbits around every corner, chewing and flouded, lazy and carefree. So wild, infact, that the animals scarcely know to fear. Our inside lights seems warmer and more yellow, and it's comfortable to run into the night air to view the supermoon and chase lightning bugs in the grass. Friends are open with their homes, BBQ, offers of their hydrangea (honestly, i can count the seasons of the east through it's flowers, first the spackle of yellow daffodil, the explosion of purple lilac, and then the blooming, beating, bushing hydrangea in hues of pink, purple, blues and white. Tending our vegetables, long days put to bed with soul calibur and rainbow sherbert icecream. Knitting cotton sweaters, etc.
Ryan and I got to go into Sleepy Hollow, NY with a friend and it was just magical, magical, it was the kind of magic that changes you and you know, in that moment, that is where you belong. Our home will no doubt be upstate on the east coast - i had always imagined myself in Salem at the end of things, but now I believe terrytown in where we must live, and i know ryan feels it, too, he is SH's biggest fan. Today we climbed along the pocontico river - being ill prepared (no swim shoes or swim gear) we only waded into the rushing current, but, as ryan exclaimed, it was like being baptized by the wild. It was hot, probably mid to upper 90s, and humid, but it was a good heat to sweat and cleanse to, and there is nothing like looking across a shallow river to a doe following along. Dipped into the Sleepy Hollow cemetery - one of the oldest cemeteries in america. Soldiers from the revolution & crypts so extravagent that, upon peering inside, felt like looking into greek cathedrals of altars with candles, marble busts, and, of course, a cellar door around back because every crypt needs stoage space and supplies ¬¬ those 300 year old corpses live better than us!
I collected the rocks - can anyone identify them? I collect them all over NY, but found them IN MASS in upstate. I knwo the shine is due to sanidine crystals, but that is al I can gleen from the internet.
Brothers and sisters, find a life you dont want to lose.
“She fit her head under his chin, and he could feel her weight settle into him. He held her tight and words spilled out of him without prior composition. And this time he made no effort to clamp them off. He told her about the first time he had looked on the back of her neck as she sat in the church pew. Of the feeling that had never let go of him since. He talked to her of the great waste of years between then and now. A long time gone. And it was pointless, he said, to think how those years could have been put to better use, for he could hardly have put them to worse. There was no recovering them now. You could grieve endlessly for the loss of time and the damage done therein. For the dead, and for your own lost self. But what the wisdom of the ages says is that we do well not to grieve on and on. And those old ones knew a thing or two and had some truth to tell, Inman said, for you can grieve your heart out and in the end you are still where you are. All your grief hasn't changed a thing. What you have lost will not be returned to you. It will always be lost. You're left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on or not. But if you go on, it's knowing you carry your scars with you. Nevertheless, over all those wasted years, he had held in his mind the wish to kiss her on the back of her neck, and now he had done it. There was a redemption of some kind, he believed, in such complete fulfillment of a desire so long deferred.” ― Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain
“A song went around from fiddler to fiddler and each one added something and took something away so that in time the song became a different thing from what it had been, barely recognizable in either tune or lyric. But you could not say the song had been improved, for as was true of all human effort, there was never advancement.Everything added meant something lost, and about as often as not the thing lost was preferable to the thing gained, so that over time we'd be lucky if we just broke even.Any thought otherwise was empty pride.” ― Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain
"Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long settled retreats; but are trampled under foot, by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarce had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood, so that when they turn out of a night to walk the rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long established Dutch communities." - Washington Irving, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"