How We Move
How we move through places affects how we’re able to know them.
On the lake last night, we allowed the wind to take us wherever it pleased. Surrounded by water lily blossoms, my daughter found “the land under the lake!” and froze in wide-eyed wonder as a bright green damselfly landed on the back of her hand. Red maple leaves on the edge of the water are hinting now at maroon.
Three egrets fly above us against this expressive sky. Their deeply notched wings beat slowly, appearing silver, then grey, then white. With bobbing flight they spread out once over water, together but free.
“Three is a significant number, love. It symbolizes renewal and rebirth,” I feel this, as I lean back and breathe.
We are in this same scene, this light, as we bike home from the lake. Why the quality of light shifts like this on the way into fall, I wonder, but I don’t want to know the answer. I want to experience the way it transforms the landscape.
“This time together on bikes is so full of peace, Papa…”. I almost run into a mailbox.
We’re peddling at a decent pace when she hits the brakes, saying, “Papa, we have to go back, I saw something on the side of the road!” We loop back, and on a roadside milkweed plant, she points out a monarch caterpillar. And another, and another, all at different stages of their growth and metamorphosis. We count seven.
“Seven is the number of perfection, sweetheart. What do you think it means that we are seeing seven monarchs, together, and that you were able to see them?” I don’t expect a response, I’m just being me. And maybe teaching this poet a bit about the sanctity of the everyday.