I am not one to understand things as they are – to make sense of what is in front of me like a recipe. Perhaps I take in too much, and it isn’t until days or months later when I pass into a new place that the pieces fit.
Perhaps we came to the woods so we would not need to make sense of things but rather just make. I use my hands more like tools and wear a knitted pink sweater at sunrise. This month has been an envelope of time – golden in ways the rest of the year is not. There is a grove of birch trees that wave in the wind, yellow leaves when we arrived, now gone bare. Everything is brief.
It is no secret here how things work. No secret that the lake recedes and the cold comes in over the evergreens. We wake at sunrise and watch the steam come off the lake while the dog sits by the window. We make hot black coffee and fried eggs and ask each other what is next.
So much is hung in the balance if I think about it, if I strain my eyes to see the other side. I understand now that it is a gift to lead a quiet life. It is too simple to say it will all be alright. I do not know that is true, but we are here now.