The Adirondack Home

Why, and how, and when?

Did you become my brethren?

And now I cannot leave.

Flickering consciousness, a chorus of neural synapses, and in an instant, you are transported to a dear land, returning again to a place that you never left. Like fog, like a mist, revealing and concealing in the same breath, unsure of destination. Yet destined all the same.

That distant tree, bowing over the pond, I wonder how it is doing. Is it still standing? Or did it finally give in to the charm of the water? That little crop of lily pads, near the muddy shores- will it still bloom this year? At the same time? Is that mountain still shy to reveal itself in first light? And the grass still shameless to start dancing at the slightest murmur of a breeze?

I would nick my skin in those bare branches sticking out of the Adirondack mist over an exotic location any day. Why be content with a landscape that perhaps, just speaks to you? Let her sing.

Let her sing to you like a cascade. Cool to touch, and warm to feel. Tethered and dynamic. Let her be like memories, memories rising like a phoenix, from a landscape that is never dead, never cold. Always there to warm the hearth, and the heart, only if one knows the distinction between the two, which is none when you find it.

The path of a thought- is it rectilinear? Can we define it? Is it one of least resistance, or maximum involvement? If our images are snippets of our thoughts, can we characterize them, meaningfully, and all the time?

Let her be the imagination. Which is but a future memory when you think of it.

I ramble on. Because I know they are all of my mine. And my kinship to the land. And what is kinship to a dear land, if not dissolving boundaries, and free communion.

Learning a landscape means unlearning yourself. Learning a landscape means learning yourself.

The notion of home, in a landscape, is feverish. And I am infected.

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