Blogs

Last week a friend sent me the poem, “How I go to the woods” by Mary Oliver. The last line, “If you have ever gong to the woods with me, I must love you very much,” made me cry. My friend and I have spent many days in the woods together, noting animal tracks, watching the play of light in the canopy, and seated at “the cave” a sandstone outcrop cantilevered over a rock and sand amphitheater witnessing the wind. We were often silent, side-by-side gazing at nothing in particular, absorbed in the palpable feminine presence of the rocks on and under which we...