little thoughts of whimsy

Pleasant thoughts, whimsical thoughts, with some slight additions to the original writing:

February 22, 2010

Before I lose this thought – #2

Sometimes I long to run barefoot through the grass in the summer, to hear locusts on a hot, sunny day, when heat creates those convection currents that rise from the sidewalk; when air is stifling from being so thick with humidity that when you walk outdoors you immediately feel the effect of being hit by that hot air blast you feel when you open the door of a wood burning fireplace to put another log on the fire on a long winter’s night. The hot summer days when there is no discernible breeze and the windows are wide open, and you can hear the meadowlark sing. And we still want to powwow.

Sometimes I long to walk in the woods of my grandfather’s land, in the quiet stillness of fall, to feel that certain air that an overcast and rainy November day can bring; to see the deer that looks startled at the human in its path. The birds that make their home in the pecan trees and the elm trees, quiet while the hawk sits along the fence, waiting for that small animal to make a move, ever watchful of the human. Thoughts of the importance of the land to my family, historically, to the Pawnee. Thoughts go back to times of work, of play, of harvest on this land. Something about the sun beaming down on your face when you are fishing or working that just feels good and comforting.

Sometimes I long to sit in front of the fire on a winter’s day, looking out over the snowy countryside, cup of tea in hand, dog afoot, cat curled up by the fire. Bundled and warm, yet yearning to walk down the road along the fence, to feel the cold bite of winter hit my face, to feel that stinging cold, to be cold, to feel the cold. When the temperature goes down one more degree, Thinking of the relatives at Sand Creek that November, years ago. The low hanging clouds hold the promise of white flakes and seem to want to release their bounty to nourish the land with this moisture. Once again inside and warm, I am witness to creation painting white across all the earth.

Sometimes I long to run along a beach near the ocean in the early morning hours of a spring day, where your feet sink into sand and tiny shells, thousands of years old; to feel the cool air before the sun heats it and the moisture sticks to your arm, never quite cooling off; to hear the sounds of terns and seagulls in search of food; to hear the waves in ancient rhythms old as creation, crashing against the shore and quietly leaving only to return in but a moment. A tiny shell that once held a creature thousands of years ago is when I view my mortality. It is then that I am grateful for my life, to see the sun rise in the morning, and see it set.