2/365 ✨ 2 janvier 2023 🌙 Today is our last day at the cabin; we leave by 4. I finished a book and a cup of coffee on the swing this morning, and after that, a final meander around the property. It was strangely alive for the second of January. Only a week ago, this hillside was covered in deep gloom as winter storm Elliot brought with him a blanket of snow and temperatures -3 degrees below zero. But reprieve has come, and along with her brought a little surge of life: intermittent sunshine playing behind clouds, tiny mushrooms popping up in the rich moisture of the melted snow, even a sprinkle of premature dandelions complete with visiting ants and small bees out of season. Bluebirds, sparrows, and cardinals dot around, scratching with their feet and chirping contentedly in a collective sigh of relief. There is a steady but gentle breeze, and squirrels play in the barren branches above. Linus is napping in a spot of sun. Before preparing for departure, I decided to forage a little sample of beauties and create a memory: a spotted leaf, dry seed pods, a tiny mushroom, a dandelion, and sawdust from the campfire wood pile, all set among a cabin sign, a strip of mossy bark, the velvety deerskin from the living room, and the lichen-covered picnic table. I can take a snapshot of these things, but what I cannot capture is the sound up here. From the porch I often hear birds, wind, critters moving, an airplane or chainsaw, the sounds of the swing, an occasional voice or passing car or tractor from down the hillside, or Garret whistling inside. But at times, when I am perfectly still, there is only quiet — something I don’t get to experience at my house in the heart of my town. That is something I wish I could bottle up and take home. I used to always fill the air with some sound, whether it be a Spotify playlist or a vinyl record, an audiobook or YouTube video. I think I was trying to drown out my own brain. But the older I get, the more I appreciate listening to *nothing*. It is rare, and usually means I had a moment where there wasn’t anything pressing on me. So, like a snapshot of a bee or a stone in a pocket, the sound of “nothing” is also something to remember. (at Cumberland County, Kentucky) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cm7Ow55J92nxZapP_iIZLsTHcsP9eLICMFSmmE0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
