Huxley and Roland and I went walking up into our wild part of the farm yesterday. The sky was blue as blue and the day was warm. We found one dried but quite sugary persimmon left hanging, we ate fingerfulls of magnificent rose hips, we licked the sticky sour oils from the berries of winged-sumac, all in awe of the season's golden colors which had been brushed over the landscape's grasses.
I mentioned to Huxley how fortunate we were. I got an uncomprehending stare. "Do you know what fortunate is?", I asked. An uncaring "nope" is his response. I couldn't let it slide. "Fortunate", I said, "means that our lives are full of fortune. Fortune is kind of like pirtate treasure." He knows what pirtate treasure is: "I'm going to look for treasure" he will say and bring back a pretty rock, or a berry or leaf or seed head of some plant that he finds interesting.
"Where is our treasure?", he asks.
I tell him, "Our treasure is this beautiful view of the hills and that hickory tree, it is those rose hips in your hand, it is your beautiful baby brother and your mother and you, it is our beautiful friend Raven who has come down to stay with us and help us and share this beautiful time with us."
He says nothing but his face shows comprehension and his walk has changed a bit. After saying it my walk changes a bit as well. I'm a little more loose and movIng with a humble pride. In my hands is my new baby boy. In my subconscience is our big pile of firewood, our larder of bountiful harvest, and the presence of the greatest imaginable family and friends.
Sailing in this fair weather on this beautiful life we are flying our skull and cross bones high, stealing treausures and burying thanks.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
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