Softly the deer who live behind our house burrow down in a patch of green at night, and in the morning appear outside the abandoned house next door like figurines. The house has been abandoned for three years since it went to auction and the new owners now want to tear it down and put three new ones in its place. But it’s tied up with the city and architect, all the greed and bureaucracy that comes with large projects.
In the morning I walk to the lake to shake off what patterns I can’t undo from home, the four or five topics my mind returns to—outside the world is so much bigger on foot, without the distraction of a phone—and I come back revived, reminded of the natural world and the feel of the wind, the scent of fallen branches, what’s in bloom.
Charlotte’s a Purple Belt now with her musical recorder, having passed the latest test, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” She was at the kitchen island when I got home from work, said she wanted to play it for me—I said I need to get settled first, and when I did she demonstrated each of the notes, the fingering, the F-sharp, the A, the G: and how I want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in.
Photo by Loren Chasse, Portland: song reference by Louis Armstrong, New Orleans.