I’ve lived just two hours from Emily Dickinson’s home for many years, but just made my first visit recently. Aside from the crazy patterns of carpets and wallpaper, and some bits of family history that were new to me, the biggest surprise was seeing her writing desk.

Of course there is a sense of awe, to be in the same room where such memorable poems were composed. But friends, this desk was TINY. Teeny tiny. Itty bitty. Smaller than a modern nightstand, maybe 18 inches square.

Dear ones, so often we are waiting for the perfect setting to dive into new endeavors. For me, I’m convinced that I need a quiet room, a perfect cup of coffee, a clear (huge) desk, a fancy new notebook, alllll the post it notes, and a completely clear calendar.

None of us can be Emily, but what if our own creations are not so needy after all? What if we just need a scraps of paper and a teeny tiny desk?

Forever – is composed of Nows –

*****

My favorite purchase from the gift shop is the excellent Helen Vendler book on Dickinson, which offers a few short pages of commentary alongside each poem. Perfect format, brilliant insights. 

Perhaps because of my family’s exceptionally strong planning genes, I love observing fellow travelers in unusual settings. Is that third suitcase really full of books? How is the person over there hiking for a whole month with that tiny pack? Did she just pull a full dinner for six out of her tote bag? (Truth be told, I have been all of these people).

Yesterday I attended a beautiful outdoor concert, with perfect weather, exceptional music, and a big grassy lawn for listeners. The guy next to me seemed, well, let’s just say, very well prepared. He was there on his own yet brought a whole wagon full of supplies, including a king-sized quilt, large folding chair, and more.

I settled in with a tiny bit of smugness, feeling light and breezy with just my towel-like blanket and water bottle. I’d taken some lessons to heart from that recent backpacking trip, where every ounce could sit heavy as a stone.

Ten minutes in, he reached into the cavernous depths of the wagon for a tasty snack, while I sipped my lukewarm water.

Then during a lull in the program, he pulled out a giant hardcover library book and read a chapter, while I reviewed the program for the 10th time.

At intermission, he fluffed up a large pillow and stretched out on the quilt for a little nap, while I tried to untangle my cris-crossed legs upon my tiny mat and get the feeling back in my toes.

Dear ones, there’s a time to pack light, so we can float through our world with ease. And there’s a time to bring all the comforts we can muster, to cushion our way. The trick is knowing which trip is which.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Sometimes things change midstream. Sometimes our planning is prescient, and sometimes it’s hilariously off-base.

Friends, may we pack wisely for the journey ahead.

There’s nothing wrong with having a tree as a friend.   – Bob Ross

I’ve been lucky this summer to spend time with some ancient trees – cedars in Japan, sequoias in California, pines in New England. It’s reminded me of how, during the height of the pandemic, I used to go out and lean against the biggest, oldest oaks on the Boston Common, subconsciously yet deeply comforted.

I have a habit of patting tree-friends and saying a few words as I pass. This seems to surprise fellow humans, so I usually do it quietly, when other people are absent.

But friends, Bob Ross is right (as usual). Let’s introduce our friends to one another, whether they be they human or animal or botanical.

Let’s cherish each and every one. 

I’d like to introduce you to a new tree-friend from the Mariposa Grove on the edge of Yosemite, who is about 2000 years old. A 100-year-old human would only have witnessed 5% of this tree’s lifespan. She narrowly escaped the Washburn fire a few years back, thanks to decades of intentional fire stewardship based on longstanding Native American practices, plus the heroism of local firefighters.

Thousands have lived without love; not one without water.  

     – WH Auden

Water is elemental; water is life. Perhaps this power is why wild, natural water bodies fascinate and terrify me, in equal proportions.  

This past week I had the chance to quietly reflect next to still water, to persevere against frozen pellets falling from the sky, and to stand nearly paralyzed before many (many!) stream and river crossings. It was awesome, and also humbling.

I have to admit that when we finally passed through the area of generous-yet-daunting natural connections like fallen logs and slippery rocks, I kissed the first constructed bridge that we encountered. What a wave of relief and gratitude, to know that others – total strangers! – had left this gift for future travelers.

Dear ones, we can’t always be the engineers. Sometimes it’s all we can do to struggle across the stream ourselves. 

But if we can, when we can, let’s recognize the full power of the forces around us. Let’s see where a bridge might really help.

Let’s make it easier for the next ones to cross.