Sun slanting in on green carpeting; perpendicular patterns on hardwood kitchen floor. Breeze curling needles of spruce outside glass windows. Robins pecking at supple earth, drawing out juicy wiggling ropes of worm.
Silent inside the house. Outside, the blue jay caws and scatters black sunflower seeds from the feeder unto the greening lawn. Chipmunk stuffs cheeks fat with oiled seed before diving under cover in the woodpile as geese honk far overhead, v-formations to their inner northern star.
Husband fishes at the Sturgeon River with our friend, Nancy, probably now tossing lines quivering into the fast-moving swollen spring waters. Hard-biting suckers will impale jaws around hooked bait. Tonight sucker-scales may rain upon the earth outside the house and the prize tender meat find its way deep into the bowels of the basement freezer.
A vegetarian pasty–a meatless Cornish pie–cousin to the famed beef & potato & carrot & rutabaga variety infamous in our neck of the woods–waits in the refrigerator for dinner. Re-heat at 350 degrees for a half hour while perhaps you sip a glass of wine. Refrigerator hums, a preserving miracle we modern folks so easily forget.
Speaking of possible glasses of wine, this morning in the forest, a journey of the “imagination” introduced me to a dream-fellow who said his name was Emilion. He offered to assist spiritually, in silence. I agreed, propped against the warming earth, the sun bright and the wind cool off the lake.
Later, after searching for that name on Google: Emilion was a traveling monk who visited a town in southern France and settled into a hermitage carved in the rocks of the region in the 8th century.
Shall I pour a glass of Burgundy and ponder this?
Was he simply a figment of Lake Superior imagination…or the spirit of a dead monk risen in dreams to aid the living?