Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Sunday, October 7, 2007
OUR FIRST EXPERIENCE
Dear Spike:
We took a drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon this afternoon. The canyon is beautiful at any time of year, but especially during this time, when the leaves are changing and the snow has frosted the trees.
About halfway up to the ski resorts, we bundled you up in the snowbear suit that you got from your friend Zoe and jumped out of the car to take a walk through a picnic area, next to a stream. Your mother and I have always enjoyed taking short daytrips, like this, but it has never been so fun as it was today with you. You marveled at the leaves, at the cold running water and at the snow (which fell from the branches above onto your face a couple of times) and as you did, we marveled at you.
When our friend Chunn came over for dinner, last week, we stumbled into an interesting discussion about what a shame it is that most of us don’t remember our first experience with snow. So too with so many of life’s other first pleasures — hugs from our grandparents, the changing colors of fall, the taste of our favorite fruits and vegetables.
Chunn — whose parents raised the first Buddhist temple in California’s Fresno Valley after immigrating here from Cambodia — thought about this for a moment and then said: “It would be good, then, if just we thought of everything as a first.”
Indeed.
Love,
dad
We took a drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon this afternoon. The canyon is beautiful at any time of year, but especially during this time, when the leaves are changing and the snow has frosted the trees.
About halfway up to the ski resorts, we bundled you up in the snowbear suit that you got from your friend Zoe and jumped out of the car to take a walk through a picnic area, next to a stream. Your mother and I have always enjoyed taking short daytrips, like this, but it has never been so fun as it was today with you. You marveled at the leaves, at the cold running water and at the snow (which fell from the branches above onto your face a couple of times) and as you did, we marveled at you.
When our friend Chunn came over for dinner, last week, we stumbled into an interesting discussion about what a shame it is that most of us don’t remember our first experience with snow. So too with so many of life’s other first pleasures — hugs from our grandparents, the changing colors of fall, the taste of our favorite fruits and vegetables.
Chunn — whose parents raised the first Buddhist temple in California’s Fresno Valley after immigrating here from Cambodia — thought about this for a moment and then said: “It would be good, then, if just we thought of everything as a first.”
Indeed.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
BROUGHT SUCH BEAUTY
Dear Spike:
You awoke last night in your mother’s arms to the shrill songs of an legion of crickets, the gurgling of the Green River and — barely audible behind it all — a nightingale calling for moon to rise. Fainter still, the wind rustled through the stickly trees and bushes, making a sound like sandpaper on soft wood.
We’d spent the day with our friends in a tiny town across the Colorado border, before seeing them off in a tow truck this afternoon. We then pointed our wagon back to Dinosaur National Monument, where we were met by ancient petroglyphs, primeval fossils, jagged mountain peaks, rainbow-painted rocksides and this glorious desert symphony.
Yes, I thought, this is how camping should be. This is what camping should sound like.
And then, as if in reply, you began to cry.
And cry.
And cry.
And scream and wail and squeal and moan and shriek.
Innately, I wanted to soothe you. But quickly, I simply wanted to quiet you. It wasn’t a full campground — but it wasn’t empty, either.
No, I thought, this is now how camping should be. This is not what camping should sound like.
If there was ever a time in which I fully understood how much our lives have changed, it was in those moments, when your tears washed away the sounds of nature like the Green River washes through these sandstone mountains.
Yes, I was frustrated. But not for a moment did I wish it were not so. Just as the river has brought beauty to this desert range, so to have you brought such beauty to our lives.
The crickets, the nightingale, the wind against the trees — those sounds were here when the ancients painted these caverns walls. Those sounds will be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
We broke camp this morning exhausted and eager to return home. And as you slept, the whole ride back, we laughed at how contentedly you seemed to be slumbering.
Yes, I thought, this is how life should be. This is what camping life sound like.
Love,
dad
You awoke last night in your mother’s arms to the shrill songs of an legion of crickets, the gurgling of the Green River and — barely audible behind it all — a nightingale calling for moon to rise. Fainter still, the wind rustled through the stickly trees and bushes, making a sound like sandpaper on soft wood.
We’d spent the day with our friends in a tiny town across the Colorado border, before seeing them off in a tow truck this afternoon. We then pointed our wagon back to Dinosaur National Monument, where we were met by ancient petroglyphs, primeval fossils, jagged mountain peaks, rainbow-painted rocksides and this glorious desert symphony.
Yes, I thought, this is how camping should be. This is what camping should sound like.
And then, as if in reply, you began to cry.
And cry.
And cry.
And scream and wail and squeal and moan and shriek.
Innately, I wanted to soothe you. But quickly, I simply wanted to quiet you. It wasn’t a full campground — but it wasn’t empty, either.
No, I thought, this is now how camping should be. This is not what camping should sound like.
If there was ever a time in which I fully understood how much our lives have changed, it was in those moments, when your tears washed away the sounds of nature like the Green River washes through these sandstone mountains.
Yes, I was frustrated. But not for a moment did I wish it were not so. Just as the river has brought beauty to this desert range, so to have you brought such beauty to our lives.
The crickets, the nightingale, the wind against the trees — those sounds were here when the ancients painted these caverns walls. Those sounds will be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
We broke camp this morning exhausted and eager to return home. And as you slept, the whole ride back, we laughed at how contentedly you seemed to be slumbering.
Yes, I thought, this is how life should be. This is what camping life sound like.
Love,
dad
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)