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Wednesday Walk

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Tinker

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redwood-forest-trail-01-500x422.jpgWednesday Walk

The trail is wet
from yesterday's rain.
The earth soft

under my Sneaks.
I place one foot after another
and will myself on.

I will repeat this,
I will honor this substance,
I will write of this,
I will apply this to all things,
I will.
        ~~Judi Van Gorder

I'm posting my blog a day early in case you didn't know, Wednesday April 3 is International Walking Day.   I did take a walk this morning.  And after being prodded by my doctor,  I'm committing to make more of an effort in doing so on a regular basis.  I can get so caught up in everyday stuff which includes writing.  Sitting at my computer, with a cup of coffee, and wearing comfy slippers on my feet, I ignore the fact that my body needs to go outside and move.

I used to walk daily, but with the cold wet winter, arthritis in both knees and just being lazy, walking has gotten spotty. My resistance is kind of crazy because I live in a forest where there are many gorgeous trails lined with fern and giant redwoods and the beach is a 10 minute drive away, my office is located in a small town and only two blocks from my office is a walking trail in apple country, I have plenty of places to walk.  The natural beauty alone should lure me.  Right now the apple blossoms are luscious.

 I know walking is good for my heart, my lungs, my weight, my endurance, and my sunshine personality .  I just feel better after I've done it. But putting on those walking shoes and stepping out the door can seem like such a chore and pretty soon I don't even think about it.  Well today I walked, I feel energized, committed, my doctor will like my report and I wrote a poem and a blog about it. Win-Win five times over.

Mary Oliver was known to write many poems from her walks.  Dylan Thomas wrote one of his finest after a walk.  William Wordsworth is said to have walked an estimated 180,000 miles during his lifetime, many of his poems born on those walks.  Our own Badger, right here at PMO, said he loves walking more than writing. That comment came as a surprise because his love of writing is clearly evident in every poem he writes.
 

Walking To Oak-Head Pond, And Thinking
Of The Ponds I Will Visit In The Next Days And Weeks


What is so utterly invisible
as tomorrow?
Not love,
not the wind,

not the inside of a stone.
Not anything.
And yet, how often I'm fooled--
I'm wading along

in the sunlight--
and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining         
days ahead--
I can see the light spilling

like a shower of meteors
into next week's trees,
and I plan to be there soon--
and, so far, I am

just that lucky,
my legs splashing
over the edge of darkness,
my heart on fire.

I don't know where
such certainty comes from--
the brave flesh
or the theater of the mind--

but if I had to guess
I would say that only
what the soul is supposed to be
could send us forth

with such cheer
as even the leaf must wear
as it unfurls
its fragrant body, and shines

against the hard possibility of stoppage--
which, day after day,
before such brisk, corpuscular belief,
shudders, and gives way.
                   ~~~Mary Oliver
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem In October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
     And the mussel pooled and the heron
             Priested shore
          The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
     Myself to set foot
         That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

     My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
     Above the farms and the white horses
             And I rose
     In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
         Over the border
              And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

     A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
     Blackbirds and the sun of October
             Summery
         On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
          To the rain wringing
              Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

     Pale rain over the dwindling harbor
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
     With its horns through mist and the castle
              Brown as owls
         But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
         There could I marvel
              My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

     It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
     Streamed again a wonder of summer
             With apples
         Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother         
          Through the parables
              Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

     And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
     These were the woods the river and sea
             Where a boy
         In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
         And the mystery
             Sang alive
Still in the water and singing-birds.

     And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
     Joy of the long dead child sang burning
             In the sun.
         It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
         O may my heart's truth
             Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.
                                                 ~~~Dylan Thomas

Sweet Was the Walk

Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane
At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way
Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,
Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,
Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;
And childhood, seeming still most busy, took
His little rake; with cunning side-long look,
Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.
Now, too, on melancholy’s idle dreams
Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees,
Quiet and dark; for through the thick wove trees
Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams
The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray
Thro’ tall, green, silent woods and ruins grey.
                              ~~~William Wordsworth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So if it is cold out, throw on a jacket, or warm in your part of the earth, wear some shorts. But don't forget those walking shoes, step outside and join the world in taking a walk. And when you're done, maybe there will be a poem in you that you'd like to share, share it here.

Happy Walking!

~~~Judi

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