I'm reading Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek again and loving the richness of the language and the emphasis on mindfulness and the complexities of nature and spirit. "Beauty" she writes " itself is the language to which we have no key." I love that. And her focus on the seasons and the trees.
This morning at the park north wind whipped at Zachary and me. My head was in the book, remembering the legend about Portuguese mares who turned tail to the wind and became pregnant with steeds of the wind - the fastest and most beautiful of white horses, who could not live more than three years. Zachary only knew that the wind made his ears cold. I blew on his ears, cupped them in my hands, but he still was cold, so we went back to the house and cuddled up in bed where I read him Eric Carle's "Mr. Seahorse". It was fun to share delight at the beautiful illustrations.