"I have been thinking about the change in seasons. I don’t want to miss spring this year. I want to distinguish the last winter frost from the out-of-season one, the frost of spring. I want to be there on the spot the moment the grass turns green. I always miss this radical revolution; I see it the next day from a window, the yard so suddenly green and lush I could envy Nebuchadnezzar down on all fours eating grass.
This year I want to stick a net into time and say “now” as men plant flags on the ice and snow and say, “here.” But it occurred to me that I could no more catch spring by the tip of the tail than I could untie the apparent knot in the snakeskin; there are no edges to grasp. Both are continuous loops."
“Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what's going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.”
--Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
I've been listening to an audiobook of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek each morning. You know when you start reading a book you've been meaning to get to for ages and ages, and then feel like the world is suddenly totally tilted and new and why didn't you pick this up a year ago, ten years ago, the day you were born? It's absolute wondrous meditation. Spring water. Green and fresh and every word tastes the way I think grass and dandelions must taste to lambs. I think it has been nestled in my bones forever and I never knew.