November 27: In bed
Kristen Lindquist
I fall asleep to The Hobbit,
dream of owls,
wake to torrents of rain.
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: Lord of the Rings
August 14: The Call of the Sea
Kristen Lindquist
It's rather ironic that as I sit on my back porch about to write a post about waking up this morning to the sound of an osprey chirping overhead, I can hear the cheesy carnival-esque music of an ice cream truck making its slow pass through our neighborhood. There's something about ice cream trucks (and clowns, for that matter) that creeps me out, although I'm sure to children with more innocent minds the music is as saliva-inducing as Pavlov's bell was to his dog.
When I awoke on yet another perfect summer morning today and heard the osprey before I even got out of bed, I thought to myself that I don't think I could live where I wouldn't hear that, or at the very least, the sound of gulls. That reminded me of something in Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings books, when Legolas, a prince of the wood elves, is told that if he hears the gulls, he'll never return to his forest realm. I'm not sure if that was meant to be a straightforward prophecy--for he does hear gulls when he reaches the sea and ends up spending his life traveling Middle Earth with his dwarf companion--or if there was something more implied.
Personally, having grown up in midcoast Maine, I think there was more to it. I wouldn't want to live for any amount of time away from the ocean and the cries of the gulls and ospreys. I like to imagine that once Legolas saw the sea, its lure was inescapable, so that he could never be satisfied with life in Mirkwood Forest again. Of course, coming from a place called Mirkwood, it seems like the attractions of the sea would be obvious--sunlight on waves, the expanse of the open water, sea birds twinkling overhead... I guess what I love best about this place that is my home is the perfect combination of waterfront and woods--I can wake to ospreys as well as to a cardinal's whistle and the rustle of wind in the leaves. I can hike for several hours on mountain trails shaded by big old trees and be rewarded at the top with an ocean view: the best of both worlds.
A few minutes ago, my husband (in a nearby lawn chair) told me that he could smell the sea. He too grew up near the ocean and understands how fortunate we are to be able to sit beneath an ash tree alongside the river, breathing in salt air--and also, how inevitable, as if we could bear to be anywhere else.
With an osprey's voice
the sea wakes us up, beckons,
its blue doors open.
When I awoke on yet another perfect summer morning today and heard the osprey before I even got out of bed, I thought to myself that I don't think I could live where I wouldn't hear that, or at the very least, the sound of gulls. That reminded me of something in Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings books, when Legolas, a prince of the wood elves, is told that if he hears the gulls, he'll never return to his forest realm. I'm not sure if that was meant to be a straightforward prophecy--for he does hear gulls when he reaches the sea and ends up spending his life traveling Middle Earth with his dwarf companion--or if there was something more implied.
Personally, having grown up in midcoast Maine, I think there was more to it. I wouldn't want to live for any amount of time away from the ocean and the cries of the gulls and ospreys. I like to imagine that once Legolas saw the sea, its lure was inescapable, so that he could never be satisfied with life in Mirkwood Forest again. Of course, coming from a place called Mirkwood, it seems like the attractions of the sea would be obvious--sunlight on waves, the expanse of the open water, sea birds twinkling overhead... I guess what I love best about this place that is my home is the perfect combination of waterfront and woods--I can wake to ospreys as well as to a cardinal's whistle and the rustle of wind in the leaves. I can hike for several hours on mountain trails shaded by big old trees and be rewarded at the top with an ocean view: the best of both worlds.
A few minutes ago, my husband (in a nearby lawn chair) told me that he could smell the sea. He too grew up near the ocean and understands how fortunate we are to be able to sit beneath an ash tree alongside the river, breathing in salt air--and also, how inevitable, as if we could bear to be anywhere else.
With an osprey's voice
the sea wakes us up, beckons,
its blue doors open.
January 7: Alpenglow
Kristen Lindquist
Stuck in an office most of my day, I sometimes get frustrated about not being able to get outside and chase a bird or two. The irony is that the goal of my work is the conservation of the special wild places that I would like to be out enjoying. I can't really complain, as I certainly do get my chances to spend time on Coastal Mountains Land Trust's preserves, as well as the nearby trails in Camden Hills State Park and beyond. This time of year, however, I'm feeling particularly desk-bound. And thus very thankful that our office is at least situated with a view of the Megunticook River (and the dramatic "falls" at the Seabright Dam) and Mount Battie.
This afternoon on a trek from my desk to the printer, I happened to look out the east-facing window toward the river and the mountain. I was kind of hoping to see that red-tailed hawk again. No hawk, but I was stopped in my tracks. The snowy summit of Mount Battie shone rosy purple with the sun's last rays, transformed by true alpenglow into something almost magical. Enjoying the rich light of the day's last golden moments, I felt instantly grateful to live and work in the company of a mountain (albeit a rather small one).
Over New Year's weekend, my husband and I watched for the thousandth time the "Lord of the Rings" movie trilogy. The warm glow of the mountaintop made me think of places where elves lived in Middle Earth. How many people have the opportunity to travel from typing a report at their desk to admiring a Middle Earth vista in just a few steps?
A place for magic:
golden glow of sun's last rays
lights up mountain snow.
This afternoon on a trek from my desk to the printer, I happened to look out the east-facing window toward the river and the mountain. I was kind of hoping to see that red-tailed hawk again. No hawk, but I was stopped in my tracks. The snowy summit of Mount Battie shone rosy purple with the sun's last rays, transformed by true alpenglow into something almost magical. Enjoying the rich light of the day's last golden moments, I felt instantly grateful to live and work in the company of a mountain (albeit a rather small one).
Over New Year's weekend, my husband and I watched for the thousandth time the "Lord of the Rings" movie trilogy. The warm glow of the mountaintop made me think of places where elves lived in Middle Earth. How many people have the opportunity to travel from typing a report at their desk to admiring a Middle Earth vista in just a few steps?
A place for magic:
golden glow of sun's last rays
lights up mountain snow.