6 August 2022 (swim)
Kristen Lindquist
swim float
the splash of my dive scatters
the damselflies
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: swimming
24 July 2022 (ocean)
Kristen Lindquist
ocean swim
the gentle touch
of seaweed
June 20: Quimby Pond, Rangeley
Kristen Lindquist
Posted with BlogsySeptember 5: Doldrums
Kristen Lindquist
Trying to stay cool
in my sun-heated office.
Swimmer on the river.
in my sun-heated office.
Swimmer on the river.
August 4, 5, & 6: Baxter State Park
Kristen Lindquist
Spent three days in Baxter State Park, primarily at South Branch Pond Campground in the northeast corner of the park, so that I could lead a session on journaling and haiku for the ten cool kids in the Maine Youth Wilderness Leadership Program. As preparation for my session, I wrote a few myself to share so that they could see how they themselves might be inspired by the breathtaking natural surroundings. (And because I wanted them to focus on the concept of capturing a moment in a creative way, rather than the traditional syllabic structure, the following haiku do not follow the strict syllabic form as the other haiku I've written here do.)
In addition to (literally) soaking up the beauty of the pond, surrounding mountains, and lush woods of northern Maine, we hiked a six-mile trail following Howe Brook up a cleft of Traveler Mountain. This mossy, cobbled stream wends its way through water-carved pools and potholes, cascading over smooth ledges and down steep shelves--a perfect place for trailside swimming on a hot day. Frogs sang us to sleep, and the waning gibbous moon lit the trees outside our lean-to all night long.
Already August
and only now
my first swim of the summer.
Mountains embrace the pond--
wide, pebbled bowl,
tiny swimmers within.
These two fishing loons,
almost as loud
as the splashing swimmers.
Two loons surface near shore,
calmly ignore us all.
They own this pond.
Drumming across the pond,
a single woodpecker--
how loud!
A white noise machine,
wind drowns out
all human voices.
In addition to (literally) soaking up the beauty of the pond, surrounding mountains, and lush woods of northern Maine, we hiked a six-mile trail following Howe Brook up a cleft of Traveler Mountain. This mossy, cobbled stream wends its way through water-carved pools and potholes, cascading over smooth ledges and down steep shelves--a perfect place for trailside swimming on a hot day. Frogs sang us to sleep, and the waning gibbous moon lit the trees outside our lean-to all night long.
 |
| South Branch Pond, looking south |
and only now
my first swim of the summer.
Mountains embrace the pond--
wide, pebbled bowl,
tiny swimmers within.
These two fishing loons,
almost as loud
as the splashing swimmers.
Two loons surface near shore,
calmly ignore us all.
They own this pond.
Drumming across the pond,
a single woodpecker--
how loud!
A white noise machine,
wind drowns out
all human voices.
 |
| One of the many falls and pools of Howe Brook. |
July 16: Hawk Family
Kristen Lindquist
Driving down a dirt road through the woods ("15 MPH Dust!") to check out for the first time my sister and brother-in-law's new lakeside camp this afternoon, I was thrilled to see a broad-winged hawk fly across the road in front of me. It was followed by two more, which looked by their plumage to be youngsters. They perched together up in a big pine.
The camp is perfect, the kind you want your kids to spend all their summers in so that they grow up remembering their childhood as a series of sunny weeks of loon calls, the thrum of small motorboats, the slam of screen doors; of padding through pine needles in bare feet or running down the wooden dock to jump off into the cool embrace of the lake; of tipping the canoe, eating hot dogs, playing card games after dark, and seeing stars reflected in the water...
As I went for my first swim of the summer and then read in the sun in an Adirondack chair on the big porch, I visualized all this for my two nieces' future.
Hawk with two fledglings--
I always see signs in things:
my sister, her girls.
The camp is perfect, the kind you want your kids to spend all their summers in so that they grow up remembering their childhood as a series of sunny weeks of loon calls, the thrum of small motorboats, the slam of screen doors; of padding through pine needles in bare feet or running down the wooden dock to jump off into the cool embrace of the lake; of tipping the canoe, eating hot dogs, playing card games after dark, and seeing stars reflected in the water...
As I went for my first swim of the summer and then read in the sun in an Adirondack chair on the big porch, I visualized all this for my two nieces' future.
Hawk with two fledglings--
I always see signs in things:
my sister, her girls.
July 17: First Swim
Kristen Lindquist
This afternoon I attended my 25th high school reunion (Camden-Rockport High School, Class of '85!) at rustic Beaver Lodge on the shores of Alford Lake in Hope. On this hot summer day, the venue encouraged swimming. Fortunately several of us were armed and ready with bathing suits. We always were a fun-loving bunch.
You would think that given how hot the summer has been that I'd have been swimming many times by now, but I'm not a big swimmer. I'm kind of squirrelly about getting water in my ears, and I'm not a strong swimmer, strictly breast stroke. But peer pressure usually works well on me, and when a group of my former classmates decided to hike down to the beach, I put on my suit and joined them.
Even then I might have been content to simply stand in the water for a while to cool off. My friends Shannon, who competes in master swimming races and triathlons, and Sarah, who was on our high school swim team, headed across the lake with strong speedy strokes. I slowly waded in up to my waist, that crucial point at which you pretty much have to fully immerse, and then gave myself over to the lake's embrace.
The water was comfortable and clear, no pond weeds dragging at my ankles or submerged rocks to worry about. I picked a buoy not far away as my goal and headed for it with my slow and steady breast stroke. And then I treaded water for awhile, to take in the landscape. I had been so distracted with the busy-ness of the roped off little beach with children splashing around my legs that I hadn't paid attention to the vista visible from the lake shore. Across the lake on one side rose Hatchet Mountain, and on the other, the distinct, lumpy ridgeline of Ragged Mountain. The hills wore their hazy green shawls of mid-July, and the opposite shore of the lake below them wasn't marred by too many camps or docks. My heart lifted at the sight. Ah, to be alive on such a summer day in the company of fun and decent people I grew up with, living a good life that I never could have imagined 25 years ago in a place of great beauty--my home.
Jump into the lake,
into mountains reflected--
reflecting on home.
You would think that given how hot the summer has been that I'd have been swimming many times by now, but I'm not a big swimmer. I'm kind of squirrelly about getting water in my ears, and I'm not a strong swimmer, strictly breast stroke. But peer pressure usually works well on me, and when a group of my former classmates decided to hike down to the beach, I put on my suit and joined them.
Even then I might have been content to simply stand in the water for a while to cool off. My friends Shannon, who competes in master swimming races and triathlons, and Sarah, who was on our high school swim team, headed across the lake with strong speedy strokes. I slowly waded in up to my waist, that crucial point at which you pretty much have to fully immerse, and then gave myself over to the lake's embrace.
The water was comfortable and clear, no pond weeds dragging at my ankles or submerged rocks to worry about. I picked a buoy not far away as my goal and headed for it with my slow and steady breast stroke. And then I treaded water for awhile, to take in the landscape. I had been so distracted with the busy-ness of the roped off little beach with children splashing around my legs that I hadn't paid attention to the vista visible from the lake shore. Across the lake on one side rose Hatchet Mountain, and on the other, the distinct, lumpy ridgeline of Ragged Mountain. The hills wore their hazy green shawls of mid-July, and the opposite shore of the lake below them wasn't marred by too many camps or docks. My heart lifted at the sight. Ah, to be alive on such a summer day in the company of fun and decent people I grew up with, living a good life that I never could have imagined 25 years ago in a place of great beauty--my home.
Jump into the lake,
into mountains reflected--
reflecting on home.