Seasonal Shifts: The Pull of Northerly Climes

I feel closer to the earth when I go home. I know all the old cliches, especially the hoary old Thomas Wolfe chestnut that "you can't go home again," and I agree partially on principle. Nothing remains the same and each time you bring a different perspective to the people and places of your youth, but something tangible and touching remains. For me, it's the balsams shuddering in a slight breeze, the quiet, static repose of birches near the water's edge, the v-shaped formation of geese heading south, the faint remembrance of the bark of leafless trees -- an interminable number of old signs and slight smells, recalling my childhood and  past.

I feel closer to the earth when I go north to the rivers I spent so much time near and the woods I barreled through, uncaring of spiders and ticks, through rainfall and hoarfrost, participating in that age old communion with the land that I feel my ancestors perfected and I must continue. The cold touch of the ground is a miracle not far removed from the fresh smell of soil that reinforces connection. My days here are more limited. I have little time to connect with the natural landscape. When I go north, I have the time to take it all in, take deep breaths, and slip back into the natural course of things.















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