52: Without

Title reminiscent of Donald Hall, but no, not that sort of loss. But I'll always think of poetry that way, of falling in love with an entire book, of Jane Kenyon.

But really, the news here is that I have finally murdered my third (and not last) digital camera. But this is an SLR, my constant companion, one that slows me down on all walks, so it will make a journey, once we test out a few theories (new battery?). I'm stumbling about with Ryan's point and shoot; today we walked up Barn Bluff, and I huffed and sighed and said, "I suppose I must learn to enjoy the world without making a photographic record of it." (Until then, I will resurrect old photographs for your pleasure. Above was just Friday night at Cloquet, outside MDB's cabin.)

Fortunately, my world has folded in on the written word, so I carried my writing notebook, jotted down a few thoughts on the "air piranhas" as my husband dubbed them, and I wrote quickly in the small lines as we jostled along the trails.

It is odd to be back in the humdrum of life after such a magical week.

We've planted more: honeysuckle and clamantis along the fence, some other bits (blue flowers and yellow) and the methodical shifting of mulching the peonies.

I discovered the nest empty, which broke my heart. I'm not sure where the eggs have gone, but I learned a bit about robins, and they could not have been born and been flight ready in those six days I was gone. In fact, my Canon's last picture before it truly refused to wake again was of that empty nest--my way of peeking in, as I am too short to see in without a stool. Nothing--not a bit of shell at the base of the tree, or any muss in the still-intact nest.

We are brewing again. Tonight, we bottled a witt; I felt as if I were milking a cow as I sat, splay-legged on a stool, the tube like an udder, filling brown bottle after brown bottle. I believe a blonde will begin the early stages of brewing tomorrow.

This is it. I'm back and still writing, and for that, I am grateful.