S comes up with me to the farm, planning on exploring with me, but a restless sleep the night before and a warm quite day lulls her into a chair in the shade with a book that I expect will experience little in the way of being read.
I head up the trail past the tree house, which becomes a path and at a spot where the faintness of it all divides, I head right, towards the creek, and soon I recognize my route as Robert Frost's "road less taken". But here, in the northwest, the road becomes a jungle clamber, the ferns uphill above my eyes and the ones below at my ankles. I find some cedars that are five feet in diameter, refugees from the timber cutting that took place 100+ years ago. These were too small then to be bothered with.
The great ones are stumps, but at times stumps enveloped in the arms of their offspring, roots wrapped as lovingly as a child might do with its arms around its mothers waist.
Later - S and I go up to the tree house and look at the forest from 30 feet up.
I say, "It is so large." A reference to what I see as a rather daunting year ahead making art about this place.
She asks, "How will you find the intimacy in it?"
...reminding me of how it is done.
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