So many of my early memories are of the outdoors.
They are like snapshots. Isolated from any context, free standing and without reference. Very much like art. Paintings that hang alone daring me to understand them.
Early spring at the wood lot with my father. He is cutting brush, I am gathering flowers. It is a dark cloudy day, close and protected. I wander here and there feeling like an explorer. Everything is new to me. Short people see the world in a more primeval way. More like a fox’s view. Nose close to the ground, the better to smell, and be aware. I was cousin to the fox that day. And there were smells to examine. Winter soaked humus, toadstool spore decay, spidery fungus invasions. Mmmmm. Breathe it deep, there’s medicine in it for your winter weary bones.
The woods were full of grasses that were pushing their way through the matted leaves along with some kind of pink or lavender wildflowers. There were so many ! I set out to pick them all. I wanted to take them home to my mother. That was the beginning and end of my agenda for the day. Little red jacket, little plaid pants, little paw full of wildflowers.