Montana Wolf

Friday, February 22, 2013

Sign Language



Humans once read the common language of plants and animals, deciphered scat, scrapes, prints and rubs.

We tracked the moon from silver-sliver new to mother's-milk full, women's calendar of ovulation and blood.

Food and fertility.

We heeded seasonal change, witnessed migrations and charted the sun's path south; the length and show of shadows.

This was our language.

We carried it in a satchel called instinct.

Now we read without breezes and the smell of rain, conjure senses through ink.

Words on pages, words on screens, words dis-connected from the sensuous.

Our experience one-dimensional, souls thirst for context more than man-mind-made.

The language of place -- the old growth ponderosa pine, round river stones, bellowing clouds, grizzly dens, bighorn speckled cliff sides -- we meet them and re-member.

Every thing speaks.

Hear the chorus of survival.



8 comments:

  1. I love the drumstick of light on the rock above the sheep, and the play of green near its center.
    Nance

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    1. "Drumstick of light," -- I first thought of my stick I use w/my drum. Then I realized what you met. I love it too!

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  2. Great blog mom - love the look of your revamped website as well!

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    1. Gracias, Datter. Now get back to your studies. lol

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  3. Stunning views and wonderful words. I've sent a link to your blog to many of my friends and added a link to your blog from mine. Thanks for the comfort and joy your blog brings.

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    1. Thank you! Solace, if not redemption, is found in the wild, is it not? So important, in these fragmented times, to re-member where our strength comes from. Blessings.

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