Are We There Yet?

An emerald green hummingbird darts from the feeder to a high branch in the swamp maple, head cocking to the left and right, compulsively preening while surveying his surroundings. Confident in his appearance and that the coast is clear, he swoops back down to the feeder with lightning speed, an aerial flourish his gift or his pleasure, I'll never know which. 


Ablaze with passionate red intensity, a scarlet tanager in full breeding plumage lights up the leafy green backdrop of that same swamp maple. Love is grand, indeed.


In the garden's colorful obstacle course, a young rabbit charges, stops, turns and retreats over and over again, chasing - or being chased by - an invisible, cotton-tailed playmate. 


Enter the russet-colored doe, her proud and zaftig form full from Spring's lush bounty. In her reddish gold coat, she emerges from the deep green of the forest like a fiery Irish maiden. Unhurried and alone, she blazes her trail through fern and birch and pine. A hush falls over the world, and all its creatures watch in reverence as she passes. 


Above, the clouds that hang over the Barndoor Hills cannot be pinned down, arranging and rearranging themselves in a never ending interplay of light and form. Like a painting that each moment remakes itself anew, this sky-borne display is scored by a symphony of birdsong: robin, wood thrush, blue jay, sparrow. 


People ask me why I rarely go away on vacation. These are just a few of the reasons. I am fortunate enough to live in a place that I almost never want to leave. With my husband and our two feline "kids", I inhabit a world that endlessly captures my attention and imagination, offers respite and relief, and beckons us again and again to stop, look and listen to what lies just beyond the doors and windows. 


While I remember well the bustle and excitement of planning and packing to go someplace new, it has been a while since I've done it. It seems that contentedness, particularly of the soul variety, is not so easy to come by these days. So I don't want to disrupt mine. 


I'd rather refill my coffee cup, return to the back porch where my book awaits and the new day is filmy with early light and humidity. The sweet smells of fern and clover infuse the air, and I can smile at the airplanes that occasionally pass overhead, imagining the crowded seats, the tired parents and cranky children, the rush to the next gate, the inevitable question, "Are we there yet?"


I am. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere.