Marrow of Life . . . Tastes Like Chicken

Papa Thoreau said it best: "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life . . . to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

For me, sucking the marrow out of life must mean staring cross-eyed into a fire for as long as other obligations permit me. I must admit, I don't do much when I go into the woods. And by woods, I mean a campground at Virginia Beach where I could hear traffic and helicopters go by non-stop for two days. Probably not what Thoreau had in mind, but the closest that I could get this past holiday weekend.

I did learn some very important lessons on this camping trip though. If one is cold at night in a tent, all that one needs to do is have a baby, let it age 3-5 years, place said child in sleeping bag with self, and one has a nice mobile heater that is safe and cuddly, though maybe not so clean.

I also discovered the career that I will be perfect for when it comes time for me to re-enter the work force. Yes folks, I will be joining the fire department. I can envision it. The alarm rings for a house fire and everyone jumps into their gear and slides down a pole. I pull on my blue jeans and crocs and follow after. We get to the house that is ablaze, the heat is searing, my eyes are watering, there is danger of the house next door catching fire as well. The fire marshal walks up to me with a long stick. "Go stoke the fire, Hollie," he says. I approach the blaze with my stick and prod a few times and it is extinguished immediately.

If my home owner's insurance knew how hopeless I was with fire, they would have to give me a discount.

But seriously, what is it about the woods? I mean I'm tired, stinky, dirty, cold, the place where I'm sleeping is crawling with granddaddy longlegs, and I'm happier than I could ever be in a heated house with indoor plumbing.

Am I the crazy one, or is it everyone else?

Can't be me.

Right?

Right?

Right.

Rocks, Sticks, and Other Fun Things

My family and I made a great escape to the woods this weekend. The drive out there was like a car chase with me checking behind us every ten seconds to make sure that real life wasn't tagging us, trying to ruin our weekend. When we arrived at the woods and the quiet engulfed me and a peace settled on my shoulders, I felt pretty sure that we gave real life the slip. My tongue lolled out of my mouth, I started panting, and I didn't really stop until the camping trip was over.

There's something about being in the woods that makes me realize that almost every single thing that I do each day isn't real and I don't even know it. I don't know how often I feel bored during a normal day. I always have plenty to do, but I'm usually bored doing those things.

In the woods, I can stare at a tree or a fire for hours and not feel bored. I can sit in stillness and listen. My kids can be utterly entertained by a pile of rocks, a few twigs, and a really cool feather. I can wake up in the morning and do so much before I have my first cup of coffee (this is unheard of at home). We can walk for hours and see nothing but trees and leaves and not have anyone mention the words Mario or Brothers one time.

To be fair, at one point while we were hiking in the woods, I looked down at my feet and thought to myself—you know, I'm going to get me some really cool hiking shoes for the next time we do this. Ooh, and maybe I'll get some of those crinkly khaki pants with the pockets all over. Ooh, ooh, and I'll carry a backpack with nothing in it but water, cliff bars, and trail mix, and I'll carry a walking stick, and I'll fix my hair in pigtail braids and when I take the braids out, my hair will be all cool and wavy. I smacked myself for being in the middle of such natural beauty and only thinking about how I wanted to fix my hair. I guess that some of real life caught up with me. But I am totally wearing my hair like that next time.

The morning we were leaving, as I sat on an ancient land once occupied by the Occoneechee Native Americans and looked out onto the glistening lake . . . yes . . . a speed boat went by and brought a poem to mind from dear old William Wordsworth. I will leave you with this today.

The World is Too Much with Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.