What the White Mountains of NH can do to you.

Dearest cherubs:

Those of you who know me best, know that I am not a Wordsworth person. I don't write poems about "here we go gathering nuts in May". Nature, for the most part, bores me. It's people that interest me. Yet, when I am seeking peace, when I am seeking contentment, when I am seeking some kind of center, that's when I call my good friends who live near base of Mt. Washington and ask if I can visit.

They have a most wonderful house, but that is not why I ask to visit them. They have a wonderful social connection with the North Country, but that is not why I ask to visit them. They have a wonderful connection with a church near there, which is ecumenical and welcoming, but that is not why I ask to visit them.

I ask because I think that they know that they live in a place that radiates peace and that I need that peace.

In the morning, sometimes, I rise before my hosts and I walk on their deck, or sometimes down towards the river that flows near their property. The mountains, the river and the forest all contribute to some kind of peaceful existence which is born of acceptance of what nature exacts from those who choose to live near it.

The most fun I have there, is talking with them. But I can't deny, that my walks in their orchard, of sorts, sooths my soul in such a way that no other place can do, except Little Diamond Island in Portland, ME. Little Diamond Island is the only other place in my life that affords the same peace.

Why do I rail against Wordsworth then? Why do I reject nature? What is it that I cherish that nature seems to rebel against? I guess it is only that I value civilization. I feel that my friends have so completely embraced nature and civilization in such a way that allow both to be embraced. And I admit to complete and utter jealousy that they have done this.

To be honest, I have often wished for a helicopter. I would live in the woods, and yet, have a way to get to the city. The city to me, is a panacea for my ills. And the blessed north woods of New Hampshire, is a panacea for my ills. And how, my most dearest cherubs, shall I reconcile them?

I end with a small joke. To me camping is best when defined as a bed and breakfast with view. That is what my friend's house is, in a sense. It's a bed and breakfast with a view. Yet they endure the NH North Country winters with grace. They bring their civility to the world. And I seem to keep mine close to Boston, where perhaps I hope it will bear fruit.

Warmly and with all my love, dearest cherubs, I send my latest post.

An August Poem

I am looking at him with my mind's eye, Ceaser Augustus -- his breath creasing the air with its mist, its cutting edge.

I walked along the stones he walked along and I thought of him.

I do not know what to say to him. But I knew he fought a good fight. He was not a good man, in our modern sense. But he was a leader.

I walked under the arches created by his uncles and by his grandfathers.

Arches we must understand even though we do not understand them now.

Understanding is a bad word. We cannot measure it. What does "understand" mean? We cannot know.

Ceaser Augustus, I feel you close by. We live this summer month named for you. And there is life beyond this month Ceaser. There is life beyond this month.