Something about spring is always just like moving under water, slow and pressed down by the weight of the oceans. I missed the woods last weekend, laid out under a weight of antibiotics and misery, which is a little bit too bad because I have been thinking about John Muir these days. But then I went to a park I haven't visited before, and had dinner on a rooftop overlooking my city, and heard some thrilling news about an impending new member of my urban family, and I thought about how I once read about him calling the whole universe an "infinite storm of beauty." Even under water, I'm still pretty sure that that's true.
I like Muir, and his commitment to perspective, never minding when people would come across him dangling over the edge of a waterfall or exploring what life is like for a tree, gaining the eyes of a prophet. It's comforting to know that his molecules are still around.
George Washington's are still here too, probably in the part of my throat that has been making life so difficult.