Bundeshaus (Swiss Parliament)
Snow, fleeting
It snowed last week (before Halloween), wet heavy snow though not much of it. Just enough to introduce the little boy to snow
and to remember how much the big boy loves the snow.
And to make this.
Narcissus in the garden of the changing seasons
On the fourth day
Wednesday night at dinner we decided to cancel the yoga sessions for Thursday so that we could start out early on the hike that would turn out to be the highlight of the week: a five hour (walking time) hike from Arosa to Medergen to Sapuen Dorfli (which, may I say, is the cutest Dorfli in. the. world.) to Langwies. From Langwies we would take the train back to Arosa.
Our path took us past the Stauensee
and up through the wooded hillside on the other side of the See.
Once out of the trees, we passed by an Alp. In English, when we speak of “the Alps,” we’re thinking of the of the Swiss Alps, the French Alps, the Austrain Alps. We mean the whole horizon-swallowing mountain range. In Swiss, an “Alp” refers to the summer home of sheep and cattle and the small cluster of buildings, the Alpenhutte, required for their care. So we passed by eine Alp: one woman tending one hundred and twenty eight cattle through the summer.
The cattle were friendly – a hiking trail passed through their grazing grounds, they were accustomed to people – and well-cared for and remarkably clean. It is these cattle and sheep, these summer grazing ranges, that make the Swiss mountain meadows – the Wiese - so beautiful. The cattle graze down the grasses and scrub which then allows the meadow flowers to bloom.
Our path leveled out as we headed towards the moutain village of Medergen where we ate lunch – crisp green salads from the local gardens and Bergkaese (mountain cheese) – from the cows we had just walked past.
We sat outside in the sun. We ate mountain cheese and hand-made bread and drank coffee topped with whipped cream.
We lingered too long, because it was all too perfect, and finally tightened our laces and continued on our hike with a backward glance at Medergen that had fed us so well.
Between Medergen and Sapuen we passed through Alpine meadows and saw, at a distance not worth photographing, a cluster of elk.
And then we crossed a river, passed through a field, and entered the tiny village – the Dorfli – of Sapuen. There were four children playing in front of the school when we passed through and refilled our water bottles at the village fountain though the school was closed; Sapuen is not inhabited year-round anymore.
And two minutes later we had passed through the entire village and Sapuen was behind us.
We rested one last time at the edge of a meadow, drinking our mountain water and crunching fresh sweet apples. We were about to start the climb down to Langwies, back through the woodlands, out of these high meadows and unobstructed views of the mountains. We knew we had to press on to make the train in Langwies but we were all reluctant to rise. Reluctant to say goodbye to this view.
On the third day
On Wednesday I slept through the morning yoga sessions and took an easy walk on my own so that I could stop for as long as I wanted in order to take some pictures.
Ever forward
Slap. Slap. Shuffle. Slap. Slap. Shuffle. This is the sound of Little Boy C, on the very day he turned nine months old (yesterday), crawling from the playmat to the couch. A short distance, a meter, perhaps a little less. Yet never again will he cover as much ground as he did just then – those first unstable but determined movements into autonomy. Into exploration. Into action. Those first independent moments forward, alone. His bold achievement, celebrated, applauded; in my heart, a small goodbye. It has begun – it began the moment he was born, in truth, but it has become obvious now. He will move ever forward. As it should be. But in my heart, the first of a lifetime of small goodbyes.
“For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.”
- Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet.
I must remember this
Little Boy C is almost nine months old and hardly nurses at all anymore – only at night before he goes to bed. He nursed like a champ until he tasted his first spoon of food and then he never looked back. I didn’t expect this; LIttle Boy A nursed until he was eighteen months old and weaning at that point was my idea, not his.
C hasn’t nursed during the day since I can’t remember when but he holds fast to those last moments before he goes to bed. We lay on our sides in my big bed together, his face pressed up against me, my bottom arm curled around his head and back. With my free top hand I might stroke his hair, or rest the palm of my hand on his belly or his hip. Tonight I had my hand cupped on his head and when I moved it C reached up and flailed around with his little hand until he grabbed my index finger and pulled my hand back down to his head. He does this often, grabs my hand and moves it where he wants it. From his hip he might pull it up to his belly; when I stroke his hair he might clamp his hand on mine to keep me still. Sometimes he pushes my hand away, then a few minutes later is reaching out for a finger to bring me back to him. Each night as we lay there in bed and C holds my hand, pulls it to his body, I tell myself to write this down and each night after I put C to bed I move on to the bedtime routine for Little Boy A, and by the time that one is in bed it is forgotten, this way C tells me what he wants, shows me what he likes. This way he reaches out for me, finds my hand and presses it against his body. This way he loves me. Every night, I tell myself to remember this.
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