My friend James is a brilliant actor.  When asked in a recent interview about his career preferences, he said he loved Shakespeare best.  He said it was all about the words and how they feel in his mouth.  I’ve also come to believe that when you hear Shakespeare’s words spoken, it’s all about how the words feel in your ears, too – and your heart and mind, how they resonate through your whole body and being.

Of course, Shakespeare wrote his words to be spoken aloud – to be heard from the mouths of skilled actors.  But perhaps its a phenomenon of most well-written works – they take on new depth and connection when we read them aloud to each other.

I suspect most of us were read to as children – by mothers and fathers, babysitters and teachers, perhaps older siblings.  If we were lucky, they read to us from classic childhood novels and sometimes serialized stories printed in magazines.  Most were without pictures; the stories were created solely by the magic of the words themselves – words that became like shadows on the wall, animated and brought to life by the readers’ voices and our own personal imaginations.

Being read to out loud is one of the lasting pleasures of childhood we never seem to outgrow.  I suspect it’s the reason for the ongoing attraction of audio books and author book readings, poetry nights at the library and Shakespeare in the park.  I know couples who read aloud to each other on car trips and in bed at night and by firelight on cold afternoons and by flashlight in camping tents.

I think most authors would be pleased with the idea of their words being read aloud.  There’s no skipping ahead or speed-reading without meaning or tone, no jumping to the last page first.  The story unfolds the way it was meant to, the way it was put down on paper (usually with pencil or pen in hand scratching softly along the page), slowly, deliberately, with great thought and care, from beginning to end.  And then it receives the added voice and texture of the reader – colored as well by the sensitivity and curiosity and personal experience of the listener.  And the possibilities of it grow beyond the author, beyond the printed page.

There is a saying that I greatly appreciate (thoughts about the origin of this saying are rather mixed – variously attributed to a small child, a contemporary author, an ancient culture, even some Biblical texts).  But the saying is this:  “You can tell when a person loves you by they way they say your name; your name feels safe in their mouth.”

Perhaps there is something of this same sensibility when we read a story we love out loud – to another or just to ourselves.  How the words feel in our mouths, how they resonate in our ears, how they walk around in our heads and dance with our hearts, is a blending of the author’s words and our own souls.  And so the words become filled with new context, new understanding, a sort of recognition, a relationship.  Rather like holding hands.

I hope reading aloud never becomes a lost art.  I hope there are always words to read that feel good in our mouths.  Words that feel intriguing and experiential, complex and original, perhaps a bit heartbreaking as well as comforting.  Like Shakespeare.  But most of all, I hope the words in our mouths feel safe, like love.  And that we keep sharing them out loud with each other.

I have been watching her now for the past several minutes.  My short dog, Daphne, has the “zoomies” – running as fast as she can all round the front yard.  She is watching me watching her.  She likes an audience.  But since last June when she and the tall dog, Liam, took me down during a flat-out zoomies run, and left me in their wake as a pile of broken bits and pieces, she is not allowed to run like this too close to me.  Liam tries to make sure of it by standing guard in front of me.  I remind her with words of caution.  And she respects the restrictions.  But still, she likes an audience.

Today, as I stand watching her appreciatively, I’ve noticed a distinct pattern:  she runs all around the property at the edges.  She runs in circles, in figure-eights, leaping over rocks, dodging behind bushes, zig-zagging around trees.  She races like the wind.  But she runs almost exclusively along the edges.

Long before our collision, I noticed her running patterns in the backyard.  But the backyard is almost completely paved over (a former owner’s preference, not my own).  So I assumed this was why she ran the perimeter back there, keeping to the only grass and soft ground available.  But the front yard is almost entirely soft plant beds and lawn.  And still, she runs the edges.

I first came across the term of “edge walkers” in an essay about formal religion and the natural world and about living in the thresholds between them.  The author observed that edge walkers occupy a thin space, and called it a lonely place.  She further wrote that the majority of people inhabit the vast spaces on either side of the edges.  And that edge walking is as much a calling as it is a choice. 

In nature, these edges or thresholds between biosystems are called “ecotones,” which contain the greatest biodiversity and are the most resilient as a result.  It has always been a tradition of native cultures to “leave the edges wild.”  No matter how cultivated a field or manicured a lawn, it is good to leave the edges wild for the bugs and birds, butterflies and bunnies, and all manner of other creatures and seedlings.  And, most especially, for the sake of diversity itself.  

Perhaps Daphne can feel this wildness under her feet as she runs the edges of the property.  Perhaps the ground there is cushioned with hidden moss beds, moist with mud, cooler in summer, warmer in winter, leaf-thick, twig-crunchy.  I would suspect that the scents behind and beneath the bushes and trees at the edges are wonderfully compelling, that the shadows and sun dapples are perfectly intriguing.

But I suspect, too, that it isn’t only in nature that the most exhilarating and informative diversity exists at the edges.  Cultural, political, social, religious – perhaps all of these environments offer edges to walk.  Rather than getting swept along into manicured expanses of sameness, or trapped in cultivated rows of autocracy, the edges may be much preferred spaces in which to walk through all of life.

Edge walking may be, indeed, a lonely thing.  Daphne is terribly introverted.  But it must be a wonderfully liberating thing as well.  To be open to such otherwise hidden delights and possibilities … to be released from formats and fences … to be freeform and resilient in thought and step.  

Two millennia ago, a child was born who would spend his life walking the edges, bringing love and light and possibilities into dark places.  Ever since then, his followers have been tasked with carrying that invitation of Peace on Earth forward.  And if we don’t drop it, it may light the way for edge walkers through another 2000 years.

Perhaps Daphne is watching me watching her, not so much because she wants an audience, but because I am meant to have this Christmas reminder to always be an edge walker myself.

It starts with boiled potatoes – overcooked to the edge of mushiness, then peeled and diced into uneven chunks; and hardboiled eggs, sliced diagonally, cooked so long the yokes fall out and crumble as they are being cut; and chopped sweet onion and celery for crunch; generously salted and mixed with Miracle Whip – not mayonnaise – Miracle Whip.  Served from a very large bowl, still slightly warm and freshly made or quite cold from the refrigerator, it is still my favorite potato salad.  My mother’s potato salad.  Wonderfully simple and basic and imprinted on my memory and taste buds for so long I don’t even remember the fist time I tasted it.

According to a recent New York Times article, that’s exactly why it is my favorite.  The author of the article was writing about pizza choices, but I think potato salad serves as an equally strong trigger for imprinted preferences.  And chocolate chip cookies.

And music.  As an adult , I took a night class called “The History of Rock & Roll” offered on a local college campus when I lived in Indianapolis.  The first night the instructor launched into the lesson with the Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly and Fats Domino.  Within the initial few notes, I was in my early teens and living in California.  I could smell the beach.  Suddenly, this was my favorite music – music I could identify with.  Because it was the first music that was “mine.”  (I can also get that thrill of recall with old church music like “How Great Thou Art” and “Amazing Grace,” and a lump in my throat every time I hear “Jesus Loves Me.”)  

It’s all about the imprint – the first taste of something.  And therein lies the comfort of it.

We all have our favorite comfort movies, I think.  And books.  People are always offering me their newest book discoveries – great new authors and best-sellers.  But stacked up beside my bed are mostly my old favorites – Agatha Christie and Elizabeth Gouge and Ngaio Marsh and Margery Allingham and John Moore.  A highly talented actor friend of mine sinks into the comfort of Shakespeare – walking his house reciting it, reading aloud the plays and favorite passages.  I know many of us rejoice in the comfort of the woods and playing with dogs and riding horses and drawing with chalk and making small boats to sail down streams.  All because they imprinted on us first and most and remind us of things.  It’s like they have always loved us best.

Perhaps these things imprinted on us because they did so when we were in a place and time of innocence and vulnerability.  And they became memories that still delight us and touch us beyond reason because they make us feel safe, somehow.  I suspect it’s the flip side of PTS (post-traumatic stress) recall – where terror and horrific imprinting can paralyze us.  Rather, it’s that part of sense memory and pure remembrance that calms us and makes us smile.  It’s that part of memory that we too often forget to claim and enlist.  Perhaps we have simply become too accustomed to walking around in the dark places.  We allow them to take over.  We accept them when they move in and crowd comfort out, like new hard-edged furniture.

And yet, I suspect that now may be a time when our old imprinted comforts are rather more critical and precious than we realize, and need to be revived and revisited.  I suspect we should all go reread a favorite book, and dance to our special music, watch birds in a woods, hug a dog, sit astride a horse, craft a toy boat, draw in chalk on the sidewalk.  I suspect we should get out the big bowl and the Miracle Whip, boil mushy potatoes, and make our mother’s potato salad.

This is a truth to which I can personally attest:  when you have damaged legs or feet – for whatever reason – and you’re trying to regain your walking skills, you tend to watch your feet all the time.  Or at least you watch the ground around them.  Tripping and falling is such a dread that you constantly look down before you take a step.  Even with the help of a cane or walking sticks or even the hand of a friend, you can’t help but keep your gaze scanning your path for awkward stones and uneven places. more “Lifting up our eyes.” …

It’s an ordinary Wednesday.  You’ve done a hard day’s work on your farm.  You’ve fed the animals and put them up for the night.  You’ve fed your children and tucked them in.  You’ve kissed everyone goodnight and drifted into sleep yourself – on that ordinary Wednesday, September 2nd, 1752, England.

The sunrise awakens you the next morning.  And it is Thursday, September 14th, 1752, England.  Overnight you lost eleven days from your month and your year.  September 3rd to September 13 simply disappeared. more “Learning to dance with a limp.” …

And so, here I am convalescing.

It’s been eight weeks since the dogs and I collided on the driveway, which resulted in a broken hip, a fractured arm, a tangle of nerves in one leg and foot, and assorted other bruises, sprains and damages.  All mine.  The dogs escaped injury-free.

After eighteen days in the hospital, I’ve been homebound now for another thirty-eight days … and counting.  And feeling properly grumpy and cross. more “Words matter.” …

I’d been feeling it for weeks.  It would come over me in waves – like those first gentle breezes of summer dawns.  Again and again it came – a deep sense of inexplicable gratitude.

And it reminded me a little of the joy of a hug from a long-ago friend … or the way a certain swell of brilliant music can take your breath away … it was even a bit like the rush of a first bite of chocolate. more “Recognizing gratitude.” …

It rode in on a black horse.  And then it melted under a hot midday sun, and it circled about on a bit of breeze and voice and intentionality, and finally it leaned into the heart of the man who had been building a very powerful connection between himself and the black horse.  The man and the horse were now trusting each other completely, with silent breath and touch, with in-sync energy, a private exchange of conversation.  So here was pure “grace,” I thought.  Here was witness to a moment of true, perfect, grace. more “Moments of grace.” …

I suspect they’re quite cozy and content right where they are.  After all, it’s dark and quiet.  It’s warmed by the radiance of the sun, cooled by filtered rain water.  There is plenty to eat.  It is utterly safe, protected, at peace.

For almost their entire lives, cicadas live underground.  For nearly as long as we like to nurture our human children – feeding them, protecting them, keeping them at home – these other growing, developing, and changing creatures are coming into their own maturity as well.  And that ultimate emergence, lurching into the next reality, can be rather alarming for both species. more “Belonging with cicadas.  Fitting in with introverted dogs.” …

I’m supposed to be writing a column today.  But I’m not.  I suspect it’s just me being rather unfocused and undisciplined.  Or perhaps it’s the child in me being unruly and interested only in playing and messing about (I think she’s about four).

It began as a day of good intentions.  But then I thought maybe I’d sit outside in the sun for just a minute and have some tea, and I started watching Daphne – the new-ish little dog that came to live with me a few months ago.  She was digging a hole in the backyard.  There was no purpose to it that I could see, other than it felt good on her toes to scratch down through the cool damp ground, to get her shoulders stretching and her little bum bouncing to a rhythm that only she could hear; and the smell of it was rich and the shower of dirt that fell all around her was like a confetti of joyfulness.  I walked over and stood beside her as we looked down into the fresh hole together and admired it.

And then I noticed that all around the hole there were multitudes of tiny blossoms growing.  Little fairy-sized blooms of yellow and white, some blue, and one very dark pink one.  I know they are considered weeds by some, but they reminded me of what I think the very first flowers to appear on earth must have looked like all those millions of years ago.  It was something I had read about a long time ago, so I thought I should look it up again, just to make sure.  But first, I decided to pick a few of them to keep in water on my kitchen windowsill.  

So as I was rounding the corner with a tiny vase in my hand in which to put my tiny blossoms, I saw wild violets filling an old forsaken flower pot and spilling over into the cracks of the driveway and the unused plant beds at its sides.  I wondered if they would transplant into my window boxes that just happened to be waiting for something to nurture.  And so I dug some of the wild violets up roots and all with my bare hands and carefully placed them into a nearby container.  The hole that was left behind in the ground looked a lot like the one that Daphne had made – the earth smelled as sweet and fresh, and I thought my fingers must have felt like her paws, muddy and young.

The new transplants needed watering, of course, so I pulled out the hose and happened to notice whole families of bees hovering all around the bird baths and I thought how they should probably be freshened for the bees as well as the birds.  But Daphne wanted to help, too, so rather than just filling them, we let them run over and made puddles where we splashed our feet and made footprints and toe-prints – both hers and mine.  Even big dog Liam joined in then, although he preferred to just watch the bees in fascination as they bathed and drank.  So I had to take a minute to sit down with him to listen to the bee music and watch their dance together.

But soon I was feeling another tug at my conscience – I needed to be writing a column.  But I wasn’t.  And so I started to get up, but looked up instead.  And I saw that Nature was doing somewhat the same thing as the dogs and I were doing today.  There she was, dancing with tree tops and winking at the sun, with no purpose, no goal, just joy.  She has her busy times, of course, what with pollen duties and rainstorms, pushing up flowers and vegetables and new tree sprouts, helping bird eggs hatch and creating lightning that refuels the air.  But every now and then, even Nature just plays and messes about – simply for the joy of it.  

Wiser minds than mine have put words to it, like A.A. Milne:  “Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.”

I suspect that was true for me today, when I was supposed to be writing a column.  But didn’t.