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Nature is always lovely, invincible, glad, whatever is done and suffered by her creatures. all scars she heals, whether in rocks or water or sky or hearts.
-John Muir
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Nature Is Always Lovely, Invincible, Glad, Whatever

John Muir
Nature is always lovely, invincible, glad, whatever is done and suffered by her creatures. all scars she heals, whether in rocks or water or sky or hearts.
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Nature Heart Sky

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Eventually she came. she appeared suddenly, exactly like she'd done that day- she stepped into the sunshine, she jumped, she laughed and threw her head back, so her long ponytail nearly grazed the waistband of her jeans. after that, i couldn't think about anything else. the mole on the inside of her right elbow, like a dark blot of ink. the way she ripped her nails to shreds when she was nervous. her eyes, deep as a promise. her stomach, pale and soft and gorgeous, and the tiny dark cavity of her belly button. i nearly went crazy.
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And she loved a man who was made out of nothing. a few hours without him and right away she’d be missing him with her whole body, sitting in her office surrounded by polyethylene and concrete and thinking of him. and every time she’d boil water for coffee in her ground-floor office, she’d let the steam cover her face, imagining it was him stroking her cheeks, her eyelids and she’d wait for the day to be over, so she could go to her apartment building, climb the flight of stairs, turn the key in the door, and find him waiting for her, naked and still between the sheets of her empty bed.
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The bluebells made such a pool that the earth had become like water, and all the trees and bushes seemed to have grown out of the water. and the sky above seemed to have fallen down on to the earth floor; and i didn’t know if the sky was the earth or the earth was water. i had been turned upside down. i had to hold the rock with my fingernails to stop me falling into the sky of the earth or the water of the sky. but i couldn’t hold on.
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She is melusina, the water goddess, and she is found in hidden springs and waterfalls in any forest in christendom, even in those as far away as greece. (...) a man may love her if he keeps her secret and lets her alone when she wants to bathe, and she may love him in return until he breaks his word, as men always do, and she sweeps him into the depths with her fishy tail, and turns his faithless blood to water. the tragedy of melusina, whatever language tells it, whatever tune it sings, is that a man will always promise more than he can do to a woman he cannot understand.
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A woman is never so happy as when she is being wooed. then she is mistress of all she surveys, the cynosure of all eyes, until that day of days when she sails down the aisle, a vision in white, lovely as the stefanotis she carries, borne translucent on her father's manly arm to be handed over to her new father-surrogate. if she is clever, and if her husband has the time and the resources, she will insist on being wooed all her life; more likely she will discover that marriage is not romantic, that husbands forget birthdays and aniversaries and seldom pay compliments, are often perfunctory.
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