By Luanne Armstrong
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Extra info for Blue Valley : An Ecological Memoir
We are all hostages of time. We each have the same number of minutes and hours to live within a day, yet to me it didn’t feel equally doled out. My illness brought me such an abundance of time that time was nearly all I had. My friends had so little time that I often wished I could give them what time I could not use. It was perplexing how in losing health I had gained something so coveted but to so little purpose. I eagerly awaited visitors, but the anticipation and the extra energy of greetings caused a numbing exhaustion.
My woodland snail’s shell, however, though beautifully and perfectly formed, was an earthy color with a modest matte finish. ” Reminding me of a rolled-up sleeping bag—the kind I had once strapped atop a backpack—my snail’s shell was a brilliant solution to a life of wanderlust. And there was a further benefit. In the third or fourth century BC, the Athenian poet Philemon observed, “How ingenious an animal is a snail . . ” UNLIKE THE STURDY EXTERNAL shell of my snail, my supporting structure was internal.
Their rich, golden brown hues soothed my soul; the knots told a history of branches and long-ago wilderness; the square-headed nails sticking out here and there once had purpose. Each room in the house was trimmed in an old-fashioned milk-paint color. In the room where I lay, the trim was a deep blue, and I could turn my head to see red in the kitchen, green in the bathroom, and a calm gray in the front room. The daybed at home was right next to a window so that I could look out without sitting up.
Blue Valley : An Ecological Memoir by Luanne Armstrong