From Wikipedia: "Here be dragons" is a phrase used to denote dangerous or unexplored territories, in imitation of the infrequent medieval practice of putting sea serpents and other mythological creatures in blank areas of maps . . .
At the "Land/Stories Conference" a couple of weeks ago, I led a workshop called "Here Be Dragons," where we talked about the challenges and (sometimes) terrors of place, and another called "Personal Mapping," which asked people to become more aware of the physical aspects of the place they live.
For example, we drew a schematic map of our neighborhood: that part of our city, town, or rural area in which we spend most of our time. And then we talked about the map, and about places we enjoyed living (and why) and about places we'd never want to live (and why). The responses were interesting . . . (The rest of this section of the post is on the Wildness blog, including a photo of one my local dragons. While you're over there, read Laura Girardeau's poem, and take a minute to tell her how much you enjoyed it.)
We're not having a flood of those dragon proportions right now. Yet. But we are totally, completely soggy. The dogs and I splash as we go for our W-A-L-K (as Ann put it in a recent email about her grand-dog Gus, who is living happily on three legs). The garden is gasping with disbelieving glee, and so are the weeds. The native turkeyfoot bluestem is blossoming wildly, but the farmers can't get into the fields to cut hay, and when they can, there's not enough sun to dry it out. Irony upon ironies: a great year for grass, but hell for hay.
And there's more rain on the way, with moisture streaming up from the Gulf and a string of small disturbances slipping down from Oklahoma, like fat green peas rolling downhill. Yesterday, the power went off about 11 and I decided to call it a day (writing-wise). Drove the Honda Element (our workhorse van) to Marble Falls to get groceries, and when I got back, the low-water crossing above the lake was nearly impassable. I wouldn't have tried it in the Civic, but the Element has four-wheel drive and is higher off the road. We swam merrily home.
Reading note. Each piece of land can tell a story of grief and loss--forests turned to wate and stone, lifeways dried up in spite of sacred ritual, the human heart ruined by war. And yet the land keeps telling another version of the story--that its cycles and processes are the final authority, that our hearts are constructed to love its beauty.--"Monarchs," by Alison Hawthorne Deming, What Wildness is This