[prahy-muh fey-shee-ee, fey-shee, fey-shuh, pree-]

adverb

1. at first appearance; at first view, before investigation.

Prima facie, I saw the father and his little blonde daughter on a dinner date and I smiled too big to be in the middle of the crazy Friday night rush.

My smile didn’t fade as I greeted them, because she was polite and darling and he was proud and attentive. I can’t fully explain the importance of this time between a father and a daughter, I just know it is special because I’ve felt it. I remember eating ribs with my dad after a softball game, just the two of us, and it stands out as one of my favorite memories in 32 years of life. It’s so silly, because we spent all kinds of time together every single day but for some reason, this moment really stands out to me. I’m sure it’s something about feeling adored and loved and treasured like only our dads can make us feel. It felt like there was no where else my dad would rather be than there with me.

When I brought the salads out, the girl was in the restroom. I said, “She’s precious.” He perfectly responded with, “She really, really is. And so fun. I took her fly fishing today and she caught FIFTEEN fish! She absolutely loved it.”

He was beaming. My heart grew fifteen sizes in that moment. When I returned to pick up empty salad plates, she was explaining her favorite book in great detail. He listened to every word as if it was the most entertaining thing he’d ever heard. She’ll never forget this night, I can assure you of that. She’ll remember what they ate and what they talked about and she’ll probably blog about it when she’s 32.

1. something that strongly attracts attention by its brilliance, interest, etc.

Where have we been?! I’m sorry, reader, we’ve been out frolicking through fields of wildflowers, popping Zyrtec, fishing with a handsome boy, and slinging a lot of prime rib. These are not sufficient reasons to stop writing; I’m happy to report that Pal and I are currently scripting a pitch for a local magazine. Stay tuned!

I ran across Mary Oliver’s poem called the Sweetness of Dogs again today and was so moved, I have to share it with you:

“What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. Full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit,

I thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! How rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up into
my face. As though I were
his perfect moon.”

Ah, to be our pup’s cynosure. That’ll make any cynicism from life fade away into the moonlight.

[foo t-loos]

adjective

1. free to go or travel about; not confined by responsibilities.

Sometimes it’s 18 degrees but you have to walk the dog anyway after a long night of waiting tables. Sometimes you try to rush it and jog a bit and fall on the ice. But then sometimes you see ten bright shooting stars within ten minutes. You run back inside, pour some wine, warm up the car, say to Pal, “Would you like to…” and he’s already up and prancing to the Kia. He doesn’t know the plan, he doesn’t have his own beverage, he doesn’t care; his answer is yes.

I love this about him. He’s footloose and fancy-free. We drive to a nearby  dark parking lot, blast the heat, and watch the sky in awe. No idea seems too quirky, and I’ve flirted with the line a bit.

Want to hike up this hill full of sagebrush to decorate the tiny pine tree on the tippity-top and have a snack and then undecorate it before hiking back down?

Want to pop some Jiffy Pop and drive sixty miles north to see what the sunset looks like over the Sawtooth Mountains?

Want to pull over on the side of the road when we see a bright yellow aspen grove and go sit amongst them and talk to ourselves about how lucky we are to have this one wild, precious, beautiful life?

He smiles like an oaf and plays along. He makes my life so much sweeter. A bit harder, too. But without him, I’d be in my warm bed sleeping instead of seeing the sky light up with wish after wish.

/ahr-key-dee-uh n/

adjective

1: rural, rustic, or pastoral, especially suggesting simple, innocent contentment.

“Foolishness? No, it’s not.

Sometimes I spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. To do this I have to climb branch by branch and write down the numbers in a little book. So I suppose, from their point of view, it’s reasonable that my friends say: what foolishness! She’s got her head in the clouds again.

But it’s not. Of course I have to give up, but by then I’m half crazy with the wonder of it — the abundance of the leaves, the quietness of the branches, the hopelessness of my effort. And I am in that delicious and important place, roaring with laughter, full of earth-praise.”

-Mary Oliver

Oh to be in that “delicious and important place”…laughter, wonder, innocent contentment–an Arcadian afternoon.

When I feel the lack of this rural contentment deep down in my chest, my heartbeat feels like it is in my throat. This is when I have to get out in the wilderness with the company of only my big polar bear. I drive until no houses are in sight and that doesn’t take long here in Central Idaho. I park wherever the leaves are the brightest, or the lupines are the most fragrant, or the snow is the fluffiest. I get Pal out of the car, his tail usually wagging like it’s the very best day of his life. We breathe deep, deep cool breaths. I say, “There. That’s better, isn’t it, Pally?”

He wags his tail and sniffs the trees while I pick up leaves or flowers or snowballs. Silence. Wonder. Beauty. I come back to town refreshed, my pockets full of leaves that I’ll find in a couple days all dried and crumbled.

The Arcadian life is the life for this small gal and her big Pal.