Micanopy's Canopies

In April I got to visit Grandmother down south and accompany my mom on the two day road trip back to Tennessee. We took our time and decided to stop late one afternoon in Micanopy, FL. Ever since I can remember I've heard references to Micanopy and Cross Creek. It's a recurring topic for my mom, grandmother, and aunt, sitting around a kitchen table, somewhere. With eager eyes and animated hands, this old Florida is spoken of with reverence, longing, and an appreciation that must result from something soul-resonating. Cross Creek, "crackers," the orange groves, the cookery, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, the ice cream shop, etc. I've listened to and appreciated their enthusiasm but never been able to fully enter into the transient world they seem so obsessed with. Maybe it's an age thing, maybe I had to see it for myself, but that afternoon the soft light and live oaks draped in spanish moss whispered a knowing welcome to my soul. Maybe it's in our blood. I sure love the women in my family and that this bonding experience in nature is so much more appropriate than a debutante ball, a first roasted chicken, or new home ever could be. 

So, as I approach thirty this year (wow!), having now visited Cross Creek and the home of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, I feel I've made a significant step into adulthood. And, after reading her book, Cross Creek, I know I'll find myself one of the women the next time we're at Grandmother's kitchen table and the conversation inevitably leads to Micanopy. 

I didn't have my camera with me but had fun playing with the settings on our point and shoot. My mom and I took a nice walk around what's now an overgrown orange grove and enjoyed the trail around this picturesque playground, adjacent to Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' home.

on the summer reading list:

"Who owns Cross Creek? The red-birds, I think, more than I, for they will have their nests even in the face of delinquent mortgages... It seems to me that the earth may be borrowed, but not bought. It may be used, but not owned. It gives itself in response to love and tending, offers its seasonal flowering and fruiting. But we are tenants and not possessors, lovers and not masters. Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time..."

- Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, Cross Creek