i could feel it as we entered the woods. even in the cold. even on a mucky trail. especially in the damp fog. it wrapped around me, my body relaxed and i could breathe.
we are in the middle of a lot. like you, life swirls and dips and is taking us places we didn’t expect. like you, we don’t sign up for the angsts, the challenges, the aloneness of some of it. but it is there, nevertheless.
it’s in those times – in the fermatas of those times – that we need be in the cathedral. for us, that means stepping into the bowed trees in this forest, their very branches arching over us. for us, that means walking, hiking, trekking in the quiet. it’s then that i can hear.
and perspective – arriving on glorious air – reminds me. of my smallness in all of this. of an imperative to not take every single thing personally. of release and of healing in the mist. of a bigger presence that is indeed wrapping around me. and is always there. silently tapping my shoulder.
i step into the trees and i instantly can feel it – that this is the only day. i can throw it away, like i often have – for we all forget. or i can immerse in it. knowing it is now.
i can’t change – so much – what is. i can’t affect – so much – what will come. i certainly can’t transform what was. and all of that will be waiting for me, after the trail, post-cathedral.
but i’m slowly learning – ever-so-slowly – how to stand in it all. i’m learning how to accept it, how to move in it, how to move through it, how to get to next. sometimes.
the bigger picture – under the cathedral of sky – gives me air and every now and then – just in the nick of time – interrupts my moment of worry and chastens me to feel the right now.
that air is always with us – the exhale of wise old trees and the stardust of those before us.
wrapped for the holidays, nature put her best curling ribbon on this stalk, replicating it all over the meadow for us to see and appreciate. clearly, giftwrappers and bauble experts everywhere must be jealous of the ease with which nature decorates herself – always minimalistic, always beautiful.
for a smidge of time, i was hired – long, long ago – as a holiday giftwrapper at a beall’s department store in florida. i spent shifts of hours wrapping the unwrappable – really one of the reasons why people have their gifts wrapped at the store. now, there are folks (having gifts wrapped) who just prefer to have everything done-and-done by the time they pull in their driveway, but most of the time it was the unwieldy that was brought to the service desk, the customer wide-eyed with wrapping trepidation.
i did my best, but i was no wrapping maven and had not yet learned any of the wizardry of the wrap. nevertheless, the customers seemed pleased, if only not to have to do-it-themselves.
in the years when our children were young – for reasons i still cannot figure out – we saved all the wrapping-of-presents (including stocking stuffers) for the night of christmas eve. there we were, in the middle of the dining room – having retrieved bags and boxes hidden all over the house – trying to quietly cut paper and wrap assorted gifts of all sizes and shapes – while our children were upstairs in their beds gazing out the window watching for signs of santa and his reindeer in the night sky. we’d leave christmas music on and close the swinging dining room door and the living room bifold doors into the hall, trying to disguise – or at least muffle – the clear sound of scissors meeting paper, hoping that the fact that it was quickly approaching the wee hours – like 2 or 3am or so – would mean they would have fallen fast asleep, dreaming of the next morning.
in later years – for the most part – i wrapped earlier, not saving it all for the elves-of-the-eve to desperately try and wrap as quietly as possible. though in later years the pressure of the magic was lessened, so quiet wasn’t quite as necessary.
in the latest years, we’ve had to ship presents. the boy and the girl who used to live upstairs live elsewhere and are not always home for christmas. it changes the landscape of the holiday. immensely. facetime never equals real time. and the holiday is quieter.
to say i miss those days of reports of reindeer and rudolph’s nose lighting the starry sky would be an understatement. to say i miss putting out carrots and milk and cookies would be an understatement. to say i miss twinkling lights reflecting on the faces of my children – as infants, as toddlers, as children, as teenagers, as young adults – would be an understatement. to say i miss the chaos after midnight on christmas eve would be an understatement.
but time marches on. and every year things change. i peruse social media – seeing multiple stockings waiting on the mantels of people far and wide, stacks of presents under trees, gatherings and family parties – and i silently send my children a wish of love and light and joy. we hike on treasured trails and pass by nature’s curling ribbon and i’m reminded over and over of the miles of curling ribbon i’ve curled, the stuffed stockings under our trees over the years, the small mountains of wrapped packages, giftwrap strewn across the floor.
and i am grateful. this holiday may be minimal in its festivity. but, sitting in the darkened living room with trees and branches and twinkling lights, holiday music or silence, cards to send out and presents to wrap on the dining room table – curling ribbon at the ready – it is no less beautiful. it is just different.
there is no way to maneuver the depth of field on my old iphone. it is all about coming in closer and backing up – eyeing what is framed in the aperture and moving to adjust what i want the photograph to look like. i know that the newer iphones have some access to depth of field options but – at the moment – i don’t have access to a newer iphone option. so. i adjust.
i almost rejected this photograph as a melange post. with the closest red dogwood branch a bit out-of-focus it didn’t really meet my parameters for a post. and then i stopped to reconsider it. it’s a great visual reminder of how distorted things can look from up close.
clarity is something that comes when you put a little space between you and the issue or object of your attention. 20 always says, “you’re too close!” and it’s impossible to not hear his voice in my head now in the throes of any decision. and so i try to remember to back up a little, to have some distance as i consider – an overview.
when d was working for a new software startup (before the business was unfortunately closed) their product was the perfect tool for clarity. after i understood even the most basic functions of this remarkable software – as they were looking for names – i kept blurting out suggestions like “pinnacle” or “eagle eye” or “lookout” or “apex”. it seemed obvious to me that having this incredible overview – a step back – was the perfect new software for people struggling to make sense of too much up close and personal…a pragmatic way to sort and prioritize…a realistic way to have perspective. it’s beyond my wildest imagination that they did not continue on their merry way into software stardom. but alas, such is life, eh?
anyway, that lookout tower approach has its wisdom. it’s like pulling into the overlook in the appalachia region on route 25e in tennessee. up until that moment – in the middle of them – you were aware that there were mountains but you were seeing them from too close to really appreciate the grandeur. you drive into the overlook, step out of your vehicle, walk to the retaining wall and you are stunned by the magnificence of how the whole world drops off beyond your feet, stretching on and on and on. and you can see – there are mountains and lakes and a river – things you could not discern from up close.
in the middle of the middle stepping back is one of the ridiculously hardest things to do. it feels counter-productive when you are trying to come to some sort of conclusion or have some kind of perspective about a specific thing. but up close and personal, the red dogwood is blurry and i can’t appreciate its stunning beauty. from a little distance away, i can see how it plays against the warm beige of the grasses and cattails, how it enhances the fallow of this meadow.
in this crazy-busy time of year – with people rushing around trying to make the holidays perfect for themselves and others – i’m thinking that maybe we are all a little too close. i’m reminded again and again of what is most important. i’m taking in serenity as i can. we are trying to go slow – to appreciate the big picture – to not be clouded by that which is hard to sort or discern or, for that matter, even clearly see.
yes, the red dogwood is blurry up close. but from a little distance it stands out in a field barren of much color. the dissonance fades. the chord resolves. there is clarity.
it would appear that nature is decorating for the holiday season. even in the browns and tans and greys of the fallow, color bursts out at us. it’s stunning. the honeysuckle is unmoved though – it is standard fare in the winter to be berried. we, however, stop to appreciate it.
we decorated early this year. right around thanksgiving we put up our eileen-tree (which we named “e.e.”), pulled out the mini-trees i love to place everywhere, added twinkling white lights and silver ornaments. there are snowflakes and pinecones from the forest floor and heartfilled nods to my children-in-younger-days and my scandinavian heritage. we unearthed the boxes of vintage glass ornaments and shiny brites from my sweet momma and poppo and placed those ever-so-gently on the happy-light-lit big branches we now have year-round in the living room. it looks like christmas.
each day goes by faster now it seems. and then it’s friday again. i’m not sure where the time goes. as we make our holiday cards and a few handmade gifts to send out, george winston’s december is on repeat – the quiet of this album is speaking to us this season. bombastic christmas or vocal-gymnastic-laden carols seem like too much noise. restraint seems more in line with our spirits. more serenity.
there are many festivities to choose from – out there. we thought about a concert or two and lingered back. we thought about a holiday festival or two and lingered back. we thought about stores and crowds and lingered back. we will finish making our cards and creations and do a bit of boutique shopping. we may make a cookie or two. the krumkake of ages past nudges us and sip and feast taunts us with a long island italian almond cookie (gluten-free). we sit under blankets in a darkened living room – lit only by happylights. we savor the sparkle. we sit in content silence, we tell stories of past holidays – wistful, tearing up, laughing, lost in memories and hopes for future holidays.
and there is the woods.
whenever we can, we take time out there. the forest reminds us of both the everpresence and the evanescence of it all. it reminds us of the passing of time, the changing of seasons, adjusting to harsh circumstances and it reminds us of the rejuvenation and renewal of spring. we know that beyond the cold and frozen, there will be warmth. it’s all fluid and some things – like transition – are certain. there is silent wisdom – of the ages – you can feel as you place your feet – emanating from the dirt of the trail.
it is no wonder that nature has already decorated – with quiet fervor and vivid color – for the holidays.
it was as we were hiking that the snow started again. it had already laid down a couple inches and the wind was a bit blustery. and then…
they drifted down around us – as if we were in the middle of a snowglobe and someone had given it a gentle shake. we watched them – individually falling – cold enough to see them land without melting.
most of the time, in landing, they are more en masse – like toddlers playing soccer – a beehive of tinies running after a ball – snowflakes swirling together landing, tumbling, piles of tiny colliding flakes sticking together.
but as i watched, cellphone in hand, this one snowflake – all by itself – landed on this leaf. and the leaf, cold enough to keep the flake intact, held the magic so that i could see it. exquisite doesn’t begin to capture it. sometimes adjectives are so incomplete – superlatives even anemic.
this time, the tiny snowflake held its ground, its unsung miracle-ness distinct against the leaf. i was startled to see it as we stood in the falling snow. i was – also – ridiculously thrilled.
its oneness – this singular the-only-one-there-is snowflake – quiet individuality. its presence – without trumpets blaring or the dinging of any notification – silently suddenly here. its tiny-ness – in this vast world – the same as us. a gift.
we are snowflakes falling. it is up to us to choose how. with or without fanfare, conforming or not, with or without humility, a gift or not.
it is reassuring to believe that they whisper. i think they have begun to know us well. our passings-by have informed them – the times in our life together when we are laughing, the times we are upset, the times we are angsting, the times we are tired, the times we are quiet. i’m pretty sure they notice, despite all that is going on in their own world.
it’s been years now that we have a relationship with these trees. just as we watch for them – around the bend in the trail – across the pond – on the other side of the meadow – on the riverbed….they watch for us. they know our stride, our arm-in-arm, the sound of our footfall. they wonder before we arrive and they ponder after we depart.
we photograph them, voice concern about their fallen boughs, marvel at the kaleidoscope of their leaf color, view the sky through their canopy. we are grateful for the way they block the wind and the way they allow sun to filter through to our faces. they watch as we move snakes and caterpillars and turtles off the trail. they stare as we stop and gaze, still with momentary awe that strikes without warning. we see them stalwart. they see us fragile.
and so as we come around another bend – another day – another hike – they shush each other, to hear our voices, our booted feet on the dirt. to watch.
they whisper.
i wonder if they know how much we love when we are there.
i wonder if they breathe a sigh of relief when they come upon a trail. do they huff and puff, trying to slow their heartbeat having bushwhacked their way to this place? do they glance around – tentatively – looking both ways before stepping out? are they exhausted from finding their way? is a bit of clear-path welcome in their wilderness? do they wonder how long they should stay on this which is not a game trail?
the wilderness is a big place.
as we hike – in places mostly not as wild as we would wish – it is a gift of our time-on-trail to cross paths with the spoor of other creatures. we go slow, quietly – peering into the forest – far back in the meadows – to catch a glimpse of these elegant deer, busy-gathering squirrels and playful chipmunks, birds of many calls. we count ourselves fortunate they share the space with us.
it is possible they are deep in the woods – camouflaged – peering back at us. i wonder if they ponder our hiking on the trail. i wonder if they wonder why we are not bushwhacking through underbrush, running when flight is the answer. i wonder what they wonder.
they don’t know if or what we have bushwhacked, how we have arrived at the path on which they see us. they don’t know where we have been, what we have seen, where we have come from. they don’t know what desire path we have created in the woods for ourselves, what watershed at which we stand.
it is all a mystery – back and forth – what we do, what they do. yet, we share the same options for arriving at a destination. we can take a well-beaten path, a planned laid-down trail. we can go the way that is prepared ahead. or we can bushwhack our way free.
it becomes clear looking down the trailmarker. the clearest place – with the most clarity in focus – is the very middle. it blurs on the edges, in the foreground and that section which is furthest away. but the middle. clear enough to see the drying grain of the wood. clear enough to see the tiny spores of lichen. lichen in the foreground. lichen furthest away. all blurry. but clear – there – in the middle.
lichen is a symbiotic partnership – it is a mutualistic relationship of fungus and algae, living together. lichen are not parasitic – they thrive, but do not feed on others. instead, they depend intimately on each other for survival, getting nutrients from the air, trapping particulates, absorbing small pollutants – their very presence an indicator of air quality.
lichen are tolerant of extremes and resilient in growth. they are considered a biomonitor in assessing the health of the environment in which they dwell.
we approach the trailmarker. it’s a sunny day, beautiful really. we are on our way back to the trailhead. it’s been miles of hiking.
we are refreshed and tired, both. we are happy to be together on this path. it is familiar and, this time, we don’t need the marker to know where we are or how far we have to go.
but the markers are there – in most of the trails we hike. some are less obvious, like cairns in the high mountains. they help us find the way, help us know – more clearly – where we are. even if what was before is fading and what is ahead is blurry and unknown, the trailmarker gives us a bit of certainty in the moment – the only certain thing.
the lichen draws my attention – soft greens and mustard yellows. i wander over to the marker to photograph it. i don’t know a lot about lichen so i google it later.
their place in the world – these tiny organisms – is astounding. their ability to co-exist, their thriving together, how integral they are in giving back – all inspiring.
apparently, they are a little more pure, higher up on the love-one-another chain than humans.
he was waiting on the trail for us. the eastern tiger salamander, poised, ready. we’ve never seen one – in all our hiking. so this was extraordinary and this little guy was trusting as we picked him up and moved him to the brush on the side of the trail, an effort to keep him from being hurt by fat-tire bikers passing by.
it’s the 300th week of our melange. we’ve been up and running these blogs-with-images for 300 weeks straight, sans interruption. some of that period of time it was five days a week; since may 2021, with the addition of our smack-dab cartoon, it has been six days a week. there is an imperative for us; writing begets more writing.
we sort the stories of our lives – threading back – and find clues and reasons and validations. we sort the stories of our lives – in the here and now – and find questions and individual moments – specific themes and thoughts. we sort the stories of our lives – moving forward – and see the utterly undeniable need to be present, to notice beauty, to go slow, to appreciate.
silly stories, divulging stories, grief stories, stories of wistful, ordinary stories, stories of pensive thought or roiled-up rant, stories of the essence of gossamer threads, we share with you – our dear readers – our lives. it is – truly – the yada yada yada of life.
we came upon him on a sunny and clear day, in a bit of shade on the trail. though a nocturnal creature and usually in an underground burrow or under a log in the daytime, this salamander was just there, waiting for us. as is our way, we talked to him for a bit. he didn’t answer any of our questions about why he was there, if he was ok, where he was headed. he didn’t seem to be moved by our telling him it was the first time we had ever – in all our time hiking in the area – seen an amphibian such as him. nor did he seem to care that we thought he was “a cute little guy”.
it might have been just too many spoken words – or he may already read our daily blogs – because as we carefully picked him up and moved him, hoping to save him from harm, he eyed us and squeaked out, “nada yada yada.”
i was minding my own business hiking the trail. the sun was sifting through the trees, the cool breeze was brilliant, the dirt felt good underneath my feet. lost in thought and feeling the glorious change in weather – the heat dome having moved on or dissipated – i was taken by surprise.
the bird poop landed on my forehead and splatted my sunglasses, schmearing down my nose, dropping onto my shirt. it was more than a little shocking and i said to d, “a bird just pooped on me!”. apparently, at the time i said this i was looking down at my shirt and he glanced over to see some evidence of this pooping, none too impressed until i looked up at him.
the look on his face told me what i needed to know. “it looks like blueberries,” he said, intending to be helpful, i think. i responded that the birds – and one in particular – must be eating berries, digging in my backpack for a paper towel and not grokking why their diet was of importance when i had shat on my head and face. i didn’t see the bird, but i’ll for sure remember it anyway. we started to laugh, which is always a good thing, and i instantly remembered the scene in “under the tuscan sun” when the pigeon pooped on diane lane’s head – supposedly a blessing of good fortune.
i googled it.
the thing i came across the most was the rarity of birdpoop actually landing on you. the probability of this is near zero, which is why the act of being bird-shat-upon is considered lucky, even a blessing. when we thought of how many times we have hiked trails – this one and tons of others – we cannot recall a time when birdpoops even came near to us.
so i’m going with lucky.
there were several sites of rock art on our special beach. i found this gathering of rocks particularly beautiful. at first i thought it was a spiral, but it seems more a depiction of a tiny galaxy, a planetary system. coming upon these recently-constructed manmade mini petroforms: the mini galaxy, a black and white pinwheel of rocks, a series of rocks simply planted standing in the sand, we know that someone took the time to align these, to say “i’ve been here”, to leave something behind. we were a few of the fortunate ones who saw their work. it’s likely someone will shuffle along the sand and, tempted by the patterns, rearrange the rocks, undoing these designs.
if i had to choose a way to be remembered – let’s say, a choice between, well, the difference between momentary – umm – purge (be that a spewing of anything – including words or actions) or momentary art, i’d have to say i would go with art. though my writing and my music, photographs and designs will be just a flash in the arc of time, they are not as messy – for the most part – as berries.
reverse threading 