11th
Jan: Bright pink glass broken into tiny mosaic shards twist, gleam, dive, and
resurface—mirror of the smattering of clouds above, tinged by a sun no longer
visible beneath the western mountains…I tease myself by closing my eyes for a
moment, stunting my primary sense of sight, and I get additional treats: a
melody of gurgling waves gently tasting the rocks at the surf’s edge, two
verbose gulls contending for the whiniest high-pitched caw award. I reopen my
eyes, sure that the rise of the mountains has now blocked out the color-enhancing
sun, but the pink is even brighter still, those thick rosy pieces swaying,
tilting, dipping. I am allured, falling in love all over again as if I haven’t
already had a lifetime of adoration and passion for all that is Nature.
12th
Jan, midday: Thirty seconds, totally motionless, focused on the overpowering
sunshine widely reflected on this small bay—an indescribably potent metallic
white—not warm enough to soften my bones in the 29 F midday, but definitely
enough to soften my heart, melting into calm.
12th
Jan, late afternoon: I step into the yard without a coat and, with a small
shiver, move to the close edge of the grass where the house’s shadow has
blocked the sun and lines of frost cover the winter-surviving grass. I stoop
down in the way that has become habit, beyond ordinary familiarity—more like
intimacy. And I place both hands down side by side in one of the frostiest
shadows. My hands barely register the iciness because my shoulders and upper
arms are taking the brunt of the cold. But I remain still for just long enough
to feel the denseness of the earth, the texture difference between grass and
frozen dirt, the small moisture that forms on my palms as frost melts. I wonder
if I press more firmly—will I leave two hand-shaped impressions in this grass?
I remember as I stroll back into the heated warmth of the house how very easy
it is to make direct contact every day with the body of nature that sustains
and feeds us all. I relished, was soothed by, these moments touching the frostbitten
ground. I remembered how dirt can become so rock solid hard on one winter day,
and then become the malleable potter’s clay after the warming Pacific rains on
another winter day.
13th
Jan: In gloves, double wool hats, boots, down jacket…I spend a few minutes with
the pink-ening sky twenty minutes before sunrise. Dog prints on the icy boards
of the pier. The unbelievable, unexpected song of birds in the borderland of
trees atop the bluff lining the coast…birdsong that could make a grown woman
weep with every beautiful life-gift rushing to the surface of her memory.
I’m astounded
over and over, even after a half-century-life seeking out small moments in
nature, how restorative these tiny experiences can be.
 |
| this morning on the pier |
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2017 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
