the early bird out of the house in the still-nighttime darkness texts a photo of the moonlight spreading in ripples across the water
inky black water splashed with golden mercury below the horizon line
yellowed white, like pages in my old journals, the heavenly beacon is partially obscured by hand-painted clouds of a yellowed gray against hardly-perceptible-midnight-blue; these rest above the horizon line
and i, in my jammies, suddenly launch into an idea: take the 35mm camera out there now, to the water’s edge
and i do.
and calm descends, erasing the angst about the too-many tasks for the day
i see, first, the moon through fir trees
next, i hear avian early birds; i remember that i often forget that the winged ones are waiting to welcome the pre-dawn, to praise through song the orbs’ set and rise
third, i meet the wild lapping of water tongues on the beach and the brisk breeze tousles my bedhead
these are the sounds and sights of bliss, or joy, or peace; i’m not sure which.
and the cost was nothing: the effort of sleepwalking down the road and up the pier, or the eleven minutes of unpeopled stillness; these are bare minimums, unstrenuous,
easy – really, welcome – in fact
and after the glory and awe of holding with my eyes and coaxing into my camera these real life visions of Nature nurturing nature, i return to the cozy nest of my home pondering how easy it is to not do this simple thing that brings so much wellbeing, comfort, wholeness, delight, inspiration, insight…
so i recommit and pledge again, again, to step out of the indoor warmth to the gifts of darkness and moonlight, shadow and form, song and rumination, water crests and rocks
(originally posted 3.25.16)
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2018 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
