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
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2016 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
