The Season of Form

"Autumn is familiarly the season of color, winter is the season of form, spring the season of texture, and summer the season of motion."   

Henry Beston from Herbs And The Earth

As I read that line after a long day of idleness, for it is winter in Maine- I thought how apt a perception.  The days are long on melancholy and short on bursts of adrenalin.  The sun only comes out from hiding when a pine captures it in it's branches and makes a show of it.  And then, it seems- the other trees in the forest lean in and warm themselves in the fuzzy orbing glow.   On my walks through the wet, drudgingly difficult snow- I come upon forms and frame them as I can with interest- though most are completely abandoned in the end by a quick delete push of the button.  It is difficult to find inspiration of color, of movement though ever increasingly- texture is creeping in.  For every little bit of Spring is churning under foot, I can feel it- sometimes I hear it when I find myself upon a trail that is no trail at all, but a snow bank over a stream.  The gurgle of water trying to make it's way down a hillside after it's been trapped all season long in winter's imprisonment of ice- is to my ears a sweet and longing sound.  I stop and all is still, with the exception of that gurgle that brings all disappointments and worries to a halt.  One has to get out of one's way at times...I know no better escape than those wintry-teetering-on-breaking-into-spring walks.

Take care-

hush, hush, wish, wish....

Good morning!

Most days find me lacking a communication device...when the south wind blows, it takes away the satellite.  Matter of fact, should the wind blow at all- disconnect. I throw snow balls at the roof top disc, angrily, impatiently- trying to smack it back online, doesn't necessarily work- but it helps with my frustration levels.

Ah yes!  Snow!  I read some good advice the other day- for one to survive the winter in Maine- one ought to accept the truly winter way instead of trying to endure it.  A strong athlete might be able to train for a marathon I suppose, with the end in sight of 26 miles, and learn to endure- with  only 4 miles to go...but trying to endure a seemingly never ending, no end in sight Maine winter, well I suppose it could make one batty, delirious for Key West and points further south. 
 My metal will be tested for sure come April, but for now I accept the sounds of Maine- snow crunching, crispy under each step I take.  Snowflakes falling with a whisper, landing softly on pine boughs- from the dark and day sky, they tumble from some unseen shaker up above.  And when it seems the lid has been removed, the flake's fall comes in a hush, hush, wish, wish...all around, that loveliest of sounds-snowfall.
On my walks I see so far and wide- white.  Bright in it's avalanche of glow, but deeper in the snow, in the pockets- blue, snow blue!  As if the great unseen's hand passed over the landscape with sno cone syrup, adding a blueberry richness to the flavor of one's senses.

"I am in Maine and the snow is gentler now, coming from fewer clouds perhaps than it was showering down from bulked up fronts earlier.  Snow- from my first winter here in Maine, is a constant presence in the landscape.  Walking my two mile a day trails, I often find myself gazing upon a great Pine up the road a ways- I stand in the road, transfixed as the tree that holds my attention.  I often wonder why I’m drawn to it’s presence- maybe it’s twisted, gnarly branches remind me of my own troubles, maybe it’s upward growth despite the weather’s wickedness inspires me.  I think the real reason I stand here as it stands there is because of it’s solemnity in the landscape...  This area is alive with wilderness- moss hangs from the branches of the smallest to the greatest, even in winter time- the jungle never slumbers.  My tree sees all, knows all, feels all and stands upright yet pliable enough to take the calm with the storm.  Yes, I see myself in that tree and am remarkably proud of us both...."

 Walking A Ways 2010

Take care-