Fragility/Strength

The light called me to the beach this morning.

I went, knowing there were few days left till winter.

Knowing the best of the fall colours were past.

Perfection wasn't what I wanted.


What was I looking for?

The wind. The light. The gulls and the spray.

A small group gathered to say goodbye to one they loved. They huddled close against the wind, below the bluff. A gull above. Gliding.

We gather against the wind, all of us here, we cling to one another.

The mourners burned incense. They scattered flowers and fruit at the border of two worlds. Waves accepted the offerings, carried what was given to a place we cannot follow.

The gulls and the light and the fading colour.

Gusts animate the sand. Alive, shifting. Blowing away from me.

And the gulls. I've been blind to their beauty. Look, look.

What could be commonplace here? They turn to face the wind. Dig in.

Have you seen sunlight illuminate their bones?

Have you seen sunlight splinter the water's surface into infinite shards? Alive alive.

Geese push into formation.

The gull flies.

Perspectives

I went out for a walk early yesterday afternoon (to get fish for dinner) and ended up coming home four or five hours later (just in time to cook said fish). La famille did wonder a bit at that—I should have told  them I'd caught the slippery fellow myself...they might have taken the bait (ahem).

I ended up on a nature trail I'd never been on before, so I was glad to have taken the camera. It's good to know there are still places I've never seen within walking distance.

I was happy to see green finally, but surprised that the shy buds didn't curl up into themselves and hide at the sight of me—so timid the little tendrils have been in this Most Reluctant Spring.

Later, I studied the shots at home and realized that they were more tightly themed than I'd first thought. I found that either pairs of photos or in some cases one photo on its own presented two dramatically different interpretations depending upon perspective. It was the distance that time provided that enabled me to change my perspective.

This tree that's growing horizontally over a ravine, for instance: is this its canopy or roots?

This view is beautiful, but dangerous.

Do pine needles prick or are they soft?

Do the same pictures in black and white change the tree's visual texture?

Is this a troll bridge or a dinosaur carcass or scrap lumber nailed onto a tree long ago fallen?

These flowers were rare bursts of colour in a grey ravine—not much when you stood back and looked at the wider landscape.

But look closely. Already a bee, slow-moving and groggy from winter, is hungrily feasting on pollen—up close we can see the miraculous symbiotic relationship that animates the landscape. Up close, we have new information about the mostly brown and grey "dormant" forest. Going in tight, we gain a new perspective. And what of the bee's perspective? Imagine that!

This is what we do in writing, too—see different perspectives, different points of view. It's essential in bringing characters to life, but it can also make writing difficult. My imagination allows me to see each character in many different ways, to hear their side of the story. Is the archetypal Evil Stepmother really evil? Does she have to be? What made her so? Couldn't she be terribly misunderstood? Or maybe she just is what she is, as a willow tree is not an ash, maple, oak or pine. It's a willow.

Or is it? Perspective and imagination can transform this tree.

When I see a willow, especially in Spring, its boughs are draped in jewels. They are ribbons of gold embroidered with green and pink tourmalines. In even the most gentle breeze they sway seductively, sleepily, and I imagine long-haired water nymphs or ondines rising from dark, weedy pools to tempt mortal men into marriage and thereby gain souls.

Undine by John William Waterhouse.
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naiad

The Rhinemaidens by Arthur Rackham.
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:DieRheintöchter.jpg

Rhinemaidens Warn Seigfried by Alan Rackham.
From: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rackham

And that, I am EXCITED to say, has given me a clue into a particular character and into the plot itself of my story. Perspective and time has given me insight into something that has puzzled me for the last few days. Perspective, time, and the generosity of the Nature Muse to bestow, once again, the gift of inspiration to the writer who was feeling a tad confused before she went out to the forest to get a fish.

           I'm very grateful. 
Happy Earth Day, sweet planet. 

Winter Hangs On But Not For Long in Narnia

I was in Narnia this morning, but did not stay long. Alas, sledge parking spaces are scarce.

















I knew I was not alone. There were tracks in the snow. A deer—somewhere close.


 






And crows called to each other from atop the bluff.

But the Queen's evil dwarfs were there, too, and in quite a foul mood they were, for the warm air and weighty wet snow were undeniable signs of spring.

The nasty fellows hid in boughs sagging with heavy snow and, in their bitterness, flung great slush-balls at me from their treetop perches. They had surprising accuracy. More than once the cold wet projectiles landed with a shsloop upon my head. The cowards. I could hear them "shouting and cheering as if they'd done something brave."*

I left them, their jeering soon swallowed by the sound of a river racing itself toward a new season. Spring was coming—evident and omnipresent, but still shrouded in white.

"All round them though out of sight, there were streams, chattering, murmuring, bubbling, splashing and even (in the distance) roaring. And his heart gave a great leap (though he hardly knew why) when he realized that the frost was over."*

* From C.S. Lewis's The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe.

A Cold Love Affair

Imagine
     

what swirls of frost will cling
          

to the windows, what white lawns
              

I will look out on

- Mary Oliver, from the poem The Winter Wood Arrives

I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”

–      – Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass

I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future — the timelessness of the rocks and hills — all the people who have existed there. I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.

– Andrew Wyeth

How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill, a kiss and all was said. – Victor Hugo

Winter, after the war,

you lie back victorious

stretched and sundrenched

on your blanket blue and gold

If I lie with you

on your bed so soft,

I will surely die.

- me