It was one of the coldest February’s on record here, but I still went out for walks as often as I could. Sometimes it was only for a half hour and more than once, my fingers went numb as I worked with my camera. Temperatures are warming ever so slowly. We’re still consistently below normal, but the light is noticeably brighter now, birds are singing, a few buds are opening…
There is so much to see.
1. Weathered trees high on a bald overlooking a sparkling sea.
2. The late afternoon sun warming the underside of an old bridge.
3. The same bridge on another day, seen from a log-crossed, rocky peninsula at low tide.
4. Thousands of Snow geese being one with the air, the field, each other….all of it.
5. A singular rock wiped clean by retreating waves, deep in conversation with the sand, the pebbles, and me.
6. Svelte rocks that dance and wiggle their way into my heart.
7. Or a lumpen rock, strewn with green streamers from an eel grass party, cavorting with smaller stones while lining up its fine white markings with the ten directions.
8. Magisterial rocks letting their green top coats dry out while drawing sun-warmth deep into their centers.
9. What else is there to see? A plum-colored path through a fuzzy fairytale forest draped with ferns, and set with the dark, knotted rootballs of fallen giants.
10. Patterns shimmering through the air, making their non-linear way into the fir tree boughs, down to the earth, and up into my brain cells. Now, the shimmering patterns are yours.
11. And what is there to hear? Plenty. Just listen. Wherever you are right now, stop. Listen.
12. Whether sound emerges from a Song sparrow or a fishing vessel it travels through the same air, without caring what it meets. Sound rides the wind.
13. Dizzying patterns abound, absorbing me into the binary rhythm of light and dark.
14. The little rosettes of sedum leaves, the soft mosses and dried out grasses – they’re all waiting. Waiting without complaint or expectation in the knowledge that spring follows winter. They know what to do and they will not fail to express the season.
15. Old Douglas fir, ancient one, thick-barked, heavy-limbed, ever green, reaches out and invites me to duck under the branches on my way downhill. Thank you. I’m blessed.
16. More rhythm. Four straight Douglas fir trees alternate with the sinuous curves of a Madrone tree. The cold water below carries the cries of gulls out to the Salish sea.
17. Countless logs roll in and out along the shores of an island. A band of fir trees sucks in the light, hiding it well.
18. The tides do their patient work, smoothing edges, rounding corners, loosening bark, fading colors….
19. The dimpled bark of a Madrona tree absorbs another sunset, burrowing light into every pore.
20. How much longer? How many more storms before this Douglas fir topples onto the beach? Not yet.
22. A lock on the old bridge, with just enough rust. I think.
23. Water, sky, and earth bounce back and forth endlessly on a cold February afternoon, telling the tale of this one place.
24. A fallen one effortlessly melds water and light.
25. The creators, fire and water, bring it all home to us.