Today, I was walking to buy breakfast, and it hit me: springtime.
I promise, I've been paying attention all along. I've noticed a tree white with flowers here, and there another blushing pink and purple, and by this road a burst of daffodils, and in that garden tulips like flames. I have not been immune to the sun's growing strength, and the wind's new gentleness. But each moment has seemed like an isolated occurrence. Added together, I could string them like beads into a necklace to ward off winter. Still, spring was a talisman, a charm, an icon, a picture--something to look at or not, to wear around my neck or put in a drawer. Today, though, spring escaped the strings and drawers, and leapt out of its frame. It swirled around me and I saw suddenly that it was everywhere.
When the weather turns from nasty to nice as it has in the past few days, I know in my bones why the line goes "Now is the winter of our discontent." It is easy to be discontent when the gray sky looms close overhead and the wind shrieks around the building and claws at you when you venture outside. It is easy to be depressed when twilight sucks the day away at four in the afternoon.
But when the sun is warm on your skin, and the trees soften their stark silhouettes with so many small blossoms--when the wind croons instead of screeching, and dances across the new leaves--when the grass is green, not gray--when the robins skip and flirt--when the sky is sapphire blue after a late dinner: it is easy to be happy. And I am.
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Winter Blood
Snow, then rain, then the cold night, and now ice glazes the road. The sky's tears have sculpted the snow on either side of the path. In the bright sun, it shines like sea foam frozen in place. I walked along the path through the woods, where the normally dark ground gleamed silver and white with ice and snow.
At the end of my road stood the glass doors of the SAC. I went in, checked some boxes, signed my name. A series of blonde matrons pricked my finger, cleaned my arm, stuck a piece of shining metal into a vein. Then I lay back, and blood began trickling through the tubing. I have never seen anything quite the color of blood. Wine? Too thin. The ruby I saw in a glass case at a museum? Too bright. The flesh of the blood orange? Too luminous. The blood was alive, but not lively. It was viscous, dark, secretive. It didn't belong in translucent tubing, exposed to the light; my blood belonged in veins, flowing through a million divisions in the darkness. I watched the dark red liquid rise in the hanging sack, until finally it was full.
The nurse came back, severed me from the sack full of blood that was no longer mine, led me away, fed me cranberry juice and oreos. Then I put on my red coat, and went back out the glass doors, into the cold.
The sun had set long ago, while the blood was still warm from my veins. Now the sky was dark, the air brutal. The snow glowed in the pale moonlight. The moon was the sliver of a smile that hung under a black circle, barely visible against the deep blue sky. Walking through the woods, I couldn't feel that I had lost blood, and it seemed strange that part of me could vanish from my very veins, and not be missed. The snow shone the same way, the ice shimmered the same way, the air froze my skin the same way. What else have I lost, and forgotten?
Back my room, soon enough, I shed the red coat, and forget the ice and the blood. Outside, the moon kept still its Mona Lisa smile.
At the end of my road stood the glass doors of the SAC. I went in, checked some boxes, signed my name. A series of blonde matrons pricked my finger, cleaned my arm, stuck a piece of shining metal into a vein. Then I lay back, and blood began trickling through the tubing. I have never seen anything quite the color of blood. Wine? Too thin. The ruby I saw in a glass case at a museum? Too bright. The flesh of the blood orange? Too luminous. The blood was alive, but not lively. It was viscous, dark, secretive. It didn't belong in translucent tubing, exposed to the light; my blood belonged in veins, flowing through a million divisions in the darkness. I watched the dark red liquid rise in the hanging sack, until finally it was full.
The nurse came back, severed me from the sack full of blood that was no longer mine, led me away, fed me cranberry juice and oreos. Then I put on my red coat, and went back out the glass doors, into the cold.
The sun had set long ago, while the blood was still warm from my veins. Now the sky was dark, the air brutal. The snow glowed in the pale moonlight. The moon was the sliver of a smile that hung under a black circle, barely visible against the deep blue sky. Walking through the woods, I couldn't feel that I had lost blood, and it seemed strange that part of me could vanish from my very veins, and not be missed. The snow shone the same way, the ice shimmered the same way, the air froze my skin the same way. What else have I lost, and forgotten?
Back my room, soon enough, I shed the red coat, and forget the ice and the blood. Outside, the moon kept still its Mona Lisa smile.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sometimes I Do Miss California Weather
The snow tumbled from the sky for hours, blanketing the ground and transforming cars into mounds of white. Then the rain came. Each drop burrowed through the snow, leaving the white covering full of tiny scars. Rivers formed. The piles of snow decayed into translucence and began sloughing off layers of melting flakes. We all clutched umbrellas or jammed gelid hands into coat pockets. The world outside turned to slush, and the sky wept relentlessly, and the icy ground betrayed each footstep: suddenly the dullest building was a blessed sanctuary.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Small Messangers
A black squirrel stared at me from the split of the slender maple tree. Its gleaming eyes hardened. Tail rippling, it scuttled up the branch, launched itself onto the roof, and kept running.
High in the pine on the other side of the house, a bird was calling out over and over like a lost child. I shielded my eyes from the blazing sun. Its fierce light burst through the pine boughs, blindingly. But I could see: a huge black bird was cawing, cawing. Its beak looked ready to crush and tear and shred--but for the moment, the beak was not a vicious weapon but a sobbing mouth.
The mossy bricks had chilled my bare feet. I walked through the black shadows and into the silent house. I don't know how long the black squirrel ran up and down the roof; the scratching of its claws couldn't filter through tile and ceiling. Neither do I know how long the black crow kept calling. I had no answers for its questions.
High in the pine on the other side of the house, a bird was calling out over and over like a lost child. I shielded my eyes from the blazing sun. Its fierce light burst through the pine boughs, blindingly. But I could see: a huge black bird was cawing, cawing. Its beak looked ready to crush and tear and shred--but for the moment, the beak was not a vicious weapon but a sobbing mouth.
The mossy bricks had chilled my bare feet. I walked through the black shadows and into the silent house. I don't know how long the black squirrel ran up and down the roof; the scratching of its claws couldn't filter through tile and ceiling. Neither do I know how long the black crow kept calling. I had no answers for its questions.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Rain
Rain silvers the air outside. Space shimmers with water falling, falling.
The trees stand perfectly still behind the rain. Each leaf is waiting for its raindrop. Tiny globes of water glisten on the ends of the pine needles, each one a crystalline world poised to leap into the void. Around the pines, water flashes and falls and gleams and glistens. Each of the thousands of drops shoots down through space alone, splatters into the ground alone, vanishes as an individual--alone. The trees watch these thousands of births and deaths in silence. On a tree, each leaf clings to its twig, and each twig to its branch, and each branch to the trunk. There is no solitude.
The plummeting drops shatter on the pavement, explode in the grass. The collective noise of their passage roars in the air. I shut the window. I am inside and dry, in the quiet, in the stillness. My world is solid, not liquid. I sit on a bed which stands on the floor, which rests on beams and walls, which reach roots into the earth.
Here, the earth is solid, dependable. It will not leave its place just because of the rain. Today it is raining, but tomorrow or the day after, my world here will still have its former shape. The rain will not have washed anything away. In other places, the rain has more power. . . Last night I watched the Indian film "Before the Rain," in which the coming of the monsoons is a real threat to the stability of a road being built in the mountains, and thus to the entire life of the British planter Moores, who has staked his entire fortune on a the project of building this road. The coming of the rain is a non-negotiable deadline. Meanwhile, his life and the lives intertwined with his are falling apart because of his careless love affair with a married woman from the local village. He tells her he loves her, truly loves her, and she trusts him enough to put her honor and her very life in his hands--and he fails her. Then he sends her away. But a person is not a raindrop falling alone and sinking alone into the soil. From the leaf of her disappearance follows a full tree of disatrous consequences. As Moores's unsuspecting wife, Sajani's distraught brother, and the entire village look for the lost girl, Moores does his best to bury the incident in his mind, and instead focuses on building the road.
Leaf by leaf, twig by twig, events branch outward. . . Nothing is in Moores's hands anymore, though. He had one real choice in this story, and that choice determined the tragedy that destroyed his family and wreaked Sajani's life. He chose to break the bond of marriage, discard his own promises, tear through Sajani's vows. He destroyed that one thing, and everything grew up around him, inevitably.
When finally the rains come, the road stays steady. But Moores, his friend, his wife, his lover, his son--all are gone. The Indians march for Mother India, and the rain pours from the sky upon an alien landscape.
The trees stand perfectly still behind the rain. Each leaf is waiting for its raindrop. Tiny globes of water glisten on the ends of the pine needles, each one a crystalline world poised to leap into the void. Around the pines, water flashes and falls and gleams and glistens. Each of the thousands of drops shoots down through space alone, splatters into the ground alone, vanishes as an individual--alone. The trees watch these thousands of births and deaths in silence. On a tree, each leaf clings to its twig, and each twig to its branch, and each branch to the trunk. There is no solitude.
The plummeting drops shatter on the pavement, explode in the grass. The collective noise of their passage roars in the air. I shut the window. I am inside and dry, in the quiet, in the stillness. My world is solid, not liquid. I sit on a bed which stands on the floor, which rests on beams and walls, which reach roots into the earth.
Here, the earth is solid, dependable. It will not leave its place just because of the rain. Today it is raining, but tomorrow or the day after, my world here will still have its former shape. The rain will not have washed anything away. In other places, the rain has more power. . . Last night I watched the Indian film "Before the Rain," in which the coming of the monsoons is a real threat to the stability of a road being built in the mountains, and thus to the entire life of the British planter Moores, who has staked his entire fortune on a the project of building this road. The coming of the rain is a non-negotiable deadline. Meanwhile, his life and the lives intertwined with his are falling apart because of his careless love affair with a married woman from the local village. He tells her he loves her, truly loves her, and she trusts him enough to put her honor and her very life in his hands--and he fails her. Then he sends her away. But a person is not a raindrop falling alone and sinking alone into the soil. From the leaf of her disappearance follows a full tree of disatrous consequences. As Moores's unsuspecting wife, Sajani's distraught brother, and the entire village look for the lost girl, Moores does his best to bury the incident in his mind, and instead focuses on building the road.
Leaf by leaf, twig by twig, events branch outward. . . Nothing is in Moores's hands anymore, though. He had one real choice in this story, and that choice determined the tragedy that destroyed his family and wreaked Sajani's life. He chose to break the bond of marriage, discard his own promises, tear through Sajani's vows. He destroyed that one thing, and everything grew up around him, inevitably.
When finally the rains come, the road stays steady. But Moores, his friend, his wife, his lover, his son--all are gone. The Indians march for Mother India, and the rain pours from the sky upon an alien landscape.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
First Firefly
"A firefly!" said my friend Natalie. We were walking in the wood at dusk.
"Where??" I whirled around, but saw only leaves, that glowed only in the waning sun.
"You didn't see it? Wait, there it is again. Look!"
"Where?" I searched the leaves and vines, in vain. I waited anyway, watching. I was looking for a glowing, floating thing, like the searchlight of a microscopic airplane. Nothing, nothing--Until suddenly: a flicker of pale light! and again, flying. There! and gone again, leaving the leaves like an empty stage. But I had seen the star, the firefly: a green spark in the green forest. I had expected a leisurely movement, a gentle and steady light. Instead, I glimpsed a dancing spark, a flicker of the fey in a life of the predictable. Now I burn to dance as a firefly, in the green wood, at dusk.
"Where??" I whirled around, but saw only leaves, that glowed only in the waning sun.
"You didn't see it? Wait, there it is again. Look!"
"Where?" I searched the leaves and vines, in vain. I waited anyway, watching. I was looking for a glowing, floating thing, like the searchlight of a microscopic airplane. Nothing, nothing--Until suddenly: a flicker of pale light! and again, flying. There! and gone again, leaving the leaves like an empty stage. But I had seen the star, the firefly: a green spark in the green forest. I had expected a leisurely movement, a gentle and steady light. Instead, I glimpsed a dancing spark, a flicker of the fey in a life of the predictable. Now I burn to dance as a firefly, in the green wood, at dusk.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Cricket
Something flew across the room like a shooting star. It turned out to be a cricket (pale gold, with long tenuous antennae) which sprang across the room when I reached for it. It latched onto my roommate's pants, and kept springing away from my hands. Up, down, onto the floor! I finally caught it in cupped hands. The antennae and legs tickled like whiskers. . .
(Writing, I think again of the little cricket fluttering and bouncing against my palms and fingers. It is so dark in this little skin-cave. Is he terrified? curious? exhilarated?)
His tiny feet and graceful antennae brushed my skin as he flitted back and forth like a caged fairy. My roommate and I ran giggling through the hallway. Just as I thought I couldn't bear the tickling any longer, I tossed the cricket over the railing, down the stairs. Again, he fell like a small star.
As the door slammed shut, the stairwell behind us filled with chirping.
(Writing, I think again of the little cricket fluttering and bouncing against my palms and fingers. It is so dark in this little skin-cave. Is he terrified? curious? exhilarated?)
His tiny feet and graceful antennae brushed my skin as he flitted back and forth like a caged fairy. My roommate and I ran giggling through the hallway. Just as I thought I couldn't bear the tickling any longer, I tossed the cricket over the railing, down the stairs. Again, he fell like a small star.
As the door slammed shut, the stairwell behind us filled with chirping.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Ducklings
I saw ducklings today, swimming along after their mother. They skittered across the surface of the water like leaves blown by the wind. They are bits of golden fluff, striped with brown and spiked from the wet. How does that fuzz turn into sleek feathers? How do those skimpy waving nubs become spreading wings? Their mother is so much bigger than they are, like a creature of another species. I do not remember the days when my mother towered over me like an invincible fortress. We are the same size now, and I am no more breakable than she is.
The swans were at the mill pond, too, white and gracious like angels on the water, with their cygnets between them. On the lawn, the Canada geese were herding their grazing babes, yellow on green. I never knew so many birds deigned to dawdle with their young in the domain of the earthbound humans.
The swans were at the mill pond, too, white and gracious like angels on the water, with their cygnets between them. On the lawn, the Canada geese were herding their grazing babes, yellow on green. I never knew so many birds deigned to dawdle with their young in the domain of the earthbound humans.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Haiku-esque
Sitting on the lawn at dusk
Out of the looming clouds
swims a mystery
trailing a bright tail
across the colorless sky
Luminously lovely
for a moment only
In the grass beside me
a dandelion blazes steadily
Out of the looming clouds
swims a mystery
trailing a bright tail
across the colorless sky
Luminously lovely
for a moment only
In the grass beside me
a dandelion blazes steadily
Friday, April 11, 2008
All Summer in a Day
That was a depressing story, about how kids can be horrifically cruel to each other and not even realize it, or perhaps about how people in general can be really cruel. Ray Bradbury, how I love thee.
But the title has a rather lovely ring despite the darkness of the story it belongs to. Today felt like all of summer's promise, condensed into twenty-four lovely hours of sunlight and warm air and light breeze.
Summery days: They feel so much more valuable when they are scattered here and there among dreary days. After a succession of cloudy mornings, inclement afternoons, evenings when you wonder whether it's really April--after all the chill and the rain that falls when you most dread it--after all the grey: then the golden, shining air and the arching blue sky seem a masterpiece to be stared at. A hot bath to be soaked in. A jewel to be polished and treasured. A bird to hold gently, curl your fingers around, quiet your voice for--and to release a moment later. It flies up into the air, and you run after it, laughing. The world is new again.
But the title has a rather lovely ring despite the darkness of the story it belongs to. Today felt like all of summer's promise, condensed into twenty-four lovely hours of sunlight and warm air and light breeze.
Summery days: They feel so much more valuable when they are scattered here and there among dreary days. After a succession of cloudy mornings, inclement afternoons, evenings when you wonder whether it's really April--after all the chill and the rain that falls when you most dread it--after all the grey: then the golden, shining air and the arching blue sky seem a masterpiece to be stared at. A hot bath to be soaked in. A jewel to be polished and treasured. A bird to hold gently, curl your fingers around, quiet your voice for--and to release a moment later. It flies up into the air, and you run after it, laughing. The world is new again.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Beautiful Day
Last night was rather more emotionally tumultuous than I would have liked, but this morning was absolutely gorgeous. Blue sky, sunshine. On my way to class, the Canada geese were grazing in the woods, grey-lined bodies in the rusty leaves. They stare at me. Black button eyes, neatly aligned feathers, huge bodies. And scattered among them, shining purple-blue, the glossy blackbirds fluttering up and down. Iridescent, they flash out of the brown leaf-piles, like jewels.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Trees in the Wind
Outside the window, the wind gasps and wails
I look but cannot see if the trees are stirred up.
I hear the wind twist
around a corner, swerve
around the building, panting.
When it pauses, ghostly laughter and drunken voices,
drift inside, in spite of the closed window—
Then the wind is back
howling moaning
gasping heaving
(I feel so alone
:
so small, lost,
hearing the ravenous wind
prowl the huge darkness.)
His sweeping claims chase my stillborn words
chasing his words. The conversation fugues in my mind.
Only in the twilight of retrospect do I see
the glow of ideas that really mattered to him—
the ideas I should have dealt with
(Words spoken are only leaves
hanging from branches of emotion.
Everything grows from the trunk
which is, character)—
Winter with a howling wind. The stripped trees
(not even snow-spotted) stand bare and proud in the cold
No matter how I stare,
I cannot see them
move.
[poem by me, written around 5am]
I look but cannot see if the trees are stirred up.
I hear the wind twist
around a corner, swerve
around the building, panting.
When it pauses, ghostly laughter and drunken voices,
drift inside, in spite of the closed window—
Then the wind is back
howling moaning
gasping heaving
(I feel so alone
:
so small, lost,
hearing the ravenous wind
prowl the huge darkness.)
His sweeping claims chase my stillborn words
chasing his words. The conversation fugues in my mind.
Only in the twilight of retrospect do I see
the glow of ideas that really mattered to him—
the ideas I should have dealt with
(Words spoken are only leaves
hanging from branches of emotion.
Everything grows from the trunk
which is, character)—
Winter with a howling wind. The stripped trees
(not even snow-spotted) stand bare and proud in the cold
No matter how I stare,
I cannot see them
move.
[poem by me, written around 5am]
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
"These are a few of my favorite things..."
There are a couple things that always improve my mood. Y inclu sont: eating an orange (ya gotta peel it into a single beautifully-scented spiral), sitting in the sun, staring at the sky, various enthusiastic people, singing, large quantities of granite, trees. . .
It being February in New York, sun is scarce. Trees, however, remain plentiful, if leafless. There's something amazing about the naked branches stark against a cloud-white sky, the graceful black tracery and occasional shine of a bulging drop of water. . . It's a good thing crowds of people weren't rushing along the Tabler steps at the time, because I stared at the tree/sky juxtaposition and walked with my face skyward for a while.
The professor in Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles would be pleased with me. (I think I need to re-read that book.)
It being February in New York, sun is scarce. Trees, however, remain plentiful, if leafless. There's something amazing about the naked branches stark against a cloud-white sky, the graceful black tracery and occasional shine of a bulging drop of water. . . It's a good thing crowds of people weren't rushing along the Tabler steps at the time, because I stared at the tree/sky juxtaposition and walked with my face skyward for a while.
The professor in Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles would be pleased with me. (I think I need to re-read that book.)
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Feeling Petulant
Today's post probably belongs in a category labeled "Complaints." Or maybe "Querulousness," because that word is more fun, and it reminds me of Ms. Besse. (NOT because she was querulous, but because she really liked that word, and got really excited when it kept showing up in Ethan Frome...)
I have a cold, and a cough. I had forgotten how icky sickliness is. Somehow I always manage to forget how physical discomfort feels. In particular, I had forgotten coughing (which is not one of my usual symptoms)--how you get that trickling sensation on your throat, an itch somewhere in your breathing pipe, then germ-filled air explodes out of your mouth, blasting your throat on the way out and shaking your body. Blargh.
I drank at least 5 cups of tea today, and now I'm popping menthol cough drops. These have oozing honey-centers, which make for a rather odd juxtaposition of flavors and textures (menthol/mint/fresh/cold/hard/crunchy vs. sweet/soft/gooey/comforting/warm). After a few minutes of attempting to let the thing "dissolve under the tongue," I end up giving way and crunching it against the roof of my mouth, so the amber-colored, menthol-flavored encasing cracks and the honey oozes out... Sadly, it then runs out before the rest of the menthol-ness does, leaving my tongue rather forlorn. I am not all that fond of mint. They should make chocolate cough drops. (Kidding, kidding.)
On a completely unrelated note--The Canada geese were wandering through the woods I pass through on my way to class today. They are rather oddly proportioned. I think it would be interesting to have a neck that long and flexible. Imagine being able to curve your neck so it lies along your spine, and still have enough left to double it back and lay your chin basically on your chest. Also, imagine having over half your height be from your neck.
(Sheri: I did not walk around pretending to be a goose, if you were wondering. Hehe.)
I have a cold, and a cough. I had forgotten how icky sickliness is. Somehow I always manage to forget how physical discomfort feels. In particular, I had forgotten coughing (which is not one of my usual symptoms)--how you get that trickling sensation on your throat, an itch somewhere in your breathing pipe, then germ-filled air explodes out of your mouth, blasting your throat on the way out and shaking your body. Blargh.
I drank at least 5 cups of tea today, and now I'm popping menthol cough drops. These have oozing honey-centers, which make for a rather odd juxtaposition of flavors and textures (menthol/mint/fresh/cold/hard/crunchy vs. sweet/soft/gooey/comforting/warm). After a few minutes of attempting to let the thing "dissolve under the tongue," I end up giving way and crunching it against the roof of my mouth, so the amber-colored, menthol-flavored encasing cracks and the honey oozes out... Sadly, it then runs out before the rest of the menthol-ness does, leaving my tongue rather forlorn. I am not all that fond of mint. They should make chocolate cough drops. (Kidding, kidding.)
On a completely unrelated note--The Canada geese were wandering through the woods I pass through on my way to class today. They are rather oddly proportioned. I think it would be interesting to have a neck that long and flexible. Imagine being able to curve your neck so it lies along your spine, and still have enough left to double it back and lay your chin basically on your chest. Also, imagine having over half your height be from your neck.
(Sheri: I did not walk around pretending to be a goose, if you were wondering. Hehe.)
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