Season of mists
October 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
Overcast, wet weather most often makes me want to light a candle and cozy up inside with tea and a book. Other times it makes me want to confront it so that I can embrace it; to throw off the sheltering walls of the house and go where the mists can surround me, their tiny drops prickling like sparks on my face.
Today looked colder than it felt. As I pulled on boots on the front porch I decided to leave my coat behind. This time of year the leaves are layering the woodland floor with yellow, rusts, muted purples, and many browns. The collage of all these colors made me want to spin on it, and I did. Sometimes you’ve just got to put your arms out and spin. And look up, and around, and laugh.
Life is good.
The sky stayed gray-white-blue today in the cover of clouds, until night fell and hid them away. On our walks through the woods, the lines of the tree trunks draw my eyes upward, to where I can see the silhouettes of the trees’ crowns against whatever color the sky happens to be. Today I found myself centered beneath several trees whose fine, small, tip-of-their-fingers branches reached out and overlaid one another, multiple times, so that above me I saw a kind of cobweb, or lace, hung in that space, woven of wood. I wish I could describe it for you better, all those black lines crossing so delicately over one another, so clearly defined against the white of sky. You would understand why there are stories of dryads. You would understand why humans are compelled to create art, tulle-lush tutus, tapestries, linens with fine embroidery, filigree. We want to be of such things, to re-speak them, to be connected with them somehow.