Last Days of Winter
I have to take a break. Relax the neck and eyes. Get a reprieve from the intense focus of precision pasting layers of paper. I walk out to the spa in a fine down pour, relishing the cold that may well be the last of the season and slide into the steaming water, hoping to melt the knots of tension in my neck and back. Eyes closed, I soak until sweat beads my brow and my limbs have assumed the suppleness of perfect pasta...
Back outside the rain has stopped, just a soft dripping of residual moisture from the naked oak limbs, yet the air is alive with bird song reverberating thru our little forest glade. Blackbirds, sparrows, cardinals, titmice, creepers, mockingbirds, blue jays and a large flock of robins make a sonic cathedral of the woods. It would be ungracious to squander the magic conjured by my feathered friends so I delay my return to the studio, settling instead on the weathered wood bench in the garden.
No matter that it is wet, seeing as how I am still damp myself in my old flannel robe. It’s hard for me to just sit still tho with work to be done inside, so I lie flat on my back,opening my robe and all my senses to the cool air, thereby riveting my attention in the present with the surprise of random water drops plummeting from the inky lattice of branches holding up the soft grey sky... amusing myself by imagining a sizzle and pouf of evaporation every time a heavy droplet strikes my hot skin...
I’ve always had a profound connection with the cleansing, life-giving rain, and the season that strips the trees down to their beautiful bare bones is my favorite, especially here in Texas where winter is so fleeting. Altho February has buried much of the country with record snowfall, here the buds are swelling, the first azaleas have unfurled their pink flags and the tidal wave of celedon and emerald green is about to break over the land...
I, however, would hold back the spring if I could, exchanging the dog days of summer for more like these, silvery wet and cool, filled with birdsong and the audible beating of blackbirds’ and robins’ wings as they dart thru the forest canopy. Rain, after all, suggests nestling in soft sheets and pillows with a good book or the laptop. Cold air heightens awareness of the skin, and the contrasting warmth of simple pleasures like fire in the hearth or a lover’s kiss...
I like this vantage point, watching the circling red shouldered hawks thru the delicate filigree of tree limbs and twigs overhead. We miss so much working inside.... Lying quietly I can discern more subtleties in the layers of sound that engulf me: the rustle of wind in the leaves carpeting the forest floor; the vibrato of unseen amphibians, tree frogs and toads who likewise relish the wet weather; the chatter of squirrels leaping from branch to branch, the drone of the occasional plane, or a truck on the nearby highway; the random musical phrases of windchimes... all interwoven with the avian chorus...
A sudden breeze makes the trees dance, splattering me with drops of water that make me gasp. A light drizzle starts and I hold myself still and open, daring it to rain harder. I want the low winter sky to pelt my body with cold water, penetrate the permeable layers of flesh that would keep these delicious sensations alive, there, just under the skin, into the parched days of summer.
Back outside the rain has stopped, just a soft dripping of residual moisture from the naked oak limbs, yet the air is alive with bird song reverberating thru our little forest glade. Blackbirds, sparrows, cardinals, titmice, creepers, mockingbirds, blue jays and a large flock of robins make a sonic cathedral of the woods. It would be ungracious to squander the magic conjured by my feathered friends so I delay my return to the studio, settling instead on the weathered wood bench in the garden.
No matter that it is wet, seeing as how I am still damp myself in my old flannel robe. It’s hard for me to just sit still tho with work to be done inside, so I lie flat on my back,opening my robe and all my senses to the cool air, thereby riveting my attention in the present with the surprise of random water drops plummeting from the inky lattice of branches holding up the soft grey sky... amusing myself by imagining a sizzle and pouf of evaporation every time a heavy droplet strikes my hot skin...
I’ve always had a profound connection with the cleansing, life-giving rain, and the season that strips the trees down to their beautiful bare bones is my favorite, especially here in Texas where winter is so fleeting. Altho February has buried much of the country with record snowfall, here the buds are swelling, the first azaleas have unfurled their pink flags and the tidal wave of celedon and emerald green is about to break over the land...
I, however, would hold back the spring if I could, exchanging the dog days of summer for more like these, silvery wet and cool, filled with birdsong and the audible beating of blackbirds’ and robins’ wings as they dart thru the forest canopy. Rain, after all, suggests nestling in soft sheets and pillows with a good book or the laptop. Cold air heightens awareness of the skin, and the contrasting warmth of simple pleasures like fire in the hearth or a lover’s kiss...
I like this vantage point, watching the circling red shouldered hawks thru the delicate filigree of tree limbs and twigs overhead. We miss so much working inside.... Lying quietly I can discern more subtleties in the layers of sound that engulf me: the rustle of wind in the leaves carpeting the forest floor; the vibrato of unseen amphibians, tree frogs and toads who likewise relish the wet weather; the chatter of squirrels leaping from branch to branch, the drone of the occasional plane, or a truck on the nearby highway; the random musical phrases of windchimes... all interwoven with the avian chorus...
A sudden breeze makes the trees dance, splattering me with drops of water that make me gasp. A light drizzle starts and I hold myself still and open, daring it to rain harder. I want the low winter sky to pelt my body with cold water, penetrate the permeable layers of flesh that would keep these delicious sensations alive, there, just under the skin, into the parched days of summer.