The call of the wild
I went for a walk in the dark. It was breaking light and nice to walk down the hill and along the road. I went to the stream and just beyond.
I used to go outside and sit for hours with my notebook journal and write and watch. I'd describe teh scenery and all that happened around me. I'd sit in the marsh woods by the stream and be thrilled to pieces when a mink would happen along, swimming down the stream or walking/loping along the shore.
I'd watch the flat clear white snow for footprints, for otter scats in the usual spot by the stream. It was a fascinating time for me. The call of the wild would wake me up and pull me outside to canoe in the marsh in the dark with only the stars above, guiding me by their reflections in the water between the trees that surrounded me.
I had forgotten about those times. Now I just walk and come back to the house, tuck myself inside in the warmth and light.
Well, today as I walked outside, I realized how much colder it was than it had been before. 41F it says on the LLBean inside outside thermometer.
The strong winds that are probably bringing winter in from Alberta's Rocky Mountains had ripped the plastic off the veranda of the greenhouse. I had wondered about the safety of my tipi last evening as the winds blew.
I saw a wisp of cloud, probably what was left from the blowing wind, slightly darker than the midnight blue sky. I wonder if midnight blue is that colour.
It was a wonder how different a clear dark sky is, than a close, tightly matted white cloud-cover. How free and connected I elt under the expanse. But between the cloud molecules there should be ample space for perceiving the existance of infinite distance into outer space. But the clouds just block things.
As I walked along, I compared Athens' 100' pines with our short cedars and other trees. Is it the growing season? Even the pines here don't grow so tall. I remember as a youth hiking to the tree line on various mountains. The trees were shorter and wind-bent. Is that what happens up here in Canada? How tall are our centurian maples, anyway? Is it because what grows along the road is growing near or in marshland and therefore shorter?
As I neared my now covered tipi in Sedge Meadow, the marshland alongside the stream, I wondered what people expected from it. They said they never see anyone there, that they wonder what it is for. What do they think it is for? A tipi is a place to go in. Is that so strange? Is it because there is no light burning there at night that makes it look vacant? What if I were to move some of my solar lights down there, put them where they would show presence in the dark hours?
They don't light up so brightly anymore. They aren't getting enough sunshine to do that, I don't think.
So I walked on to the stream, crossed it thinking about the chairs that I've sat in and left on there. They don't lure me like they once did.
I instead am lured by the internet. It's the internet that tempts me with ideas of basketry, but it's the internet that keeps me from getting up and making baskets.
As I walked back up the hill, I thought of the aluminum folding chairs that I'd find at the dump and use for carrying my journal and pen, sometimes a sketch book, sometimes a nature guide. Those chairs are few and far between now that the swing back chairs, which give no support to my back, have flooded the market. I have to look carefully for the other chairs. They are the ones that really matter in my world.
But I don't go out there anymore. I look out the window, see the same view and imagine that I've experienced it all just from that one angled gaze. No sound, no smell, no feeling, no traces of animal lie, no hints to the past, just a photo that sometimes moves a bit in the wind.
What happened to my ability to hear the call of the wild? I'm so glad I responded this morning.
I used to go outside and sit for hours with my notebook journal and write and watch. I'd describe teh scenery and all that happened around me. I'd sit in the marsh woods by the stream and be thrilled to pieces when a mink would happen along, swimming down the stream or walking/loping along the shore.
I'd watch the flat clear white snow for footprints, for otter scats in the usual spot by the stream. It was a fascinating time for me. The call of the wild would wake me up and pull me outside to canoe in the marsh in the dark with only the stars above, guiding me by their reflections in the water between the trees that surrounded me.
I had forgotten about those times. Now I just walk and come back to the house, tuck myself inside in the warmth and light.
Well, today as I walked outside, I realized how much colder it was than it had been before. 41F it says on the LLBean inside outside thermometer.
The strong winds that are probably bringing winter in from Alberta's Rocky Mountains had ripped the plastic off the veranda of the greenhouse. I had wondered about the safety of my tipi last evening as the winds blew.
I saw a wisp of cloud, probably what was left from the blowing wind, slightly darker than the midnight blue sky. I wonder if midnight blue is that colour.
It was a wonder how different a clear dark sky is, than a close, tightly matted white cloud-cover. How free and connected I elt under the expanse. But between the cloud molecules there should be ample space for perceiving the existance of infinite distance into outer space. But the clouds just block things.
As I walked along, I compared Athens' 100' pines with our short cedars and other trees. Is it the growing season? Even the pines here don't grow so tall. I remember as a youth hiking to the tree line on various mountains. The trees were shorter and wind-bent. Is that what happens up here in Canada? How tall are our centurian maples, anyway? Is it because what grows along the road is growing near or in marshland and therefore shorter?
As I neared my now covered tipi in Sedge Meadow, the marshland alongside the stream, I wondered what people expected from it. They said they never see anyone there, that they wonder what it is for. What do they think it is for? A tipi is a place to go in. Is that so strange? Is it because there is no light burning there at night that makes it look vacant? What if I were to move some of my solar lights down there, put them where they would show presence in the dark hours?
They don't light up so brightly anymore. They aren't getting enough sunshine to do that, I don't think.
So I walked on to the stream, crossed it thinking about the chairs that I've sat in and left on there. They don't lure me like they once did.
I instead am lured by the internet. It's the internet that tempts me with ideas of basketry, but it's the internet that keeps me from getting up and making baskets.
As I walked back up the hill, I thought of the aluminum folding chairs that I'd find at the dump and use for carrying my journal and pen, sometimes a sketch book, sometimes a nature guide. Those chairs are few and far between now that the swing back chairs, which give no support to my back, have flooded the market. I have to look carefully for the other chairs. They are the ones that really matter in my world.
But I don't go out there anymore. I look out the window, see the same view and imagine that I've experienced it all just from that one angled gaze. No sound, no smell, no feeling, no traces of animal lie, no hints to the past, just a photo that sometimes moves a bit in the wind.
What happened to my ability to hear the call of the wild? I'm so glad I responded this morning.