Shining Through

Is this part of the world an ocean or a desert in winter? I'm not sure, but either way, there is always something to feast one's eyes on and capture with her lens, however badly. Winter sunlight shining through reeds along the river, trees sparkling with hoarfrost, snowy fields that seem to go on and on forever, it's all good, cold, but good.

Before the first snowfall of the season, I always wonder how I am going to survive without autumn's fiery colors, and I feel a vague anxiety (sometimes downright panic) thinking about the long, dark, monochromatic months to come. Shame on me for harboring such morose and mutinous thoughts. I should know better.

There are fluid turnings and sparkling transformations everywhere: feathery ice archipelagos in highland rivers as they freeze over, glossy icicles dangling from trees along the shore, field grasses poking their silvery heads out of drifts, melt water falling from the roof and freezing again in midair, fallen leaves with snow crystals shining through them.

Everything my cronish eye lights on is food for field notebook and lens, a fine thing since I am unable to wander for miles on snowshoes as I once did. I remember the hollow sound of the north wind moving down the Clyde river valley, the susurrus of snow falling in the woods, the sprucey fragrance given off by the tree sisters in my favorite grove, how snowflakes tasted when I caught them on my tongue as they fell to earth.

Absent the vibrant colors dancing on the earth's palette in other seasons, winter's gifts are all swirling shapes and glittering patterns, each and every one exquisite. Outdoors, the blues and golds on offer are sumptuous. Indoors, old window panes, heaps of books, bowls of fruit and cups of tea beckon. So does the sunlight coming through the window in a friend's farmhouse.  I can do this.