Leaves crunching underfoot or rattling like sabres in in the
wind, fog drifting through the trees, ice crystals limning cedar fence rails along the ridge, blowsy
plumes of frosted grasses along the edge of the western field, stands of frozen reeds along the pond—all are frepresentations of the season, plangent leitmotifs in
the windy musical work that is late autumn. In October, the Two Hundred Acre Wood is an Aeolian harp, a vast musical instrument
that only the wind can play.
The season marches onward, settling slowly, and with deep sighs, into the subdued tints of early winter: bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, splashes here and there of winey red, burgundy, russet, a midnight blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity, but oh so fragile.
Frosts in the eastern Ontario highlands make themselves known as sugary drifts over old wood and on fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of field and fen cavort in fringed and tasseled hats.
One needs another lens and tuning for late autumn and early winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key. The crone's senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet and tattered. She couldn't hold a tune for all the tea in China, but she hums to herself and Beau as they go along.
There is light in the world, even in these dark times, and she has to remember that. Her camera and lens never forget, and out in the woods, they drink in light like nectar. She is thankful that they do and that they remind her of the world's indwelling grace at every turning along the trail.
The season marches onward, settling slowly, and with deep sighs, into the subdued tints of early winter: bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, splashes here and there of winey red, burgundy, russet, a midnight blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity, but oh so fragile.
Frosts in the eastern Ontario highlands make themselves known as sugary drifts over old wood and on fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of field and fen cavort in fringed and tasseled hats.
One needs another lens and tuning for late autumn and early winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key. The crone's senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet and tattered. She couldn't hold a tune for all the tea in China, but she hums to herself and Beau as they go along.
There is light in the world, even in these dark times, and she has to remember that. Her camera and lens never forget, and out in the woods, they drink in light like nectar. She is thankful that they do and that they remind her of the world's indwelling grace at every turning along the trail.
4 comments:
I've signed up for a free series of speakers at "The Dalai Lama Global Vision Summit" and have listened to a few of them (especially the meditations) fro the first day. I can send you the link or you can search if you want under learn@lionsroar.com. Just in case you're interested in that kind of thing...
I love your lens in how you see the world, Cate. Oh yes, how unique we all are in the tunes we play. :) Some play an adagio, while some play a light fairy tune that no one else can hear. I find myself humming a lot lately - very unusual - despite what is happening in the world. Indeed grace abounds...
I love what your eyes are seeing and your plume is writing. Canada stands up once more in my mind’s heart after over 45 years of me being there.
This is beautiful Cate and that photo is almost mystical looking. Do you sometimes feel your husband's spirit when you are out walking in this magical place? I imagine you would sense his presence in the the wind softly blowing through the trees or in the mist and fog as it rises to greet you along the trail. I hope that you can...
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