Shining Through

Is this place an ocean or a desert in winter? I am never sure, but either way, there is always something to feast one's eyes on and capture with the lens. Old windows, heaps of books, lighted candles, bowls of fruit and cups of tea, it's all good. Isn't a little uncertainty a good thing, every now and then?

Before the first snow of falls, I always wonder how I am going to survive without autumn's shapes and fiery colors, feel a vague anxiety contemplating the monochromatic days and weeks and months to come. Shame on me for harboring such morose and mutinous thoughts. I should know better. There is a whole lot to see out there.

There are patterns everywhere, and they all have to do with liquid turnings and sparkling transformation: feathery patterns in river ice as it forms, glossy icicles suspended from trees along the shore, field grasses poking their silvery heads out of drifts, beads of water falling in the garden and freezing in midair, fallen leaves with snow crystals shining through. Everything my cronish eye alights on is food for camera and lens, a good thing on days when I am not able to wander as far as I would like to.

Absent the vibrant and earthy colors cavorting on my palette at other times of the year, winter's offerings are a constellation of swirling shapes and patterns and hues, each and every one exquisite. Shining through a friend's frosted kitchen window, the egg yolk sun sings and dances, beguiles and enchants, hollers for recognition. And all those glorious colors... What on earth was I worried about?