In the summer this piece of land jutting out into the lake is lush. So full, the light from the other side of it can’t get through, even though it is everywhere. The water is sparkling, the trees are green and the sky so blue I sometimes think I want to dive up into it.
At the beginning of fall, when it is still green, you can notice the thinning. The revelation of space before the explosion of colour. The light dances and plays so that I am surprised by its flashing through the opening spaces.
At the end of the show, when the leaves have taken their final bow, when the trees themselves stand naked before the skies, they wait for the light to fade and blankets of snow to snuggle them into a winter sleep.
The snows sneak in during the night to surprise me with sharp blue skies, crystalline reflections and my breath creating clouds in front of me. Those days when the blue sky is the back drop of a wood that seems thin and scraggly yet happy to preside over the day.
This day was not one of those days.
Greens and light greys turn black and a little menacing. Every little space between the pine needles and the jutting branches of the trees and brush was filled with grey. It is a heavy light pushing down, drowning sound and blurring form. It is a sacred space, not comforting, but it is the place that surrounded me to observe in silence as I listen to myself.
Sometimes nature can bring you out of yourself and sometimes it puts you back in.
It seems to know what is best.