 Something in the light
The early-morning sun cut along the tree line, illuminating the canopy of maple, oak, and beech in a show of color. Paper thin and lit from behind, translucent leaves shimmered in blaze orange, ruby red, and sunburst yellow. Like a stained glass window. And in the glow, I wondered, is that what the glassmaker saw? Something in nature, something in glass, something so beautiful.  Shadows on the Footbridge
If I were to write a letter or a poem today, I'd start with the changing light in the morning, and the evening, and the shadows on the footbridge in the woods, as crisp and still as the near autumn air ... and say, there's no need to look at the calendar to know the seasons are changing.  Dinner may be late tonight We'll blame it on the clock ... on daylight saving time and the bewilderment it creates in the long shadows of the afternoon sun in the decorative patterns that inch across the wall and lull us into thinking it's earlier than it is when the clocks spring forward More doodling ...  This is a drawing I created ... and the inspiration for the 3-D wire replica above. It's all a bit wonky, but it cast the right light and gave me the idea for today's poem.
We often think that writing memoir or our stories requires big events or a lifetime of adventure. That's a lot of pressure. Why not start with small moments that make you pause? Every year daylight saving time messes with my timing. For a week or so, it's either later or earlier than I think. It's easy to imagine we are ruled by the clock and the ping of our phones, but on occasions like this, it's nice to know nature's light still rules the day. Go ahead, write about something small, you've got time.  It's hard to know how long it took
It wasn't until the warm spring air arrived and it was time to exchange our bulky coats, gloves, and hats for lighter jackets and longer days that I had any inkling something had been happening. On my first trip into the attic, my eye caught the bright orange draft snake on the floor just inside the door. Something was different, but I wasn't sure what. Was that a dust bunny on the left end of the draft snake? I wasn't surprised at the sight of it, it had been a long winter and trips to the attic were few. On my second trip, I saw another, right in the center of the long tube. Once again, with arms laden with winter wool, I stepped over it. But something wasn't right. When I came down from the attic the second time, I bent over to take a closer look. It wasn't one dust bunny, or two ... there were holes in the fabric. The finely shredded threads feathering the edge of the holes had tricked me. The tube, still holding its shape, was empty ... of the hundreds (or more likely thousands) of split peas I'd poured into the tube to stop the draft. One, two, or more(?) mice had chewed through one end of the draft snake to get at the peas. Once they reached the middle, they chewed another hole. Less time in the tube, more time for removing the peas. But where to? How long did it take? Did they eat them? Share them? Hoard them? It remains a mystery. There were no split peas to be seen or found. Not one. Anywhere. And no mice. We never saw them, found mouse droppings, or heard them ... quiet as a mouse. Until we set a trap.  December marks time like no other month.
Tomorrow the winter solstice brings us the shortest day of the year followed by the longest night ... and days later, the end of one year and the beginning of another. I’m thinking about how I can add light to my days and mark new beginnings. Not just new beginnings on the calendar, or the light from longer days, but the light and change that comes from doing things differently, seeing things in new light, and being curious. Last week we had a snow storm ... a big one. Most of us got anywhere from 18 - 24 inches. And as it so often happens, the next day it was glorious. Sunny and bright and fresh. After the storm, we took a ride ... uptown to State Street, left at Longfellow Square ... and there it was. A rainbow. Shimmering in the windblown snow hanging in the air.  At the end of the block on the corner there's a garden planted on the edge of the road. It's tucked between the street and a stockade fence. It's so small, and jammed into such a small space, it seems more than a garden. It's a declaration. A fertile sign of determination and grit.
Someone wanted a garden and they were not to be deterred. They wanted to grow peas, and tomatoes, and peppers. We know that's what's growing because they impaled the empty seed packets on sticks to mark what was in the ground. And we've watch them grow for weeks now. There's a tradition in New England ... peas and salmon on the Fourth of July. Why? The salmon swim upstream this time of year, just when the peas begin to sprout. I'm not sure the neighbors will pair salmon with their peas, but the garden's bounty is proof there's plenty to be savored when the seed of determination is planted. |
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Pausing to explore small wins and wonder in short stories and poems 
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