Category: Bottles of Hours

The trees lean to the north as if they are followers of the north star. Some of me supposes that it’s more a matter of reaching beyond the shade of the trees higher on the hill. They do this, the theory goes, in order to drink in more light. Same conclusion, either way.

It’s quite a balancing act, given how gravity is at play. Some, of course, lose the battle. In the end all of us do. Even mountains turn, eventually, to sand.

Still, wondrously, life goes on despite its changing forms. (Some things are forever.)

Watch, and let go, and be kind,

Let your heart know gladness.

I didn’t plan it. I was just staring at it through the window and it said, “C’mon up.” The whole hill said it at once. Who could resist?

I dress for it and sling my camera around my neck. I check out little corners here and there that I haven’t seen since spring. I study the colors of tree bark and notice the way fallen ferns, still green, decorate the beds of russet oak leaves. I listen to the wind.

Now and then I stop and look up. What I’ve felt the whole time I’ve been here I now see: I am standing in a cathedral.

Nobody ever told you that the road would always be straight and smooth now, did they?

Personally, I think I heard voices yelling “Buckle Up, Kiddo! Grab your shield! You’re in for some kind of a ride!”

When I really think about it, I suppose I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

On this day a year ago, snow was covering the ground. The window panes were etched with frost. This year, we sailed through December with only one day of snow, and it quickly melted. But today it is cold and snow, they say, is on its way.

When I say it is cold, I mean the temperature is only 25 degrees Fahrenheit. Soon that will feel balmy. But not today. We were spoiled in December by unseasonable warmth. Nevertheless, the sun is shining and it lures me. I use my little pile of accumulated recycling as an excuse to drive to the park to drop it off. I would have gone anyway. I haven’t seen my favorite corner of the creek for a while now and I want to see its New Year colors.

A young man is jogging toward me on the sidewalk as I emerge from my car. His face is red from the cold, his breath making little clouds in the air. I think he looks wonderfully healthy and beautiful. I grin and say “Happy New Year!” He grins back and says, “Happy New Year to you, too!” We each like encountering another human being who is braving the cold just for the joy of it, for doing what we each love to do regardless.

The creek is racing over its rocky bed. It, too, is beautiful. The sound of it dances through the cold air. I see icicles dangling on tree roots on the opposite shore and work my way over the rocks to photograph them. The colors here in the shade are subtle winter hues, almost neutral. The sight of them delights me. It’s like opening a gift and finding a strand of lustrous pearls.

I soak it in, the whole of it. It is my duty: Someone has to carry the memory of this.
It is my duty.
It is my joy.

In the note that I sent you on Day 5 of this series, I mentioned that I have come to this lake at sunset every New Year’s Eve for six years now.

Today some formula at Facebook determined it should pop the very photo I took that first year into my timeline. It felt like a nod from the universe, one of those delicious synchronicities that makes you think you’re on track. “Carry on, child. Carry on.”

Six years ago I found myself standing at the edge of a small lake that’s adjacent to the wetlands. It was sunset on New Year’s Eve and music was wafting through the air from a house up in the woods somewhere. I have no idea what drew me there at that particular time on that particular day. Probably a whim. I’m big on following my whims. More often that not, they lead me to grand discoveries.

That year, I discovered that the sun set right behind that stand of trees across the lake. I have come back here on the eve of every new year since.

I come early this year because the sky is cozied up in its thick, deep clouds and if I wait until sunset, the daylight will have melted away completely. As it turns out, the clouds break up a bit as I drive to the little lake, dappling the sky and thinning to let the sun’s brilliance shine through.

I spot the little turn-off up ahead and feel my face smile as I pull over and step from my car. A flock of fifty or so Canadian geese float along the lake’s north shore, silent as can be, hardly moving, The lake is calm and still. I spend a handful of timeless moments mesmerized by it all, my camera inhaling one view after another.

I decide to drive down some back roads when I leave the lake, delighted by the colors and light that came with this unexpected break in the clouds. Finding a spot where I can pull off, I park and walk up the road photographing the terrain, the vast stretches of rolling corn fields, the stubble from the harvest glowing golden in the afternoon light.

I am humbled, as I often am when the sky is the bringer of joy. It reminds me that even the darkest clouds are transient, and that beyond them, joy remains. Eternally.

When I pass the little lake on my way home, I find it shrouded in a dim haze. The glimpse of light had been just that, a glimpse. Now the sky would wrap the quickly waning year in its mists and carry it off to The Lands of When.

Farewell, 2021. Farewell.

Maybe ten miles from here, somewhere off one of the main roads, you can see their farm. I haven’t been past it in years. My memory is that it was one of those old family farms that had seen a few generations. Frame barn and outbuildings, painted white and red, well-kept and maintained. Donkeys maybe. A large garden. As I said, it’s been years.

I saw them perform live at some local festival when they were all still in their teens. Each of them is a highly skilled, talented musician. Their repertoire is wide-ranging, with something to speak to everyone’s heart and tapping toe.

I’m happy to see that the girls are still wearing their homemade gingham dresses. Their mother, who home-schooled them I’m told, taught them all homesteading skills. I believe someone told me that she passed away of cancer a couple years ago. She left behind a beautiful and amazing legacy.

This photo of them popped up on my Facebook timeline today with an announcement of the family’s upcoming performance at a rural Methodist church somewhere in the area. I envision a packed house. You can check them out if you want. On Facebook, they’re simply Echo Valley.

I thought you’d smile, knowing a group like this exists in rural 2021 America. Imagine astounding music, and keep smiling,

Finally, the sun has come out. Endless days have passed since we weren’t blanketed by dull dark clouds. I pull on the hat with the fuzzy ear-flaps and then the rugged boots, making a double bow so they won’t come untied. The jacket: zipper, snaps. (Sigh.) The gloves.

It’s worth the effort. I am cozy in the cold air and excited to be drinking in its colors. I have to walk along the berm of the 2-lane truck route that divides my property until I get to the right of way. I squeeze past the gate and neighbor Bob’s big antique tractor that guard the land, his and mine, against unwanted intruders. And then I am in the field, at the valley’s floor, and it is magical here. I am impressed by the fine job Bob did mowing, given the antique status both of his tractor and his body.

The thing I like about these walks—I call them photo-walks because I always have my camera with me and it is eager to capture the wonders of the day—the thing I like about them is that I have to stay in the present and pay attention, to be RIGHT HERE. Because anything could happen or unexpectedly appear. The world, after all, is a magical place. And you wouldn’t want to miss a good one now, would you?

So I get to breathe in the early winter fragrance of the air, to taste it. I hear the branches tapping in the light wind, the dry stalks crunching beneath my feet I’m heading toward the beaver pond. I haven’t seen it for months. The earth is getting muddy now.

Dreams float past as I walk. They’re like transparent clouds. Memories. Checking in on friends, But always alert as my eyes note the textures and colors of the land beneath my feet: Stop! Look!

Oh, my God. I feel so lucky.
Thank you!
I love you!
Thank you.