|
Friday, December 30, 2005
|
|
Misty Paths
|
This was one beautiful day!
James and I had piano lessons today. Mrs. Bell's place is so gorgeous that sometimes I just can't resist going out for a walk. Most people like it best in the summertime, with the sun shining an dthe birds singing in the trees. But what drew me out today was the cold wind, the rain and the alluring mist hanging over the river.
I headed out across the field, directing my steps to the wooden bench that sits under that big, seemingly lifeless tree. As my shoes sank a little in the wet earth, I looked back to see my footprints following me from the house. I smiled to myself and thought, "That's cute."
I looked ahead again, and redirected myself as by looking downward while I walked I had gone slightly off course. Reaching the clearing, I saw the low branch of a tree and was reminded of our piano recital and how I insisted on riding inside the golf cart after Derek drove under that branch. I smiled again and walked toward the bench.
I stopped before reaching it. I wished I had a camera. The mist hovering over the water was shrouding everything past a hundred feet. I could see clearly the little peninsula of grass with the bench in the middle. It was surrounded on all sides by reeds taller than me. I could look over the reeds and see little rivers going off in three different directions, each separated by a clump of marshes here and there.
I didn't want to go further. I wanted to stand there and look at it. It was a good view. If I went down to the bench, I would not be able to see above the reeds. But I went anyway. I sat down, pulling my jacket down as far as I could to sit on it and keep my skirt from getting damp.
I looked up into the sky. The limbs of the tree above me were bare. It looked dead. The only sound I could hear was the rain hitting the leaves on the ground beneath the tree. It was loud and as I held my face toward the sky, I felt the water begin to run down my face. It hit my forehead and cheeks and ran down my chin. I could have wiped it away, but it felt good. Besides, I wasn't about to take my hands from their warm pockets.
After fifteen minutes, I decided to walk some more. Along the tree line, which I normally avoid during summer months because of the snakes, I wound my way in and out among the pines. I stopped when I reached the point where the path turned in toward the dock. I stepped over a log and pile of wet leaves. Down the dock and up to the water. It was high tide. The mist still covered from sight the other side of the river.
Two ducks startled me as they took flight. I hadn't expected to see any animals out in the rain.
Ten minutes I sat there, contemplating the millions of ripples that constantly formed. Circles overpowering smaller circles and making way for larger ones. The largest ripples continuing on until they faded into the mass of tiny waves on the water.
It was cold. I looked up at the sky a second time. It was completely white. I opened my mouth to catch the raindrops. As I closed my eyes, small drops hit my chin, my hair, and my eyelashes. I sat there still. When I opened my eyes, the rain was dripping from my hair. My bangs held tiny drops on the ends that fell when I shook my head.
I stood to walk some more and found myself on a path scattered with wet brown leaves. Grass was peeking through a bright emerald green color, in stark contrast to the dreariness around me. If it had not been so dreary, I should never have noticed the color of the grass. It was so beautiful.
Along behind the pine trees and back to the house, stopping to brush my hand against the needles and make the water droplets fall. Touching them with my tongue to feel the cool rain inside my mouth.
It was a beautiful walk.
I only wished I had a friend with me to share it with. So I decided to share it with you.
:) |
posted by cori
12/30/2005 08:59:00 AM
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
| The ShugaBowl |
| Sounds like some kind of sports thing, but in reality, the ShugaBowl is just a little hideaway for me, Sugarcube herself, to let loose my thoughts and occasional creativeness. |
|
|
