 The sky is dark and soft, and the air is filled with the scent of a brewing storm. But the grey of the cloudy sky has its magic, for, in the absence of the blinding summer sunlight, I can look straight upward at the sky. Dozens of songbirds and their fledglings are scattered in a crowded, busy silhouette against the grey. I don't know if there are always so many at the edge of the woods when I walk here, but they are remarkable today.
 Here at my thoughtful spot the dark sky is hidden by the engulfing, dancing shades of green and growing things. Not a flower bloom is to be seen - the jewelweed is late this year - everything this is all rich, deep, multi-hued green. Even the oddly handsome little fellow who has decided to sit next to my mossy rock blends almost invisibly into the green around us. He looks like some sort of Katydid, but I can't seem to identify him concretely. The earth has donned her mantle of of brightest green; |
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There are candy-pink mimosa blooms, and the red and yellow honeysuckle, and the lacy cream blossoms of the elder tree just around the corner, over the hill, and beyond the little bend in the creek. But in this little hollow of moss and tumbling water that I have come to love so well, there seems to be no need for such ornaments, lovely though they be. It is perfect today in it's unique, subdued sort of monochrome. How different it looks from midsummer a year ago, when iridescent dancing damselflies and sparkling orange jewelweed blooms met me for the first time at this thoughtful spot. How pleasant it has been to return to it often, and to glimpse the ever changing yet ever present beauty of this little place. How quickly this year in my Thoughtful Spot has passed by.
And so... with the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow fast in movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
The air has cooled in an instant, a rumble of thunder is overhead. Old childhood words dance through my thoughts, as they always do in this particular sort of weather. Wind's in the east, mist's blowing in/Like something is brewing, about to begin...
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It's a cloudy and chilly day in the midst of a cloudy and chilly spring. The sun has been bashful, the flowers have been reluctant to make the grand entrance we would wish of them, and my little thoughtful spot has remained wrapped in a protective quilt of clouds and downy gray. It's been a peaceful spring, filled with the promise, if not always the actuality, of the season's change. It's this predictable changeableness of the seasons, each time as surprising as the appearance of the first crocus in January and as reassuring as the sunrise, the rhythm of this glorious creation that never ceases to amaze me. What an enchanting, marvelous mingling of the familiar and the new.
Spring is a lovely reminder of how beautiful change can be.
- Anonymous
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
- Albert Camus
Within the clouds and raindrops of this late spring, early summer is showing it's face. It's in the brilliant color of a tiny wild strawberry (Fragaria vesca) that is hiding beneath a clump of violets. It's in the first red clover blooms (Trifolium pratens), which always seem to appear earlier and disappear later than I expect, their lengthy blooming season providing plenty of opportunity to harvest and dry them for a tea to support the lymphatic system.
Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.
- Lao Tzu
The new season is in the may-apples (podophyllum peltatum), with their tiny yellow fruits forming under the swaying villages of their umbrella leaves. And it's in the massive and delicate fiddlehead fern that almost blocks my view of the waterfall as I sit here, its lacy fragility dances in the slightest wind, yet it is secured so resolutely to the corner of rock on this little ledge.
Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection...
in every leaf of springtime.
- Martin Luther
It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.
- Rainer Maria Rilke
And then there is the garden, the clearest sign of summer's closeness. It is filled with lettuces and radishes that would make Peter rather hungry and Mr. McGregor proud, and a spring bounty of asparagus in beautiful green and purple spears. Isn't it amazing to see how differently plants grow? There's the asparagus, tall and sentry-like straight out of the ground, then the radishes, hiding beneath the soil, yet colored a pinker pink than any crayon box could offer.
Here comes the sun, little darling...
It's been a pleasant spring, in it's dreary quietude. Sometimes it's the hush, the grayness, and the extended season of waiting that makes that expected, surprising change even more beautiful. And there's a whisper, a promise here in my Thoughtful Spot this afternoon, louder than the rippling bubbles of the waterfall, than the birdsongs and the squabbling of squirrels overhead, than the distant rumble of a lawnmower, Courage, Dearheart, life has seasons too.
Sometimes it seems like spring creeps up on me. The crocus and daffodils bloom and are joyously welcomed while the world around them is still brown and frosty, the grass slowly begins to don a hint of green, a pale and subtle cloud of pink or bright lemon-green buds appears around some of the trees. Then one day I look around and realize, all at once, that the sleeping world has wakened, and winter has burst into spring.
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, /And bonnie blue are the sunny skies.
- Robert Burns, The Smiling Spring
My thoughtful spot is cacophonous with the sound of gleeful songbirds. Today, to my utter delight, it is just barely warm enough to walk barefoot in the creek, and so my walk here was through the shallow, sparking water. A very small copperhead startled me along the way, sunning himself on a large rock that wasn't quite underwater. His presence made me reconsider my intentions to clear away the jumble of branches and leaves that was diverting the creek, as it looked like the perfect haven for any of his cousins that might be living nearby, and I didn't particularly like the idea of disturbing them.
Through the woods, along the creek bank, and surrounding this little moss covered seat, all around me, at my feet and clambering up the the slopes above me and down the rocks to the creek below is a tiny, wondrous world of wildflowers.
Through the woods, along the creek bank, and surrounding this little moss covered seat, all around me, at my feet and clambering up the the slopes above me and down the rocks to the creek below is a tiny, wondrous world of wildflowers.
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A violet by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye
As fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky.
- William Wordsworth, The Violet
A study of wildflowers could consume a lifetime I think, and a very pleasant lifetime it would be. No two are alike, their miniature faces droop demurely in the shade or toss joyfully heavenward to bask in the sun. Some are five simple petals, like the flowers we first drew as children, some intricate orchids with bright yellow throats. The chickweed blooms (Stellaria media) in starry white clusters beside the pale pink petals of spring beauty (Claytonia virginica) and the fragile but valiant bluets (Houstonia caerulea). And the violets! There are Common Blue violets, (Viola sororia) most denying their name with deep purple shades or pure white blooms; there are the minuscule bearded dwarf violets, so detailed they almost need to be examined with a magnifying glass to be fully appreciated; and yellow violets, their sunny color warning that, unlike their companions, they are inedible.
| Some days are fair, / And some are raw. The timid earth / Decides to thaw. Shy budlets peep / From twigs on trees, And robins join / The chickadees. Pale crocuses / Poke through the ground Like noses come / To sniff around. - John Updike, March |  |
Though its beginnings might be so subtle they slip by if we're not paying close attention, there always comes a moment when spring undeniably, irrepressibly, gloriously takes over the quiet contemplation of the winter season and replaces it with an explosion of joyful celebration. In this little Thoughtful Spot, that moment has just arrived.
I woke this morning and the world was white. From the pale, luminous opacity of the cloudy sky to the soft, glowing blanket on the earth, it's as though the world has become a de-saturated photograph, a vintage world of black and white.
White is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.
- G. K. Chesterton
Now it's nearing evening, the white sky has turned a dappled blue, and the slanting light has turned the snow on the pasture above me to the gentlest blush of pink. But my Thoughtful Spot remains, in its shadowed little hollow, a magical world of dark and light. There is so much life in this little corner of the world that I never would have noticed without this snowfall. Among the drooping frozen grasses miniature songbird footprints scamper about in happy disarray, I envy their light-footedness, as they leave the tiniest of impressions in the snow, and I trudge through, digging my boots through a layer of ice beneath the snow to keep from slipping. Wild turkeys have passed by this way too, a straight and plodding trail of three-toed tracks that seem giant beside the dainty prints of cardinals and sparrows and juncos. There are the delicate tracks of a fox, the hand prints of a racoon, and a crowd of coyote tracks are just around the corner.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, 'Go to sleep darlings, till the summer comes again.'
- Lewis Carroll
As long shadows grow and the sun begins to set on this downy white world, a splash of color fills the sky. Azalea red, daffodil yellow, and bright peony pink. It's spring in a sunset, bidding farewell to this peaceful, sleepy winter of a day.
Sometimes adventures carry us far away from the familiar, contemplative places that we call home, but, in every faraway place, a Thoughtful Spot is waiting. On an delightfully unexpected journey, I traveled to my birthplace, a little town on a big island in southeast Alaska, and, among a vast array of magnificently beautiful places, I stumbled upon a quiet rocky beach that became, for the last two weeks of the first month of this new year, my Faraway Thoughtful Spot.
It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.
- The Spell of the Yukon, Robert Service
This beach is home to seagulls, to a content and ever-present paddling of ducks, and to a remarkably chatty herd of sea lions, whose curiously bobbing heads and gregarious barks keep me faithful company. When the tide is low, purple and orange starfish cling to the rocks just below the water's surface, their bright colors bringing a vibrancy to the deep, soft grayness all around me.
The view from this beach is often shrouded in solid mist, an almost tangible wall between the shore and the great unknown of the ocean beyond. But on clear days a majestic mountainscape appears across the narrows, and then the intensity of the light and the breathtaking grandeur of these surroundings is indescribably humbling. This evening, the mist is heavy and the water still, a delicate snow is falling, and there is great peace on this lonely beach.
The waves have a story to tell me, /As I lie on the lonely beach;
Chanting aloft in the pine-tops, / The wind has a lesson to teach;
- The Three Voices, Robert Service
Familiar herbs are few and far between in this wintry temperate rain forest. No plantain, or chickweed, or dandelions appear among the moss and rock and seaweed, but one familiar friend is everywhere - the evergreens. While many evergreen trees have medicinal properties, my favorite will always be the pines. The sweet, crisp scent of a pine forest is at once peaceful and invigorating, they are one of the oldest living things on earth, some of them surviving thousands of years, and there are one hundred and twenty-six known species. They provide a glorious glimpse of green throughout the winter and, in perfect design, these winter greens provide an excellent source of vitamin C that can be freshly harvested to support the immune system through the cold and flu season.
... a lush carpet of pine needles...
is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug.
-Helen Keller
Soon I'll return to my familiar Thoughtful Spot, nestled in the pastoral woods of home. One adventure will have drawn to a close, and the next day might bring another, but the splendor of this faraway thoughtful spot in a place that once was my home will linger with me always.
Hovering here between two years, between two cold months of winter, is a joyous shout of spring. After a torrential rain last night, today has dawned bright and warm and breezy, the birds are singing farewells to the old year and welcomes to the new, and the scent of moss and green and growing things is in the air. Here at my thoughtful spot the little waterfall's peaceful splashing has been turned into a roaring cascade of white that seems to slice through the dark, leaf strewn rock. Even the determined mass of roots that normally diverts the water's path is wholly swallowed by these thunderous little falls.
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ode to the West Wind"
Drooping ferns and violas, still chilled from a week of frosts, are lifting up their heads to enjoy the unexpected warmth and sunshine. I feel like doing the same - uncurling and thawing out and rejoicing in this extraordinary day. At my feet a lush clump of chickweed seems to have sprung up overnight. This cooling, fresh springtime potherb will be growing prolifically in the wild in a few months. Its leaves are nutrient dense and make a wonderful, mild flavored addition to salads and pesto, and are so high in vitamin C that it is said sailors prized chickweed vinegar to prevent scurvy. When used topically, this tender but hardy little herb is soothing to burns and poison ivy rashes, and healing to minor cuts and scrapes.
...every day is the best day in the year.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
It is decidedly winter still, and the trees above me are skeleton bare though the skies I see through them are summer's blue. Yet on this brief, beautiful day, here at the close of one year and the opening of a new, my thoughtful spot is alive with the sounds and smells and sights of spring. It seems to me a marvelous gift of a day, filled with hope, joy, and new beginnings.
The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.
- John 1:3
November is departing the year with a grand flourish: it is snowing. Though very beautiful, most of this November has more or less fit the description Emily Dickinson once gave it, “A few prosaic days/A little this side of the snow/And that side of the haze.” Then this day arrives, a day of gentle flurries and white-frosted pastures, of the unexpected and the extraordinary. I can think of no more perfect day on which to bid farewell to autumn and usher in the beautiful season of Advent than this crystalline, frosty, very far from prosaic day.
It sifts from leaden sieves,/It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool/The wrinkles of the road.
- Emily Dickinson, The Snow
Here at my thoughtful spot the snow has softened the fallen leaves and branches and made the evergreen moss seem brighter. Along the extremities of the waterfall's ledge, a little distance from the fall itself, hangs a row of dazzling, sparkling icicles. If you get close to them, you can see the reflection of the all trees and rocks and branches in this little hollow become warped and wobbled into impressionistic blurs of green and brown and white in the uneven surface of the ice. My favorite winter phenomenon returned this morning - the frost flowers. I've read that the weather conditions must be just right for them to form, they require freezing air temperature but unfrozen, damp soil, so when they do appear in early winter they must be welcomed with great wonderment. They look odd from far away, just uneven little clumps of white dotted through the woods, clinging to the base of tall grasses and plants, but upon closer examination these delicate little clusters of satin-like frost are marvelous. They look something like a paper wasp nest made of ice, or tumbled folds of transparent fabric frozen in movement, or layers of melted sugar as it is being pulled and stretched into candy ribbons.
| | The ground is hard, | And yet the world, | |
- John Updike, November
The tall brown stalks of ironweed and brown-eyed susans (Rudbeckia triloba) are all topped with lovely, prickly seed heads this time of year, and while walking this morning I began to gather a few. Then I stumbled upon a cluster of wild hydrangeas (Hydrangea arborescens) still covered in tiny dried, four-petaled flowers. Soon the beautiful colors of November's "certain loveliness" seemed to appear everywhere in the woods, as the evergreen of ceder branches, the red of rose hips, and the bright blushing pink of beautyberries (Callicarpa americana) joined the brown seed and flower heads. The wild privet (Ligustrum vulgare), whose white flowers fill one short stretch of my walking path with fragrance in the Spring, is now covered in waxy blue berries, poisonous to humans, but delectable to winter songbirds, and they, along with the glossy black berries of the edible greenbriar vine (Smilax rotundifolia), complete a picturesque wintry bouquet. A glorious autumn has ended in this thoughtful spot, and a peaceful winter has begun.
November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
- Clyde Watson
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
- Clyde Watson
Usually I make my way to this thoughtful spot in the afternoon. Late in the day, when the sun is high and warm, it's pleasant to break from the happenings of the day and sit here in the woods for a while. But today it's morning, late morning, it's true, but still well before noon and quite marvelously different from my usual afternoon writing hour. The pasture above me is bright and sunny, but here at my thoughtful spot there is a peaceful sense of morning quietude.
O hushed October morning mild,/Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,/Should waste them all.
- Robert Frost, October
The dew hasn't quite dried in this little valley, it rests still on the rocks in the creek bank, on the drooping ferns that were hardy enough to weather last night's frost, on a few spider's webs that drape between branches, and on the deep, crackling carpet of brown leaves. The sunlight reaches this spot later in the morning than it did earlier in the year, yet with greater ease now that many of the trees are leafless, so at the moment every lingering dew drop, and the splashes from the waterfall, and the ripples in the creek sparkle in the late morning light. Across the creek from me a steady chain of diamonds is dripping from a rock ledge. My thoughtful spot is all a-twinkle, as though it has been dusted in glitter and gemstones and tiny stars.
 Dew Drops photographed by W. A. Bentley |
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From where I'm sitting I can see a bramble bush covered in tiny red rose hips (Rosa canina). These bright little herbs are one of the highest plant sources of vitamin C, and they are ready to be harvested on these cold October days and dried for use in teas and syrups throughout the winter. The wild persimmons (Diospyros virginiana) too, are ripe, and even sweeter now after a frost. While walking this morning I came across a bewildered bunch of blooming violets (Viola papilionacea), who must have mistaken these chilly, sunny days for the beginning of spring. A few of their little purple blossoms are pressing in my dictionary at the moment, waiting to be sent off in letters in the middle of winter as a cheery promise of warmer days.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
- John Keats, To Autumn
On the edge of a field this morning I saw a lingering tassel of goldenrod (Solidago gigantea) that survived the frost. It stood out in beautifully bright yellow against the browns of the bare trees around it. Goldenrod is often accused of causing seasonal allergies, but it is actually ragweed, an unassuming little wildflower that blooms around the same time and in similar areas as goldenrod, that is the true culprit. In fact, goldenrod has been traditionally used to help reduce the symptoms of seasonal ragweed allergies. It's golden flowers can be dried and steeped as an herbal infusion, or its sweet, herbaceous, and slightly bitter flowers can infused in honey. This one last bloom however, will not be dried and turned into an herbal remedy. It is now sitting on my desk in a bright blue vase of crackled glass that sparkles when the sun hits it, a reminder of a beautiful summer.
O hushed October morning mild, / Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief. / Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know... / Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst. / Slow! Slow!
- Robert Frost, October
The other day my 2-year-old nephew and I went for a walk. Such a walk with a little companion is always bound to be wondrous, and this one was delightfully so. We walked back and forth repeatedly over a patch of grass under the poplar tree, laughing happily as brown and yellow leaves crunched under our bare feet. We were listening to the sound of Fall. My walk here today was full of that sound, and the rustling, crackling, crunching rhythm as I trudge through leaf-covered cow paths is pleasantly companionable and familiar. The trees, too, are rustling, the drying leaves whispering to each other just before they fall. A friend once told me that there is an old word for books in a native American language that translates to "talking trees," a name derived from the sound of turning pages and this autumnal sound of wind in the leaves.
"And all at once, summer collapsed into fall."
- Oscar Wilde
Here at my thoughtful spot, the waterfall drowns out most sounds, certainly the gentle sound of rustling leaves, but not all. A woodpecker is keeping up a happy knocking on a tree across the creek from me, too far away and high up for me to tell what kind, but he's small and I see a little splash of read, so I'm guessing he's a downy. He's hopping in circles back and forth and up and down the trunk, high above me in the yellow leaves where the sunlight hits, he must be quite a happy little fellow.
"Delicious Autumn! ...if I were a bird, I would fly about
the earth seeking successive autumns."
the earth seeking successive autumns."
- George Eliot
A breeze must have blown through those treetops just now, for a marvelous dancing flurry of leaves has just fallen. They look like golden snowflakes falling so slowly, as if trying to defy gravity and enjoy their flight for as long as possible. Though I'm in deep shade here as I write, I have only to look up and the sunlight is all dappled golden above me. That canopy that was such vivid green only a month ago, is now saturated with the warmest light, the tree trunks are creamy white in the sunshine, and the leaves are every imaginable shade of yellow. Isn't it lovely that as the weather cools the colors warm?
"How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun."
- Vincent Van Gogh
From the Sketchbook of Beatrix Potter Between the moss and fallen leaves on the forest floor around me, dozens of miniature wonders have sprung up. Patches of delicate, pale pink Lady's Thumb are every where, its new shoots in the spring are edible, and songbirds love the seeds in the autumn. The tiniest toadstools grow in little clusters, they seem very fitting in this setting that is full of the scent of decomposing leaves and rich, damp earth warmed by a companionable and gentle sunshine. Though perhaps they would look more at home in the mists of these early autumn mornings, rather than the warmth of late afternoon. I remember learning once that Beatrix Potter, though best known for her beloved watercolors of rabbits in jackets, was a mycologist, and loved to paint fungi. She would have been very happy in this little thoughtful spot, I think, with such a plethora of interesting subjects to paint. One day I hope to distinguish with confidence between the poisonous and nutritious varieties of of these odd little plants, but for now I believe I shall content myself with attempting to sketch them in their native habitat, rather than bringing them home for dinner!
Late August is purple. I think every season has a color, though a different one in every corner of the globe. When we lived in New England, December was white, here in Tennessee it's something closer to grey. July here is a vibrant, deep, living green, but on an island in Alaska, July was the red of ever lengthening sunsets, the sort that never seem to end until they bleed into daylight. And I'm quite convinced that October will be, no matter where I live, the warmest, earthiest, coziest orange, a color that seems almost indistinguishable from the magical scent of falling leaves and sunshine and homeliness.
But, in this quiet hamlet of rural pastureland, late August is purple.
But, in this quiet hamlet of rural pastureland, late August is purple.
Time is purple, just before night, / When most people turn on the light -
But if you don't it's a beautiful sight. / Asters are purple, and there's purple ink.
Purple's more popular than you think, / It's a sort of great-grandmother to pink...
- Mary O'Neill, What is Purple?
But if you don't it's a beautiful sight. / Asters are purple, and there's purple ink.
Purple's more popular than you think, / It's a sort of great-grandmother to pink...
- Mary O'Neill, What is Purple?
Blackberries My thoughtful spot in August is resplendent with the vivid magenta of ironweed (Vernonia fasciculata) towers, and the violet-indigo of Venus' looking glass (Triodanis perfoliata), tiny star-shaped wildflowers that appear everywhere once you begin to look for them. I'm surrounded by deceptively soft explosions of lilac atop massive, prickly thistles (Cirsium vulgare), which are the gathering places of swallowtails in dancing clouds, and the occasional wandering monarch. As I walked here I harvested, to my great delight, a basket full of dainty purple and white self-heal blossoms (Prunella vulgaris), which, after several years of love and close supervision, are at last growing aplenty along the edges of the pasture. A few late-season red clover (Trifolium pratense) brighten the grass here and there with their plum-colored pom-pom blooms, and even in the last of the summer's blackberries, drooping from sturdy bramble vines over my path, there lurks in the depths of their color a royal, luxurious shade of purple.
For nearly ten years I have been wandering these same acres, each corner and valley and creek are familiar and dear, yet whenever I think I know them by heart, just then, some new discovery appears. It struck me today as I was looking for elderberry (which, now that I think of it, is rather purple too!) not far from this spot, that the sun was hitting a small level plot on the hillside I had never noticed before. Just about the size of a kitchen table, only a tiny plateau between two slopes, it is shaded by a lacy walnut tree and looks made expressly for picnicking. And here in this pleasant place I found the final addition to my purple bouquet, the downy blue mistflower (Conoclinium coelestinum). What an aptly named plant! It does indeed look as though the stems are encased in a soft lavender cloud of mist.
There's more wandering to be done this afternoon, for I'm off to try to find a vine of wild passionflowers (Passiflora incarnata). Just recently I discovered that they are the state wildflower, and their exotic firework blossoms will be the perfect complement to my basket overflowing with purple.
Perhaps I've been delighting in this magic color for a bit too long today... for as I read over this page in my notebook I begin to fear my prose themselves are turning rather purple!
Perhaps I've been delighting in this magic color for a bit too long today... for as I read over this page in my notebook I begin to fear my prose themselves are turning rather purple!
