 The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; - John Clare, A Shepherd's Calendar: November The morning mist is frosty. The dried seed heads of the iron weed are encased in a feathery shroud of white, and they glitter in the early morning light. The air is cold and bright, and all the world seems awake and gleeful and scattered with twinkling dust. I'm in somewhat unfamiliar woods, I've walked them before but I don't know them like my woods at home, so there's an air of discovery around every turn: a little bridge to span a marshy patch of trail, a bramble of wild roses covered in hips, a little grove of cattails. They all come as a surprise, little gifts of wonder on this most stunning of frosty mornings.
A mocking bird is trying to balance herself on a swaying wild hydrangea, the beautiful dried flower head is tossing even in this gentle breeze, yet she is holding her seat gracefully. Her long grey tail flicks this way and that as the branch moves, the only sign that she is having to exert any energy at all to keep her delicate perch.
The frost flowers have bloomed in abundance this morning. The delicate tendrils and ribbons that cling to the dead stalks are utterly marvelous, and every one unique. I wonder what it would be like to watch them form, to see that thinnest, most delicate layer of frost twist and curl out from the stalk and create these magical little clusters of ribbon-like ice. November has always seemed to me the Norway of the year.-Emily Dickinson  I love how the frost makes everything sparkle, yet at the same time hides things, just a bit, from clear sight. It softens the edges of the dried grasses, and accentuates the broad veins of the fallen leaves, and harmonizes in such a bright yet gentle way all the colors of the landscape. But there are some colors it cannot soften, for here, lurking patiently beneath a twining profusion of grey-green, frost-embroidered leaves, is a spark of red. A brilliant, red, still-blooming honeysuckle, it seems a reminder that summer has only just fallen asleep. This ice-encased flower must be one of the most beautiful discoveries at this misty morning thoughtful spot.    Autumn is a second Spring, when every leaf is a flower. - Albert Camus  I am sitting on a bench overlooking a small duck pond, which is currently divested of its few waddling inhabitants, as it is late afternoon and they know by habit that if they wander over to a certain house in the neighborhood about this time they are ensured a hearty dinner. This sun in bright and mellow, "the maturing sun," Keats called it, and that seems to describe it perfectly today, it is not exuberant, but constant. Above me is a canopy of brilliant orange, made even more intense by the sunlight, and just across the street is a row a gold. As long as autumn lasts, I shall not have hands, canvas, and colors |
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Another year is upon us and it is time to seek out new challenges, and mine is to find Thoughtful Spots everywhere. I have recently moved from my quite rural nook to the outskirts of a busy downtown, and, though sorely missing my pathless woods and lonely pastures, I am discovering that quiet thoughtful spots, little corners of beauty and wonder, can be found wherever you may be.
Always be on the look out for the presence of wonder.
- E. B. White
So join me on this new adventure of searching for a little hermitage, surrounded by the beauty of nature, to study and observe and marvel at, every month. Whether it be an old log in the hundred acre wood, a mossy rock beside a waterfall, or a path to the grocery store through maples that are just beginning to turn, these thoughtful spots must be sought after and discovered, wondered at and then shared, as they teach us to never take for granted the glorious minutia of daily life, and the overwhelming beauty with which God has filled the world around us.
It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road and, if you don't keep your feet, there's no telling where you might be swept off to.
- J. R. R. Tolkein
Many complaints have been made against the hot and muggy southern summers, but I have always loved them. There's a calm and stillness in the humid air that is not as unpleasant as it's made out to be, and provides a lovely contrast to three other seasons who's scents and breezes are filled with eagerness and expectancy and energy. So I really do love a southern summer, I love the tall iron weed and the garden's abundance and the few, brief months in which there are leaves on the black walnut trees. But this summer I experienced what I have not seen for many years, a New England summer, and it was spectacular.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes /Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days /More thick than rain he showers his rays.
- Robert Lewis Stevenson, The Summer Sun
A few quiet corners of New England beach and bike path became my Thoughtful Spot this August. The colors struck me the most, just the endless, shimmering shades of blue would be enough to instill wonder, but then there is the neon pink of the beach plum flowers and the dusky red of their fruit against deep, green leaves and many-hued pebbles and fallow sand and suddenly this seaside world is a vibrant, exuberant tumult of of perfectly clashing colors.
My grandmother and I went shelling at my New England Thoughtful Spot. This odd promontory of land that wraps around a little harbor has provided us with many treasures in years past, and today it turned up the rarest find yet, a tiny shard of tumbled blue beach glass. The tide nearly trapped us on a cluster of rocks between the beach and the path - isn't it marvelous to watch the tide come in? It seems as though you can see each wave inching just the slightest bit closer, ever so slowly, but if you stop watching for only a moment, the beach is suddenly, all at once, several feet narrower that it was before, as though the waves are playfully teasing you, and creeping up while you aren't looking.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
- Ben Johnson, The Noble Nature
There's a wonderful feeling of smallness that only the ocean can inspire. I stood at the top of the seawall, staring first down at a gentle surf collapsing against stones and dissolving into clouds of raindrops below me, then out to the indiscernible horizon It is impossible not to think that every worry or trouble is somehow less significant, for if I, in all my vastness and power respond in an instant to His word, the ocean seems to say, how can your cares be too great?
It was summer, and the days were perfectly warm and breezy, the sort of days that seem to demand and deserve to be spent wholly out of doors. On the rare occasion when it seemed necessary to be inside for a while, the sunshine peered in through every window, as if searching for company and wondering why everyone wasn't out enjoying its exuberance. It was a summer of discoveries, adventures, and great wonders, of meandering down wooded trails, and stumbling upon breathtaking mountainscapes with little wooden benches perfectly situated to view them. This was the summer of 2019, two months of which I spent in a tiny town nestled in the Swiss Alps where a rather lovely thoughtful spot can be found.
This thoughtful spot was introduced to me by a friend when a few of us set off for a walk on an early summer evening. We turned by a fountain down in the town and started up a road, quite a steep road and as narrow as a sidewalk. We lumbered up this hill, admiring the views of the town gradually sinking below us to the right, and little chalets built against the supporting mountainside to the left, and then we reached the top, to be met by a barrier of trees and scruffy underbrush, which did not seem a terribly exciting vista at all. But then we rounded a corner.
Settled on the edge of a grassy field, surrounded by foreign pink and yellow wildflowers interspersed with familiar lacy yarrow and tiny self-heal blossoms, just off a little footpath shaded by a still-blooming elder, was a bench. It was one of those perfectly shaped wooden benches, the kind you can sit on comfortably for a long while, and you could smell wild mint every once in a while when you sat there, though I never could discover where it grew. In front of this bench, just two steps away, was a very steep slope down to the little town again, and straight out in front of it was a truly majestic view. That evening we wandered further around the tree line to see a tiny sliver of Lake Geneva, far below and away from us, and stayed to watch it turn to a bright red crescent in the sunset. But that first walk was far from the last time I visited this thoughtful spot. For it was a wondrously beautiful place to pray, to read of great ideals, to write letters to the people I love best, to think, and to marvel. It also became the site of a rather painful injury when I discovered a old metal tram rail hidden in the grass by tripping and cutting my knee on it. The yarrow and self-heal were my faithful friends then, and helped turn an ugly gash into a now fading scar.
I often wonder who is sitting at that thoughtful spot now, though I have no doubt that it is beloved by someone and its peaceful solitude is enjoyed by many. It's easy, though now two years later, to let my thoughts drift to a sweater discarded in the sun's warmth, cheery wildflowers, resplendent purple and blue mountains, and a little wooden bench from which to enjoy it all. A great many memories can be summed up in a photograph, and so it always makes me smile to see that, though still in Switzerland where I sincerely hope it is the favorite spot of many other thinkers, my beloved thoughtful spot of yesteryear also resides, quite happily, at the top of this page.
I often wonder who is sitting at that thoughtful spot now, though I have no doubt that it is beloved by someone and its peaceful solitude is enjoyed by many. It's easy, though now two years later, to let my thoughts drift to a sweater discarded in the sun's warmth, cheery wildflowers, resplendent purple and blue mountains, and a little wooden bench from which to enjoy it all. A great many memories can be summed up in a photograph, and so it always makes me smile to see that, though still in Switzerland where I sincerely hope it is the favorite spot of many other thinkers, my beloved thoughtful spot of yesteryear also resides, quite happily, at the top of this page.
