And then, in the clearing, there was an old radio. I thought I might travel through time and imagined I heard the strains of some dusty jazz standard on the breeze. But I was mistaken. It was just white noise.
Despite the fresh beginning that the New Year brings, come January (in the north country), it can feel that the world has been dead for quite a long time. The landscape appears monochromatic, rather bleak. I turn to the seeds – always full of hope – the subtle grays, browns, and shades of white that form the winter palette – and take heart in the knowledge that every winter eventually turns to spring.
Monday night it snowed another 6 inches. Tuesday morning, the sun showed up in full force. Snow was melting so fast – like the entire spring thaw condensed into time lapse. Huge chunks of snow pelted the rooftop all morning in a sky-is-falling symphony.
In twelve short hours, all six inches of snow had been transformed into rushing, dripping, exuberant, flowing WATER and the sun set with the satisfaction of a job well done.
The relentless bluster of this winterspring season calls for an old-timey effect. Something that expresses an intimate knowledge of hardship. Of cold so deep it’s written on the bones and haunts summer’s dreams with their rattling.