Empty out

In a forest in Lithuania I watch the sun shift through the trees. In the morning the light is thin shafts, pushing through in odd places. Then, near mid day, the snow is warm and wet and the light broad and full. Towards evening it will grow beautiful, the trees and frozen lake low and side-lit in high relief. Days pass. Eventually I have seen the cycle enough to write.

It’s rare, in the happening world, to have enough time to watch the same cycle of light for several days. It’s rare to have enough time to pay attention, to focus on the color of the branches which are a light brown only revealed in mid day, at the right angle. It’s rare to notice the difference between types of tree, to find favorites. It’s rare to walk barefoot in the snow, even briefly.

Rare for me, anyway.

It’s been years since I walked barefoot in the snow across the Vassar campus on my way to class. Years, though fewer, since I spent enough time sitting quietly to feel comfortable with doing nothing. And having found both activities again, it’s comforting to be at home in them, to step out of the heated house without considering my shoes, just curious about the snow and our ability to see the stars. It’s wonderful to say no to an activity and instead watch the light on the lake, watch the way the tree branches rise as the snow drips off of them in the sun. There are metaphors everywhere in these moments, in the uncurling, in the quiet cycles. I try to ignore them, to instead focus on my eyes, on the fly hopping around the curtain tops, on the smell of cedar.

Thus a few days pass, another gift of airplanes and old friends.