Replenishing the Well

First off, a huge thank you to all who commented on my IWSG post last week.  So many thoughtful responses, so much support—I can’t begin to share how much you helped.  And there, in the midst of all that encouragement, Misha Gericke said “... Usually the radio silence from your muse means it's time to refill those creative wells of yours. So do some other stuff you never get time for.”  Right.  Why didn’t I think of that?  Because more hours at work, along with life circumstances, have conspired to eliminate much of the time I had up until a year ago, so I haven’t been out doing what I usually do to court inspiration.

Duly reminded by Misha, I strapped on my hiking shoes late Friday afternoon, grabbed the Nikon and took a quick walk through a reservation a few towns over.  The place isn’t new to me. I’ve included photos from it on Middle Passages before.  But I don’t get there often and it’s just fresh enough for me that my eyes open wide whenever I go.  

This time I arrived in the late afternoon, too early for optimum sunset light, but in good time to enter the woods to the squeal and chatter of birds…different from the ones occupying my backyard.  Mostly, I’ve walked this place in the fall, so I've never seen the rhododendrons blooming pink along the paths, although they are what I’d expect in early June. Their white-blossomed cousins flowering amidst the deep woods however, were a surprise. Our long winter left its mark on the place, upended trees leaning against others, their root systems creating walls of earth that towered over me, sawdust and stacked logs evidence of  recently cleared paths. Emerging into the sun, I made my way to a refurbished boathouse, and breathed deep, watching the lazy river track back to an invisible ocean a few miles away, before heading back through the brush.  

We’d had a big rain the day before, and a brook running through the deep woods kept up a running commentary that accompanied my footsteps.  I’m not sure I knew that tributary was there before, but its chatter led me to a lone picnic table in a shady glen below the path, green with moss and damp, where vines of poison ivy colored tall tree trunks. The stream rippled and surged through miniature waterfalls as it rushed over stepping stones, and I paused.  It’s a place one might encounter a flicker of movement and imagine the  presence of a nymph or a water sprite, a leprechaun or a gnome.  

The light was kind of flat, the pictures only so-so.  But when I climbed back into my car, I understood what’s been missing in my life. Variety.  Novelty.  Difference.  

 

Perhaps you read my relief in this post. All it took was one walk to feel my mind revving up. I'm thinking the dead battery in there only needs a jump-start, instead of a total replacement.

What a Difference Some Days Can Make

Last week, you may recall that when I took that walk with my friends, for what ever reason, my mind wasn't in the game. So, the camera remained in the car and I trudged along through sun-filtered woods, to the boathouse and along the meandering river, mentally kicking myself for leaving it behind. Perhaps I exhausted myself with all that internal angst, which is why later I fell asleep. Whatever.

Anywhooo, it did occur to me during our trek, that I’ve taken quite a few pictures of the same areas over the last several months, and that perhaps a change of venue is in order. Even though it’s twenty minutes away and requires a bit of forethought, the North River, the scene of last week’s trudge, seems like it could be a nice place to greet the day.

Yesterday, I didn’t make it there by dawn, which is now a “stretch” goal for sometime over the next couple of weeks. At 7:15 though, I hopped into the car, realized I was almost out of gas, refilled, got stuck behind a school bus and then encountered a detour which added about five miles to the trip, before arriving at Norris Reservation somewhat disgruntled about two hours after sun up—which ended up being just fine.

Sometimes, autumn light can be forgiving



Mill Pond




Boat House




North River



The Cookies Look Like Hell, but they Taste Okay

Here’s the deal. I could write about the morning walk I took with friends through the reservation; the way the river drifted like slow glass through motionless cattails until two kayakers (one with a dog no less), dimpled the water as they paddled by. I could tell you how we shivered in the 59 degree shade until we emerged in a clearing where a shingled boathouse rests in full sun—and that I would have ransomed my cat for a cup of coffee plus an hour stretched out on the built-in bench lining the rails. Instead we kept walking.

I could tell you about the boardwalk that meanders through the low areas in the woods and how it heaved and tilted like a drunk stumbling across the pond—we weaved and leaned as a result, and how, on the edge of the path, amid a rippling forest of green wetland foliage, one friend found a brilliant red blossom.

Next, I could describe the after-walk cup of coffee I finally drank in a small-town Starbucks wannabe, and how I thought the caffeine-buzz resurrected me. Through its electric-charge I drove home, and then remembered, backed out and visited two banks, the post office, and returned to our chilly house to write this post. With a comforter pulled over my shoulders and the computer on my lap, for the first time in the eighteen months since I’ve been pseudo “at home,” I fell dead-dog asleep—in the middle of the day. No kidding.  It's possible there were snores involved.

I could tell you all that, and I guess I just did. But I’ll add this. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, after twiddling around reading blogs, organizing photographs, picking up the house and deciding that the only way the day would be salvaged was to bake chocolate chip cookies, that I came-to enough to produce this post—which distracted me.  Darn it all, I didn't put in enough flour. 

Some days are just like that.

Reflecting on Things