Friday, January 19, 2018

Friday Ramble - January's Performing Arts

A brisk north wind cavorts across the roof and rollicks through sleeping trees in the garden, making the frozen oak branches ring like bells. The icicles embellishing the eaves behind the house are abstract glossy confections, streaked with gold and silver and filled with tiny bubbles. Madcap gusts dislodge twigs and shards of ice that skate across roof shingles, then plummet clattering over the eaves into the deep snowdrifts wrapping the house.

Advised to remain indoors until a persistent and annoying fever abates, I slip outside for a few minutes anyway and snap photos of nearby trees and icicles, chimneys and sky.  Wrapped up and looking for all the world like a yeti (or an abominable something anyway), I stand in the wonderfully pebbled snow in the garden and capture a few images, try to figure out how in the world I can describe everything, the burnished hues of the icicles, the emeralds of the evergreens, the blues and violets of the snow, the muted gold siding on my neighbor's kitchen wall, the scarlet of a male cardinal as it flies into the cedar hedge.

The icicles communicate the colors and shapes of this day perfectly without any help from me at all. They rattle, chatter and chime, sing Gilbert and Sullivany duets with the wind occasionally (mostly bits from Iolanthe), pretend they are tubular bells at other times or recite epic stanzas from the Poetic Eddas.  The Norse elements of their performance are particularly appropriate.  It has been cold enough around here in recent weeks for Ragnarök, and at times we have wondered if this is the Fimbulwinter, the walloping winter to end them all.

With all the elemental performances being given this morning, no words, or at least not very many words, are needed from this old hen. I can just stand here in a snowdrift with the camera, get out of its way (and my own way) and let it see the world without trying to impose on its thoughtful and loving journey.

Out of the blue, a thought comes as I turn to go back inside before anyone notices that I am no longer in there, but rather out here.  It is the images that are capturing me this morning, and not me capturing them.  It's a Zen thing.


Barbara Rogers said...

Be well! I love your poetic fever-enhanced descriptions. And I do believe fever opens up neural pathways that speak truth and beauty. I've written poetry when feverish. And then again, I have become normal again and think it sounded like I was on drugs. Our minds do give us such fun!

Kameshwari said...

This was a bit of a different Friday Ramble, that reads like poetry and moves like a series of still-life, slide show images. A breath of fresh air is always good for the soul and a Friday Ramble. Be well.

christinalfrutiger said...

I love the imagery in today's ramble and I especially love the tiny bubbles frozen in the icsicles! I hope scenes like this out your door help you feel better soon!

One Woman's Journey - a journal being written from Woodhaven - her cottage in the woods. said...

Love you
please heal
I know the feeling
of staying inside
and slipping
out for a minute...