“O windswept land you know my name. I see it in every yellowed grass, every hurried cloud.”
Our mountain hides behind rapid clouds as a colder air pushes in. While I sit on the back porch warming in a setting sun. Noticing that the yellows that recently graced the desert have gone brown. Change is a given.
There is a brief moment of pensive sadness as I mourn the passing of another season — this constant rushing of time. I begin a baseless argument in my mind, when two ravens fly over weaving about in a flirtatious pattern making tiny squawking sounds. They leave in their wake a kind of joy. A simple reminder that we all need to play, however that may look.
And, as if on cue, a breeze picks up and fills the air with chamisa seeds. Carefree and wild, white and fluffy, they scatter about like snow. A harbinger perhaps of the real snow that will fall in a couple of days. It will be the first significant accumulation of the season. And with it will come the magic that only snow can seem to awaken.
But for now, the sun drops below the horizon and the sky sings with reds and golds and colors unnamed. It is a celebration of this day for all who dare see. And when it is dark, Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn will stack up in the southern sky to herald the night. Each slowly following the sun below the horizon. All is truly movement. All is as it should be. In this, we can know peace.
To quote the gentle soul and poet, Mary Oliver, (who left us this year)
“Ten times a day something happens to me like this – some strengthening throb of amazement – some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.”
Seasons greetings and may your days be ones of attentiveness. Feed your soul.
I look out the window and the desert is all faded yellows and browns. At least those are the predominant colors. The skies are whitened with high clouds. The world, my world, seems in transition.
Oddly, I always seem to slide into a funk after Halloween. Forgetting that this happens every year, until it is upon me. Maybe it's just a bit of grief for the passing of October. Can you grieve a month? Why not. So, I sit here with weighty decisions hovering over my head. (But that's another post. If ever.)
I guess this is just the blues, before shifting into full holiday mode in less than a month. Holidays are ok, in and of themselves, but it seems they are way more complicated than I remember. Again, I am touching on another of many things that plague my thoughts today.
I guess I came here to bitch. But even that seems way too much to ask of this day. So, I will watch the jack-o-lantern shrivel in the afternoon sun and maybe put on some soulful music, something old. Then I'll grab a pencil and draw, something new. Drawing works wonders for the soul. Always has. Trust that.
Pat Greenwell is an artist. A painter and sometimes poet, he has been searching the New Mexico desert for several years now, looking for lost possibilities and probable intentions.
"...mostly stream-of-consciousness stuff, you know...