Last night I took a photo of the setting sun as its brilliant deep orange rays filtered through the trees on the edge of Stover State Park. I’m always questing to capture even a fraction of the unutterable beauty we encounter almost every day, especially when we walk. But my photos, although serviceable, only occasionally capture magic. Yesterday evening? I managed to capture a sunset akin to a rainbow, but not one.
My eyes keep calling me to return to this photo. My rational mind tells me I’ve taken a bazillion of these photos before. But for whatever reason, this particular one speaks to me in a way the others didn’t. Perhaps it’s the aubergine hues. They’re not often found spontaneously in sunsets. At least they’re not usually present in my photos of sunsets.
This photo has a magical tinge to it. That’s the only way I can describe it. Or maybe it’s not magical – maybe it’s more of a mystical vibe – almost as if I should almost be able to see into another realm if I look at it ‘just right.’
Road Trip
I had a chance to take a road trip today that took me west along Route I-80. As I passed through some of the mountains that ground and hold space for us here in Pennsylvania, I found my perspective shifting to such an extent that it felt like I was literally in the midst of a multi-dimensional work of art. The color palette selected by Mother Nature, coupled with what felt/looked like a skewed aspect to my depth perception almost made me pull onto the berm.
It didn’t look real. Or maybe it was all so acutely real that it made me ache with a longing I couldn’t identify.
I didn’t pull over. And I had no way of even trying to capture the essence of what I was experiencing in those moments. The best I can do is try to capture it with words, but even then, it just sounds like a paltry description of unutterable beauty as seen in my peripheral vision.
If you read my post from last night, you know that I spent many consecutive hours yesterday immersed in a captivating novel that uniquely weaves together the lives of trees and humans. Naturally, given my love affair with nature and Pachamama (a Quechua word for Mother Earth – and more), I’m loving it.
It is no wonder the book, The Overstory, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. It’s an amazing feat of complex storytelling – and I’m saying this while remaining extremely aware of the fact that I’m only half way through it.
What you didn’t know is that I was thwarted in my desired illustration of the post by a 13 hour delay in my photos being ‘sent’ via email from my iPhone and their arrival to my laptop. (I know. Old news. I can’t figure out why sometimes they come through immediately and other times it takes them a day to make the trip.)
But arrive they did, just after noon today. Finally.
Far From Alone
I guess I should be grateful. The delay gave me the opportunity to harvest two posts out of one luscious, Labor Day afternoon spent perched in the middle of Tohickon Creek.
Because while I spent the afternoon in delectable solitude, I was far from alone.
Of course, there was and is the relentless movement of the creek itself. She is alive. Her waters flow around boulders and under tree limbs and through sluices of haphazardly strewn rocks and fallen branches, each maneuver amplifying or quelling her contribution to our conversation.
Her voice has the ability to reassure and center me in a way that keeps me in a swirled state of awe and gratitude. Day after day. No matter how many times I visit her, or at which point in her winding, ox-bowed, seemingly meandering journey to the Delaware River I approach her, she somehow manages to speak directly to my soul. Sometimes I go to her knowing she will wash away my very human concerns, and other times, inexplicably, I resist entering her presence. Perhaps I’m embarrassed; maybe I feel unworthy.
Beyond Her Presence
But beyond the undeniable presence of the Spirit of the Tohickon itself, there’s never been a visit to her shores that I’ve not been greeted by at least one and usually a myriad of other beings.
Yesterday was no exception. Nor was today. Nor, for that matter, was a day last week.
Last Thursday, an osprey made sure I noticed it flying upstream by calling out to me just as it passed overhead. I thought it a bit odd that it called out at that moment, but wrote it off to good luck on my part. The encounter felt a bit more like a determined bid for my attention when the bird did exactly the same thing on its way back downstream, about 20 minutes later.
I’m sure it would be no surprise if I told you that the appearance of Osprey held astonishing significance to me and reinforced a message I’ve been receiving for, well – one could argue at least six months. In fact, I’m almost ashamed to admit that until Osprey showed up last week, I’d actually forgotten the initial onslaught of pointed messages I’d received back in March, although I had noticed and heeded other cameos in recent weeks.
Yesterday’s Companions
So while I descended into the ‘understory’ of The Overstory, I nevertheless maintained a slightly heightened awareness of my peripheral vision. A number of times I sensed creatures around me, riding the currents, slipping around boulders, but didn’t see much other than the occasional little feeder fish or water spiders skimming the surface like speed skaters.
As quickly as that, a head popped out of the water, its red tongue tasting the air. The currents buffeted its slight body and made it waver as it held its head up. I said hello and asked if I could take its photo. It answered in the affirmative, as you can see from above.
I couldn’t zoom in as closely as I would’ve liked, but my sense was that it was a water snake. A youngster, I was pretty sure, as I’ve seen them grown to much (much) larger dimensions than this little guy. I was pleased ‘serpent’ had decided to pop in and say hi.
Last Night
Later, as I sat by the fire and continued my immersion into my book, my peripheral vision again kicked in – despite the competing bids for the attention of my rods and cones. (The firelight flickered and danced, yet I was also focusing the laser-like beam of my phone’s flashlight onto the pages to read into the night.)
Surprised, I trained my phone’s tractor beam to my right. Just outside the stones stacked neatly to create a firepit sat this wonderful toad. We had quite the conversation, as it was not in the least afraid of me, and I felt its presence acutely. I wondered if it was a little chilly, since it seemed determined to explore the spaces between the firepit stones, which must’ve felt warm and toasty.
Fire Buddy – Photo: L. Weikel
Shortly after my little friend made its way wherever, I decided it was time to find my way home as well. It was quite a day of amphibian love yesterday – enhancing my solitude, by letting me know I wasn’t really alone at all.
