Strapping on my yaktrax I hopped out of the car to meet my old friend Benedict Pond (see my post On Benedict Pond). Always in pulling into the parking lot and seeing the pond, there is a familiarity of bonding, of shared experience, of connection. Yep, the pond is rather human to me, a living, pulsing ecological beauty, with life throbbing around her thick frozen top. Interesting I see her as feminine when her name is Benedict.
It was a relief that the sun, another old friend that I have been missing lately, was brightly shining. The two of us set out, the sun and me, my ears delightfully sensitive to the unfamiliar burbling from a melting brook. Signs of thawing! I couldn’t help but quote my favorite Shakespeare lines of the moment…
And this our life, exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in everything.
The natural world gets so quiet in the winter, the birds stop their song, the brooks stop their babble and mostly what I hear is the crunch crunch crunch of the snow and ice beneath my boots. But today I whistled back to the birds that also seemed relieved that the winter was taking a momentary hiatus.
I sat on a bench and wrote in the Pond Journal a poem about lifelessness, being frozen. As I sat there quietly there was a loud cracking sound of minor earthquake proportions. I grabbed the bench to hold on as though the trees were about to come down around my ears. It only lasted a few seconds and to my surprise the sound emanated from the cracking of the frozen pond. A large fissure now ran unevenly toward the other shore from where I sat. I suppose it would be somewhat like an earthquake, a fault in the ice causing a rumble. Disquieting for a moment, so that I forgot to take a picture of my poem to share with you.
But the colors, the blue sky, such a happy relief from the gray, whites and browns, gave delight to my senses. And oh what a blue it was, encouraging me to put away those delightfully creepy Edward Gorey ghost stories we’ve been reading aloud at night, and bring out something with little mischievous elves running through the glens and mists of Loch Lomond. Any suggestions?
I just did a quick search on “glens in Loch Lomond” and there is a trail in Loch Lomond National Park named after Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream! Sounds like I need to put “Puck’s Glen” on my bucket list! Road trip to Scotland anyone?!?
Out my back door the sun is shining
Out the front it’s dark and gray
Storm’s coming and the back door
Doesn’t know it yet.