TAKING COMFORT IN FAMILIARITY

 

As the seasons evolve, there's a comfort in familiarity.  Each day we get a chance to see the changes that have arrived overnight on our doorstep. Looking daily out the same windows, or driving the same roads, we learn when to expect the yellow forsythia, when the jonquils emerge from the leaf litter, and when red bud trees blossom in deep magenta. In my neighborhood in the North Carolina Piedmont, all these faithful Spring harbingers are on display now, even though the wind is high, the air chilly and we're in sweaters. Later, in not too many days, the forsythia blooms each will become a leaf cluster in bright citron; the jonquils and daffodils will wither leaving long drooping stems and leaves to decay; and the irregular branches of the red bud will sprout heart-shaped leaves that gradually turn dark green. It's always something to look forward to, these changes.  

The light and sounds change too.  In winter the bare trees don't buffer the whistle of the train across the woods.  It's loud and long, one of my favorite sounds as it fades.  The winter sun is often brighter than later in the year, unfiltered, and the night sky darker.  The stars themselves are closer and the air more transparent. In summer the thick warm moisture-laden air dims their sparkle. 

Daylight Savings begins tonight, and we'll get an extra hour of daylight.  I'm not ready for that.  I've been cherishing early nights and wool throws in the morning.  March seems too early for long days.  

There's something reassuring about the seasons. I am glad we live where we have some of all four, even though we could use a better balance between our humid summer and snowless (this year) winter. How is it where you live?  

Enjoying the movement between seasons makes me think of Claude Monet (1940-1926) painting the same scene at all times of the day and year, capturing how our perception changes with the light:  his Water Lilies, the Rouen Cathedral, and his series of Haystacks.  I wish I could go to Paris to see them! The Haystacks to me are the most awakening: sheaves of barley and wheat in the morning sunlight, at close of an autumn day, at the end of summer, at sunset, over 25 different light effects in all.  Even the most ephemeral changes catch his eye; a haystack frosted white before dawn, the same haystack under a light pink frost at sunset, then covered with a gentle snow on another day. A fellow Impressionist, Camille Pissarro, said, "These canvases breathe contentment."   

Haystack in Winter, 1891

That's how I feel so many times when I'm outdoors--content.  It's wonderful to live in the same place for a long time.  We have been in our house for 21 years.  We've seen cedar trees grow to 120 feet high.  Small beeches are now a grove.  I know where to find crevices of moss and when the wild daisies will bloom.  I know how much rain causes the creek to overflow and how much uproots a tree. 

We can have the same familiarity with our neighborhood, a nearby river, most any favorite place.  We can watch how the moon moves across the sky, how the sun makes shadows on our walls, how the rain hits our windows.  We recognize the bird sounds that wake us.  If we garden, we watch the seeds that sprout on our windowsills before the ground is warm.  

As Spring arrives this year, let's live in the present and luxuriate in what the season brings. Let's be mindful nature lovers.     Love, Nina Naomi