An overcast morning, a mild drizzle, September. I am visiting the Park.
Two tables set for breakfast, strangers gathered by chance. She, radiant in early pregnancy. He, with warm smile and gentle manner belying his chosen career. A young love, a gentle conversation. Another table, four lives advanced, rich with experience and memory. Hopeful and excited, pursuing plans for time in this mountain village. Vicki and Neeraj slip between and among us, serving Ethiopian coffee and fruit. The day opens.
Spring is all about youth and new life, but this is another season, approaching Autumn, spring work has been done, provision is made for life to continue.
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In softer tones now we talk, introductions made, well wishes extended. Shared time erasing the initial strangeness. The softer hues of Autumn, yellows and lavender.
There is a dynamic tension in things almost touching—but not quite. An interval, a separation, a distance remains. Present in Art, common in relationships, fundamental with regard to the natural world, fancying ourselves as we do, separate.
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Autumn bounty.
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A quiet day, most staying home out of the weather, the park nearly empty. Easy to linger, looking, composing, reveling in the beauty. My companions off to other destinations, sharing though separate. We each seek this close relationship with nature, striving to discern and express what it is that moves us, what it is that makes us whole.
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Graceful curves.
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“Welcome to our daily miracle” she spoke upon exiting the old truck. The two of them in dress and manor and speech of locals, having witnessed this event many times but never tiring, join the small group of assembled tripods and cameras from distances in the pre-dawn darkness. A disparate group, joined at this time, for this moment. A miracle indeed.
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Low clouds layered like waves between mountain ridges, floating over valleys. High clouds reflecting the yellow and orange of a rising sun as the earth turns into it coming out of the nighttime shadow. No, one would not tire of this. Yes, welcome to our daily miracle.
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These mountains attract people, always have. Despite harsh conditions they came, carrying with them memories and songs of home, longing for a time and place they left. New sojourners too seek something, something present in the lush wilderness, in this dark night, by that rushing stream, in silence to be heard. Perhaps we also are reaching for a time and place we left long ago.
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Higher on the ridge, in fog and wind, hiking Craggy Garden. Cold, surprising for early September. Visitors huddled around the fire in the visitors center. Thinking of the second breakfast, we were happy to greet one another. She, preparing the nursery. He, hoping to be near a bit longer before deployment. Separations to come.
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There is a tension in things almost touching—but not quite.
It doesn’t always come easily, this touching. We like to keep our space, hold back. Cultural perhaps, wariness maybe. But yet, sometimes we do touch, if just for a moment, we connect with each other, with the natural world. Maybe that is all there is, maybe that is enough. Perhaps that is the source of my happiness as I drive down the mountain heading home. Yes, welcome to our daily miracle.