Serenity arrives in the form of candle light greeting the dawn of day before the sun does. It is writing in my journal in the dark of early morning peering through frozen window panes. I reach into the momentary increases, the subtle inching of new day light.
There are not many sounds in winters symphony, it’s a silence that sings you into hymn. Crackling candle wick and stove. Steam, if you listen close enough. Frozen waves dancing out on the lake. At times you can hear the ice laugh in its shift; calling out from one end of under world water to another…
The sun creeps slowly above the blue hue, hanging over snow covered peaks. A strip of Marigold will rocket it’s way across the mountain plains for but just a glimpse – you are luckiest to bare witness to this momentary ethereal masterpiece.
We had captured it, but only once – we felt the edges creeping through our bones like skimming gold through a view finder. We ran into the icy breath of morning, across the bridge and down the gentle beach, where we watched the Holy golden halo touch the landscape, embracing our home mother mountain, the seven sisters sun brushed yellow. We named this morning Trapper Jack’s Sunrise, and in our honoring were overcome with euphoric bliss.
The vibrancy will arrive just after 8:00am, when the water’s just starting to boil and your toes are warming by the same homestead heating wood stove. There is even a pine tree stationed direct through the front screen window, a slight head tilt to the left from the fire. It has a bold engraving of an exclamation mark, as if to announce the legacy of this moment, the importance of now, and holy shit, look around you. It is a permanent reminder from Earth Mother, of how remarkable this all truly is.
Cold floor of an old home. Blue, grey.
Green window panels.
You couldn’t make this up.
Sunset glistening against icy waters – a sliver toe running, remaining
It reminds me of the waxing gibbous moon.
And there is blue and pink against Fitzy, and a rising golden hue – stretched across as a slight strip upon his South-East peaks (we have a delicate view).
And I watch my lover in the winter evening, under the still aspen, a starlight glow. A minus -10 kind of evening, you know, up in the North November snow.
Candle light dinner followed by bed time roasting. Blue, grey floor. Cold night. Brown shoes. What a beautiful life, looking out this door.
If only you could see what I see.
Oh how that simple point cycles like the flow of the ancient river. I surrender. Home, my state of resonance.