Fog usually creeps around in the morning, Around curvy mountaintops, it surrounds, it blinds, it overwhelms the morning drive, Til the bright evaporating sun of the day burns it away. But the fog can move in to take the night without warning, In a quiet minute, on a cool December evening. Suddenly, patiently, motionlessly…the cover of heavy fog. Words at my lips powerless to match the mystery of the mood When fog moves over the dark quiet…on a cool December evening. And like the favorite blanket you grip at night, There’s a magnetism, a comfort and reassurance In the way fog sweeps over the dark quiet of the night.
I hope this isn’t too moody for a New Year’s Eve post. I was traveling recently and took this picture of a pier outside my window. I loved the mood of the fog. I hope the mystery of the new year reveals itself to you in moments of hope, joy, and good health. Happy New Year, folks!
This picture is a few years old, and I’ve posted it before, nevertheless, yesterday was cookie time for me. December is the only time of year I use my rolling pin and my cookie cutters, and there’s something sentimental about the whole baking process and tradition that goes back generations.
My work station was considerably messier than the photo, and my legs and back were dying before lunchtime, when I put the cookie dough in the fridge to chill. Fortunately, though, I can look and see the blue light on the dishwasher now telling me it’s done its part in the clean-up, and the kitchen is almost back to normal. The cookies turned out well and the icing was dry last night so I could pack them away before I went to bed. I’ve got other cookies to bake, but still, cookie making might be the most organized part of my life at the moment.
No, it’s not about an afternoon walk in the woods, in the cool air, and the falling leaves.
No, it was night-time. I went outside and searched the sky for meteors and the super moon. It was just me, and a few stars behind wispy clouds moving by on a mostly clear sky. I had to look straight up (directly above me) to find the moon. A beautiful round full moon. The moon was still, stationary still, as if it was the backlight, and the clouds and the heavens drifted over and around it.
I listened in the dark to the quiet of a sleeping neighborhood, and overhead, to the wind, and how it stirred rustling leaves on the tall oak trees. I waited and observed, listened and was alert to, signs of any night-time critters that might be moving serendipitously in the brush around me. A fox, a raccoon, some deer? No, no critters. Just the sound of the wind jostling the leaves, and the light of the moon shining above me. A moment in time. A November state of mind.
I have seen the morning Burning golden on the mountain in the skies Aching with the feeling Of the freedom of an eagle when she flies — Kris Kristofferson __________________________
I haven’t been writing much lately. It’s like I forgot how to type words. I forgot the freedom. The freedom of just typing words. We don’t ever want to lose the freedom of just typing words, do we?
“I have seen the morning burning golden…” These have been some of my favorite words for years and years. Some of my favorite words of all time. Why? Because of the way they sound, for certain…morning burning golden, aching with the freedom. Don’t they sound the way words were created to sound? And the picture? The picture they put in my mind? A picture I look up to see in the morning, on every good morning. I wonder what those big birds think when they circle up there. Do they think, oh whoah, that’s a long way down? Or do they look down from above the tallest branches of my favorite oak trees, and do they see it as their domain? Their purview? Their reach? Do they see it like I see the plants and trees that surround me? The plants and trees I look out and see affectionately as my own.
All our souls matter. Souls like Kris Kristofferson’s for sure matter. He gave us the gift of beautiful words and music that reaches down to the very gut of our existence. There’s God, who’s above all. And there’s the stuff of birds and trees and good picking guitar strums and words and souls. They all matter. Beautiful words matter. Beautiful words have a special place in our universe.
Thanks to Kris Kristofferson for his beautiful words.
____________________________________________________ Lovin’ Her Was Easier (1971) by Kris Kristofferson
When I was a kid, it seemed like summer got a running start at the 4th of July, and then reached its pinnacle in August. I remember August bringing the hottest days of the season, and the warmest, most restless nights. When you kicked the sheets and struggled for sleep with windows left open for cross-ventilation…crickets chirping outside and few cooling breezes to bring relief. It was the time for learning to swim underwater, for cook-outs with family friends (picnic tables, the public grill, and plumes of smoke that smelled of burgers, hot dogs, and charcoal). It was an August day when we went to the lake in the mountains. Surely, it was an August night when they wrote the song Summertime.
Now I’m all grown up, and then some, and August feels more like a cheerless transition.
But…the trees stand green, and the grass and shrubs hold strong, in the face of a merciless June and July. You can’t see it in the picture, but horses ran along a nearby fence, and stalks and stalks of green corn poised robust and plentiful enough to make my paltry six already-picked and drying corn plants at home stand a bit taller with envy. Sunset at 7:30 on a late August evening still has a bit of summery grace.
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On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories. Credit: The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.
Fed and rested, after an afternoon bouncing in these waves, I can savor the drama of watching from above, at a window safe indoors. Beach hair and a vacation state of mind, and the allure of an electrical storm out at sea.
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On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories. Credit: The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.
I wonder if it’ll rain in the morning. I think I want it to rain. It’s not raining tonight. The sky, it’s the summer version of a snow sky, cloudy gray hiding the stars and the moon behind treetops. But my inner ear senses a hushed sound…soft and distant, almost-gushing…like raindrops.
I believe in grace, and I believe in souls, and I believe in God, and the holy refreshment that comes when we open our eyes from our dreams, and hear the pleasant patter of a gentle morning shower.
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On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories. Credit: The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.
My dad joked about his ‘friends’. I knew the friends he had at home, and this had nothing to do with them. Every time he looked at me and smiled about his ‘friends’, my mom rolled her eyes impatiently. I didn’t get it. I had no idea what he was talking about.
I had a tank of frogs then, pet frogs you could say, in the room that served as the guest bedroom. It was probably the only spot I could find to locate the tank. And my parents used to visit regularly, several times a year, and would stay a few days to a week.
I didn’t know this, but apparently, in the middle of the night, the frogs were vocal. Yeah, what you’d imagaine…ribbit, etc. My dad would hear them, and ribbit back. Yes…these were his friends. My dad was amused, my mom not so much. So this was the scene. It was 3 am or so, the room (somewhat familiar and somewhat foreign) pitch dark, and the ribbiting started. My mother wasn’t charmed by the sound. She wasn’t the camping type, and didn’t find the sound of nearby frogs lulled her to sleep. She pictured frogs hopping around the room. That wasn’t bad enough, but then my dad would start ribbiting back to them. So she’d lay in the dark with the sound of frogs nearby, and the imagined visual of frogs hopping around her, and this guy next to her making his own frog sounds.
My dad thought it was funny. I thought it was very funny. My mom did not think it was funny at all. It wasn’t easy, but we found another spot for the frogs.
I can’t honestly say I would appreciate the sound of frogs ribbiting nearby in the middle of the night. The frogs pictured here, fuzzy photos through dewy glass, don’t live in my house, and they don’t ribbit. So it seems, anyhow.
Almost another lifetime…more than 15 years ago. But these are the memories that bring whimsy and a smile to our lives.
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On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories. Credit: The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.
None of the words in my head tonight are words I should write. They’re words I’d delete in the morning. A glass of wine, and they’re the best words I have for the night. My best unspoken words.
[Okay…last night it wasn’t unspoken.]
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On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories. Credit: The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.
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