Raining again last night, like every night, and the roads this morning dark with it. Then the sun comes out, a bright white glow that lights up the trees and warms the road until clouds of team rise from it. Beside the road are gnarly trees bare of leaves, their branches knotted and reaching for the sky. Beside them stand the perennials lush and green, glorious in the abundance of winter. There’s a stark beauty at this time of the year. A few weeks ago I was walking Rigby in the cool and damp and looking about me. For a few moments it was clear, the sun briefly exposed before the clouds drifted by it. I thought of the old Mamas and the Papas classic, California Dreaming: “…all the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey…”. The leaves were turning then, and many were that beautiful russet brown. In places they had fallen. I looked upon it remembering seasons upon seasons when the leaves would fall and gather in thick mounds beneath the trees. As a child you would swish your feet through them; as an adult curse the extra work they made. We walked and my mind wandered, pleased to be here and witness again to this change of season, glad to appreciate the beauty of nature and feeling somehow enlarged by it. So often you see these things, but they are backdrop only, they don’t register. There is a wonder to all of this though, the eternal progression of seasons and nature following the course it ever has, oblivious (largely) of us.
I suppose this might be the time to make mention of the newly introduced carbon tax, but I can’t be bothered except to say that anyone who opposes it is a mug. In any case they’ll come around. Me, I feel at peace. It’s hard to feel off when things look so pretty, and when you swallow the wonder of it. For now it gives me clarity to, what’s right, what’s not, how to act. Long may that remain.