Ravens sing—are you listening? On Summers Lane, rain is glistening. It’s a lovely sight (and I’m happy all right) walking in this “winter” wonderland.
Gone away are the whales, here to stay are the gales. We wear our fleece vests as birds line their nests. I’m walking in this “winter” wonderland.
In the meadow blackberries begin to bloom. It’s not pretend that spring is on the way. You might say: Are you kidding me? But I’ll say: No, it’s true in this town.
Later on I’ll perspire as I sit by a wood stove’s fire. I’ll face, unafraid, the plans that God’s made while I continue my walks in this “winter” wonderland.
In the forest I can build a tree house, or just a spot to sit and meditate. I’ll enjoy the richness of the air, and if I’m looking might just see a slug.
When it rains, it’s so thrilling—through the drought, water’s spilling. I frolic and play the northern California way as I’m walking in this “winter” wonderland.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Winter on the Mendocino coast is unlike any previous winter I’ve experienced. Blankets of snow are replaced by buckets of rain, and slippery ice by slick mud. Temperatures hover above freezing rather than below, so litter is never swept under the rug of pristine white snowflakes until spring.
A trinity of leaves strewn over the pygmy-poor sand overlap, like family. One is heart-shaped and facing down so that its back veins protrude, forming a miniature tree.
I pass what I presume to be car parts. I am mesmerized by the way four compartments hold water and forest detritus in a rusted engine block as if this were their intended function. The inner workings of a wheel appear to be a clock telling of timelessness.
A pale greenish yellow plastic disc hidden in grass emits a yo-yo-like charm. Even though it is most likely the wheel off a cart, it reminds me how children, when unwrapping presents, often play with the boxes. How they can make dolls out of hollyhock flowers, clothespins or corn husks.
I am offered more presents as I round a bend: a halved pine cone, an axe-chewed bough—its tip an orange flame, a wooden crown fashioned by termites.
My final gifts stand under a small redwood whose needled arms hover as if in blessing. They are fairy-tale mushrooms, otherwise known as amanita muscaria, packaged in brilliant red studded with white. Their graceful gills rise upward to receive their blessing. I, too, have received mine.
Close to the Ides of March, when the winter snow melts in Aurora, Illinois, a drab landscape unfolds in shades of brown and gray. A feeling of impatience wells up within me to experience the brightness of spring, with her wildly colored tresses and riot of movement.
But if I am patient, and look closely at the forest before me, I spot signs of life. A dead log thrills my sense of design with its abstract patterns of ivory, chartreuse and silver created by living decay. Oak leaves shimmer with diseased spots that look radiant against the monochromatic forest floor. A tiny spider catches my eye, and I snap a photo of him before he jumps away. What else can I find?
I behold a glorious display of snowdrops—triune petticoats aflutter in the strong breeze—that have pushed through a season’s worth of heavy mulch despite their delicate appearance. Nearby a tiny caterpillar crawls quickly, his dotted yellow sides undulating with every parallel movement of his suction-cup legs. I even see a green-leaved vine snaking its way up the rough bark of a tree.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
When I made plans to lunch with a friend in an unfamiliar town, I had to look at a map to get my bearings and noticed a forest preserve nearby. Always up for an adventure, I decided to take a little walk after meeting my friend and made sure to bring my waterproof hiking boots.
At first it did, curving around the snow-covered expanse of the lake’s frozen surface. But then the trail split away and I wasn’t sure if I should forge my own path, keeping the lake in view, or follow the fresh footprints of the man I had seen taking the same route. Surely he was circling the lake, too. Following him made sense, since the lake’s edge might be pocked with holes hidden by the snow.
The sun was traveling quickly to the west. Evenings come early this time of year and I didn’t want to be lost in the dark. That’s when I realized the smartphone I was taking pictures with also had a Global Positioning System. Perhaps I could navigate my way back via satellite.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Snow drifts down from the sky like shaved coconut, sweetening the landscape with its whiteness. I pass a melted spot along an asphalt portion of the path—a circle scattered with freshly cut wood chips. Its dark eye stares at me and I stare back, noting its conglomerate composition, which is made of many different stones joined together.
Snowflakes are falling individually and slowly; I can capture their shapes in the lens of my camera. One flake looks like six fir trees laid flat and merged into a single trunk. Another looks like a brittle star floating in an ocean sky. An X-shaped snow crystal begs the question: Is it missing two “limbs” or is it fully formed?
Finally I see a tuft of grass—bright green as if unaware of winter. The snow and ice have created a protective coating around the small outcrop keeping the blades pliable and nourished.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
The theme of my walk repeated itself over and over: entombment. Bits of grass, leaves, sticks, even papers are trapped beneath a layer of ice.
At first this feels stifling, suffocating—but then I begin to notice that each item is breaking free. The maple leaf’s edge is flapping in the fierce wind. A stick creating the body of what appears to be an ice dragonfly is protruding from the clear, crystalline surface. Ochre and green blades of grass are thrusting their swords through tiny openings in the frozen water. And even the thick, yellowish paper pokes its corner through milky, hazy ice.
I realize that when I think I’m stuck, I’m actually being held by God. I am not ready for what lies ahead—not yet. Part of me pushes on, exposed, flailing out into the elements. But Wisdom bids me wait until the sun warms me, until breaking out of my entombment does not harm me. When the ice melts, every part of me is ready to move on, unencumbered.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Near the North Aurora dam there is a big crack in the ice. The crack extends out from the east edge, cutting a diagonal line that ends mid-river, at the mouth of the dam. Water from underneath the ice flows down and over the shallow dam. This crack creates a large triangle, about two hundred feet on its longest side.
I imagine this triangle, this massive chunk of ice, cracking off. How exciting and frightening it would be to see it come crashing down the tiny falls, breaking into smaller pieces. I imagine the noise, the piercing cracks, the pushing of air from the wings of surprised mallards, geese, and herons, and the immense splashes of solid hitting liquid. All of this would take place rather quickly and then things would gradually go back to the way they were.
Sometime in our lives, we are living with a crack. We’re so afraid of a part of us breaking off and flowing down the river. We’re afraid of the repercussions, of getting hurt, of hurting others. But God is with us. Even when the piece breaks off. Even as we gradually get back to whom we once were. Even if we’ve changed and that triangle of us is forever gone, God remains with us.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 