I almost miss the magic today.
It’s cold — great gusts of wind tearing through the clouds, tossing the treetops. Even in my down parka, I’m shivering.
But I go out anyway.
I walk down to the woods. Tramp through the brush for an hour, trying to catch a little beauty through the viewfinder. But it’s one of those days when the wonder eludes me. The light is thin and gray, the shadows watery and weak.
I photograph ice crystals forming in the moss. A woodland pond full of sky. Still — the photographs seems paler than what I see. Flat, almost.
I head home.
And then, when I’m almost to the fringe of the woods, a fallen log catches my eye. I almost don’t notice it at first, except that there’s a brief break in the clouds and the sun skims off its surface, just long enough for me notice the whorls and wanderings of some bug or beetle or worm, etched into the bark:
I lower myself to my knees and take my time, as if I am reading.
(And maybe I am).
The light hardens. The engravings deepen. I feel, almost, as if I know what they say…
Because it’s true, isn’t it: that we’re all carving stories into the surface of our world? Wearing tracks in the wilderness of our everydays? And those tracks last for a little while, and then fade or rot or blow off as dust.
We are all — believe me — ephemera.
(And also, eternal.)
I run a gloved finger over the weather-smoothed wood. Feel the tracks of some long-ago creature, left like runes.
I walk home with the magic inside of me…
My feet follow the trail out of the woods, and into the Light. ❤