The walks come when they will, when I wake up and make my way to the beach. The tides have their own rhythms, drawn from moon and sun and gravity.
When I stroll the beach, I’m part of the elements, pulled into their orbit, at one with sand and sea.
Time passes slowly. Eternal time, at least for an hour or two.
It’s what I notice first every year, even before the foamy breakers, the spun-sugar sand. It’s the sky: vast and blue and dotted with clouds.
Here at the beach the sky stretches out boldly to the horizon, no curtain of green to obscure it.
Were I to live always beneath such a sky, I’d feel bare and exposed. But when I’m here, for this precious week, it opens me up, enlarges my vision.
Here at the beach, the sky rules.
Watching the light fade last night, I see leaves grow indistinct, dark masses without color.
Searching for bats, I see blurred forms cut through the darkness, visible only when they cross a patch of still-blue sky.
As sunlight vanishes, fireflies rouse themselves from the ground, blink and twinkle as they flutter their way to the treetops.
Closer to where I’m sitting, the deck lights snap to attention. They’ve been storing sunlight all day and now release it.
Two types of night light on an early July evening.
A late walk, not timed for sunset but finding it anyway. There at the end of the street, the end of the neighborhood, the end of the day.
It was not an untrammeled view. Lines and lights and poles obscured it. But maybe, I thought as I snapped, they were the point.
“Stop,” say the red lights. “Savor the colors, the clouds, the setting sun. Make time for them as often as you can.”
Today at 4:51 p.m., the northern hemisphere of our planet officially enters its hottest season. It’s the earliest solstice in 228 years, they’re saying, since George Washington was president.
I’ve been thinking of George Washington lately, what with the discovery of 35 bottles of preserved cherries recently found at his home, Mount Vernon. Now I’ll think of him again, enjoying the longest day of the year, perhaps in Philadelphia, then the capital of these United States. A few months later, he will deliver his farewell address.
But back to the solstice, which is early this year because of leap year and our imperfect calendar. I could have waited one more day for it — savored the anticipation — but there’s no way to stop a celestial body when it has made up its mind.
And so I prepare to drain as much daylight and happiness from this day as I can. It’s the longest one; it can spare it.
(A favorite sunrise shot, the beach at Chincoteague, April 2016.)
Yesterday was a day for wild things. I spotted a doe and a box turtle in the woods, and then, while dining al fresco last evening, was visited by a red-shouldered hawk.
The bird landed on the deck railing, just a few feet from the dinner table, and scanned the landscape. I suppose he was wanting his own dinner, perhaps a chipmunk or squirrel. For a few chilling moments I wondered if it might be me.
The hawk perched for what seemed like forever, long enough for me to slowly turn in the chair and keep my eyes on him, long enough for me to become restless. I had finished my dinner; he’d yet to have his.
My phone was inside, so I missed the chance to photograph him. Instead, I tried to memorize his details: the long, substantial chest; the yellow legs, hooded eyes and beak that meant business. He was completely still as he surveyed the terrain, able to spot the faintest trace of movement.
What impressed me most was his patience. He was prepared to wait all night if need be. His was a patience born of need, the patience of the predator.
(A hawk I photographed several years ago. Last night’s visitor was much closer.)
It’s not cerulean or azure or aquamarine. To describe the sky I saw on yesterday’s walk, we need a new word. I propose bluuuue. Not blue, or even bluuue. This is bluuuue (four ‘u’s) at its purest and most intense. The hue of a cloudless sky.
I have a reason for describing this on Father’s Day. Dad was the king of blue skies. He didn’t seem to notice the clouds, or if he did, he chose to ignore them.
It’s less than three weeks till summer solstice. By 5 a.m. the first birds are singing, and darkness doesn’t fall till almost 9 p.m. At this time of year, light is our constant companion.
Perhaps that’s why the woods appeal. They are, to quote Robert Frost, “lovely, dark and deep.” Though he described a winter landscape, mine is a summery one: oaks, maples and sycamore in full leaf, the path that winds through them sheltered and shady.
What mysteries lie down these trails? What refreshment will they bring? Will the woods be cooler than the street? These are questions I want to answer — and will.
This morning I’m thinking of friendship, especially friendship of long standing. People who go back years and how much they become a part of your life.
I had time to contemplate this on the drive home yesterday, which was up into the mountains where it barely looked like spring, then down into the alleys where spring is in full flower.
Longtime friendship is like that, too, seasons and altitudes, peaks and valleys. Through them all, a long river of connection.
I took an evening walk last night, one week after the eclipse. Without thinking I headed west, toward the setting sun.
I think of our nearest star differently now, having seen it, well, naked is not exactly the word. Exposed isn’t either. Transformed? Chastened? I won’t use Emily Dickinson’s phrase “without its diadem” because a corona is a diadem if ever I saw one.
It’s more that the sun and I (and millions of other people) now have a special bond. We’ve been through something together. So when I watch it sink low in the sky and redden the horizon, I think of when the horizon reddened in every direction. I remember the cool air and the bird song and the glowing white ring.
It’s nice to be reminded of all that.
(Photo: NASA)