The urge to write hasn’t appeared often in my life of late. Every now and again, though. A friend posted this image on Facebook with the observation, “love the simplicity of this!” Something in the image and that thought gave rise to these words.
Winter is like that, the end of a pendulum swing from desert. Stark. Soul baring. Beautiful in the way of other things that don’t like to be touched yet cannot be ruffled. It plays with the words ‘pristine’ and ‘barren’ in tones that sound more like ‘poignant’ and ‘pregnant’. Something more is there… just not now, or yet.
For me these landscapes are less about what the eyes see than what the ears hear. They come alive in the gentlest breeze with rustling whispers. Maybe it is, after all, not about the land? I can’t see an image of either without recalling what the air sounds like when snow or gravel crunch under foot. And how the extremes of cold and heat mount so similar an assault on the nose with every intake of breath.
It’s a paradox to discover infinity where one thinks everything has been stripped away, but that is the nature of doorways to otherness. Infinity is what you experience when you see into the singularity that is your soul.
For me these landscapes are less about what the eyes see than what the ears hear. They come alive in the gentlest breeze with rustling whispers. Maybe it is, after all, not about the land? I can’t see an image of either without recalling what the air sounds like when snow or gravel crunch under foot. And how the extremes of cold and heat mount so similar an assault on the nose with every intake of breath.
It’s a paradox to discover infinity where one thinks everything has been stripped away, but that is the nature of doorways to otherness. Infinity is what you experience when you see into the singularity that is your soul.
Share your thoughts