Resurrection Sunday
I thought it would be spring by now: new growth, the circle of life coming back round to the phase of birth and rebirth, carbon dioxide and oxygen exchanging in balanced harmony. A sense of warmth and peace and oneness.
The tulips at my sister's place got totally destroyed by the frost. The buds were almost ready to open, but the cold went all the way through, leaving the leaves darkened and limp. Nipped in the bud, as they say.
A half-inch of hoarfrost at Veedauwoo when I went up Saturday morning. Incredibly beautiful, yes. Conducive to new life, no.
There's so much that IS being renewed in me. But this week has been another of those hard frosts, and the unbearable weight of winter and loss leaves me shivering.
On a happier note, one reason it's better in Wyoming: at Veedauwoo I had the entire trail to myself. I didn't see one other person on the entire Turtle Rock loop. And not just because the morning was thick with fog, either: Mine were the only tracks in the light snow leading in, and mine were the only tracks leading out.
It was maybe one of the most powerful scenes of my life: running the trail, the ponderous, immovable rocks veiled in fog, trees layered with frost, the mud stiffly frozen beneath, cool clean air filling my lungs, a single bird calling out for sunshine, and the stillness. The sense that there was nothing beyond the moment, nothing but the next foot fall and, dimly, the trail ahead.
The tulips at my sister's place got totally destroyed by the frost. The buds were almost ready to open, but the cold went all the way through, leaving the leaves darkened and limp. Nipped in the bud, as they say.
A half-inch of hoarfrost at Veedauwoo when I went up Saturday morning. Incredibly beautiful, yes. Conducive to new life, no.
There's so much that IS being renewed in me. But this week has been another of those hard frosts, and the unbearable weight of winter and loss leaves me shivering.
On a happier note, one reason it's better in Wyoming: at Veedauwoo I had the entire trail to myself. I didn't see one other person on the entire Turtle Rock loop. And not just because the morning was thick with fog, either: Mine were the only tracks in the light snow leading in, and mine were the only tracks leading out.
It was maybe one of the most powerful scenes of my life: running the trail, the ponderous, immovable rocks veiled in fog, trees layered with frost, the mud stiffly frozen beneath, cool clean air filling my lungs, a single bird calling out for sunshine, and the stillness. The sense that there was nothing beyond the moment, nothing but the next foot fall and, dimly, the trail ahead.
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