Sunset over Arcata: the view from our living room window.
The afternoon sun shines gently down, warming my face and lending a golden glow to everything it touches.
As I walk along the few blocks home from school, my eyes wander to take in the cars, old and new(er), coated in a layer of dust and pollen, the cardboard boxes marked "FREE" full of junk, the recycling containers waiting by the curb.
The boards of the fences are weathered, the woodgrain stands out strongly, and the paint on many of the houses is worn and sometimes peeling.
There are gardens of vegetables, and many gardens of flowers that spill their brilliant bounty into the sidewalk.
The colors and textures arrest the eye: vibrant reds, yellows, oranges, blues, and purples; satiny petals that are sometimes velvet-soft.
The crisp aroma of ripe pears mingles with that of the newly-crushed leaves underfoot. A little farther on, a straggling blackberry beckons, lusciously ripe: fat, dark, and juicy.
I reach out to touch it, inadvertently bruising the tender skin - my finger comes away sticky. I absentmindedly put it in my mouth; savoring the heady taste/aroma: it is almost too ripe - a reminder that summer is coming to an end.
I turn the corner, cross the street.
The sun shines brighter, warming me; I take a deep breath, reveling in the clean crispness of it in my lungs, and look out at the bay, and then up at the trees, and the clouds piled up over the mountains. Turning back, I smile at the house with the window box full of hot pink tulips, and the nearby van with the vanity plate that reads "hu ph♥ed"
The breeze picks up, tugs at my skirt - it is time to continue. I move more fluidly now - I am carried along by the gentle call of wind-chimes. They ebb and flow, changing in tone and pitch but keeping a constant rhythm that pulses with the beating of my heart, of my feet on the sidewalk, of the breath in my lungs. The cars whistling by on the freeway below add an undertone to the music that is not discordant but not quite harmonious. It simply is.
I trail my fingers along the concrete wall, feeling the roughness of it, the bumps and hollows, the way it snags on my skin. Every sensation is awake, aware, wondering.
The chimes die gradually away, and the breeze deposits me at my door. I climb the stairs slowly, savoring the last remnants of sensation: the texture of the railing under my fingers, the smoothness of the paint, and the slight unevenness where it has peeled. As I step onto the deck, and turn to check the mailbox, I can feel my senses returning to their normal dulled state. But the memories remain.
This is the most beautiful thing I've seen of late. I haven't been outside much, except to go to the doctor, or the drugstore. It's nice to have the comfort of four white walls... but it's also nice to know that there is still beauty out there. I wrote the following impression almost exactly a month ago, immediately after walking home from school on an absolutely perfect afternoon. This photo reminds me of that afternoon. Maybe one day I'll even feel like that again.
---
A gentle breeze ruffles my hair, teasing my skirt into an intricate dance about my legs.The afternoon sun shines gently down, warming my face and lending a golden glow to everything it touches.
As I walk along the few blocks home from school, my eyes wander to take in the cars, old and new(er), coated in a layer of dust and pollen, the cardboard boxes marked "FREE" full of junk, the recycling containers waiting by the curb.
The boards of the fences are weathered, the woodgrain stands out strongly, and the paint on many of the houses is worn and sometimes peeling.
There are gardens of vegetables, and many gardens of flowers that spill their brilliant bounty into the sidewalk.
The colors and textures arrest the eye: vibrant reds, yellows, oranges, blues, and purples; satiny petals that are sometimes velvet-soft.
The crisp aroma of ripe pears mingles with that of the newly-crushed leaves underfoot. A little farther on, a straggling blackberry beckons, lusciously ripe: fat, dark, and juicy.
I reach out to touch it, inadvertently bruising the tender skin - my finger comes away sticky. I absentmindedly put it in my mouth; savoring the heady taste/aroma: it is almost too ripe - a reminder that summer is coming to an end.
I turn the corner, cross the street.
The sun shines brighter, warming me; I take a deep breath, reveling in the clean crispness of it in my lungs, and look out at the bay, and then up at the trees, and the clouds piled up over the mountains. Turning back, I smile at the house with the window box full of hot pink tulips, and the nearby van with the vanity plate that reads "hu ph♥ed"
The breeze picks up, tugs at my skirt - it is time to continue. I move more fluidly now - I am carried along by the gentle call of wind-chimes. They ebb and flow, changing in tone and pitch but keeping a constant rhythm that pulses with the beating of my heart, of my feet on the sidewalk, of the breath in my lungs. The cars whistling by on the freeway below add an undertone to the music that is not discordant but not quite harmonious. It simply is.
I trail my fingers along the concrete wall, feeling the roughness of it, the bumps and hollows, the way it snags on my skin. Every sensation is awake, aware, wondering.
The chimes die gradually away, and the breeze deposits me at my door. I climb the stairs slowly, savoring the last remnants of sensation: the texture of the railing under my fingers, the smoothness of the paint, and the slight unevenness where it has peeled. As I step onto the deck, and turn to check the mailbox, I can feel my senses returning to their normal dulled state. But the memories remain.
---
Photo by me, panorama stitched together by Tom using Hugin.
