A "little pilgrimage"
Here in Concord where I live, it is pretty in early spring, although the wind blows sharp with that “bite” so characteristic of a New England spring.
I walk my dog at the farm, just down the street and watch the sunlight, a pale buttermilk yellow, washing over the still-brown fields. I love the quality of the light at this time of the year. The leaves are not yet out on the trees and so the light falls, unobstructed, directly onto the bare ground. Sodden with the rains, the earth lies waiting for the green, bare and beautiful.
At the end of the field, we stop to look at the river. The river runs high at this time of year, spilling over the banks and flooding into the meadow beyond. The trees stand up to their waists in water.
This landscape that I look at every day—so familiar to my eye—turns foreign and strange. Where once there was an open field and a few trees, is now a vast watery depth. I almost don’t recognize it and have to take a moment to get my bearings.
It is a “little pilgrimage,” this one. Close to home. Yet it speaks to me somehow. The pale wash of the light, the broad expanse of the field under the sky. Always a tidbit of beauty to find here or there, even in what Mary Oliver calls “the common, the very drab, the daily presentations.”
I turn towards home, my thoughts drifting to other, longer pilgrimages, still to come.