Warm tones on a cold day - not easily achieved. I doubt very many people notice. Exquisite natural light for me is like walking into a bakery, overwhelming my senses. I could wander in a day with such light throughout it's duration and often try to get away with such wandering whenever possible. I can tell you the times of year that these days are likely to occur, however, they often are surprising when they appear and I appreciate the unexpected occurrence. Photo of a birch tree branch - taken in November, Washington.
A few years ago I experienced a spiritual bodywork treatment, which stands out as being one of the most unique massage sessions I've received. I'm keeping fingers crossed that it wasn't the last unique experience I receive in the realm of holistic medicine, however, I can't imagine that happening soon as I can't seem to find time for a traditional western massage. The spiritual treatment/massage I received was from a woman who is based among a small sector of women who study under a wing of medicine of the Mayan tradition. Their training is dedicated to keeping with the techniques that been passed down from tribe to tribe, indigenous to Belize - the last practicing form of Mayan medicine that has a school of training, available to nurses, massage therapists, and various holistic practitioners.
There was a conversation at the end of the treatment, when the healer spoke in a steady stream of english/spanish dialogue/prayer, that was so unique I tried to pay close attention to her in order to understand what she was saying - or who she was talking to for that matter. I did not gather enough information to make any sense of what she had said, which is why I so much appreciated her taking my hand as I was leaving to share with me, in perfect elegant English, that I needed to be outside with the trees more often. She said all of us do, we need to go to the trees and let them take the thoughts we no longer need, the feelings we can no longer take, and the memories we should no longer carry ourselves. She said trees are here to collect what we don't need. They breathe what we discard, that is why they are here.
I recently finished reading a book of letters compiled from friends and family of Kurt Vonnegut edited by Dan Wakefield. It offers the same glimpses of Vonnegut's personality that people recognize easily; his elegant way of stating simple ideas that often proceeds or follows a sometimes lesser polished way of describing a concept that a person may identify with wholeheartedly, however, not having the capacity to articulate as a coherent thought. It's a charming book and it is a good reminder of the success a person can meet amongst a lifetime of rejection, fame, and criticism. It inspires me to have a beautiful attitude as I think having a good attitude can be a lot of pressure, it doesn't allow for the rare occasion when a bad attitude is needed.
There are a lot of favorite sentences I've uncovered and I am sure when I read it again, I will find more. This post script from a letter to his daughter sent me over the moon.
P.S. The last time I saw you, you were certainly one of the nicest people I had ever seen. Now I hear that you are learning to dance. That makes you just about perfect.
Letter from Kurt Vonnegut to his Daughter Nanette Vonnegut, 1965
This evening, after dinner, we each drew a mysterious image with captions intentionally leaving a potential reader/viewer as bewildered as they could possibly be.
"it was a very dark night. because the day was no longer out. but, it would maybe come out tomorrow. if the dark ever left." -paraphrase
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
from The Road by Cormac Mccarthy