Along the Blue Ridge


I didn’t make it to all the way to the Falls. Was within half a mile or so before time ran out. Someone turned out the lights on the great paint­ing in the sky.

I still found some green and blue peace and more. I found a vision and learned how cer­tain cam­eras can not han­dle what comes out of that great paint­ing in the sky. One has to pre­pare for such things and I didn’t. Next time.

How strange that Nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude! — Emily Dickinson, let­ter to Mrs. J.S. Cooper, 1880

I only went out for a walk and finally con­cluded to stay out till sun­down, for going out, I found, was really going in. — John Muir, 1913.

 

Down the Blue Ridge

 

Walking, climb­ing, gaz­ing at groups of trees, rocks, hill­sides and moun­tain peaks. Parsing them. Separating them and putting them back together again, so they existed alone and together. As one and as many. Stopping to take a pic­ture broke that flow, that chain. But with the great paint­ing sur­round­ing me, it was easy to find again. Finding no one, I was self­ish. I wanted no one there with me. I wanted to be one with the paint­ing. Alone. No one to inter­rupt the flow. No one to inject noise, com­mo­tion, angst.

And how should a beau­ti­ful, igno­rant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, run­ning toward the Gulf, below sea level, to mur­mur its lul­laby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burn­ing sand with cot­ton blos­soms, wheat, water­mel­ons, roses, how should it know? – Carl Sandburg, Good Morning America, 1928

 

More along the Blue Ridge

 

Before the leaves peak, before the leaves fall, I’ll be back. The sun will be higher, my cam­era will be stead­ier, and no fil­ters will be needed. Climb up with more cer­tainty. I’ll climb up with more time or negate time alto­gether. No rush, no wor­ries, and more sights and sounds to match my mem­ory, to match my hope and cre­ate some­thing new.

 

Yet more on the Blue Ridge

 

 

A tree has arisen. O pure tran­scen­dence!
O Orpheus sings! O tall tree in the ear
And all is still. Yet in the still­ness   
New begin­nings, sacred calls spring change

– Rainer Maria Rilke. Sonnets to Orpheus. Translated by Douglas Pinson

 

 

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