Windows (and objects around them) have had a special draw to them as I’ve rambled through the house, seeking subjects to photograph, mostly, I think because the window’s been the closest I’ve had to outside contact. No, I haven’t been disabled or suffering from a debilitating disease. I’ve simply succumbed to a winter-inspired inertia: if the grasses, shrubs, and trees are all asleep, why should I be active? As a result, I’ve done my own version of hibernation, for the most part avoiding conflict with the cold weather, except when duty has demanded it. And I’ve looked out the window, an observer, but not a participant.
–Until this weekend, when a reprieve in the cold, a foretaste of spring, brought 50-60 degree weather, and with it, an intense desire to be outside, and not just outside anywhere, but with the trees and the woken-and-wide-awake-rushing water of streams-turned-rivers after the thawing of inches upon inches of accumulated snow. So out Jason and I went to a small nearby park, where we squelched through muddy trails, glad for tightly cinched hiking shoes and (in my case) tall rubber boots that the mud could not rid us of, and watched water bubble and well up around our footprints. We grasped small trees, making them participants in our struggle to step-slide, step-slide our way up hillside trails which gave way just as we thought we’d found some purchase. Confident in my boots, I waded out a ways into the quickened stream. I wanted to watch its life parting around my boots, see it carry the mud from my boots downstream, adding it to the sediment and minerals already streaking and swirling past. Wanted to hear its haste, feel it tugging at me as I wobbled over partly seen, slick, rocks. Then, desire slaked, I sloshed and splashed back to the bank with shining boots ready for more mud. On we continued, laughing at mud splatters like small children, happy just to be on the other side of the window, reunited with wind, dirt, trees, and living, speaking, water.