Fresh Scenes

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Sunday-

April often looks gorgeous, but retains bite in frequent breezes. Unwary folks take the day at face value and dress as if it were nearly summer, walk a while soaking up welcome sunbeams, then miserably fight their way back upwind, chilled to the bone. Improbable pockets of warmth or pleasant cool embedded in a basically cold situation add to the difficulties. Meanwhile, vegetation ignores everything except the expanded light and as long as temperatures remain above freezing vigorously continues its rampant path. Animals have their own protections, even those birds now migrating through from warmer places.
I’ve learned, gradually, to overdress. It’s hard not to be seduced by sunshine, dragged onward by clear air and sparking waves, feeling an inner spring in my step as I am also energized by the season. But, at my age, prudence wins and this day I wear a heavy jacket and light gloves. Looking like the ancient peasant I have become, I trundle along the road and greet joggers, pedestrians, and those walking their dogs in various states of what I consider undress. Ah, the follies of the younger generation!

Saturday-

Almost desperate hope that chilled morning fog represents not only a transition from standing cold front to incoming warm one, but also that it signifies the final departure of a winter that has long overstayed its welcome. Somewhere else, green leaves are glistening in dew and cherry blossoms gently waft on the breeze. Somewhere else lovers stroll beneath bright warm skies gazing at profusions of flowers bursting from the ground. Except for constant birdsong, here only the grass seems to have any notion of ongoing spring.
Even my philosophy of accepting each day as it comes sometimes is tested. Sure, the fog is lovely in its own way, the chilled morning has its own charm, there is something wonderful about this mysterious world. But enough is enough. I am so easily thrown into confusion by such minor things, how will I deal with the greater tragedies of life inevitably to arrive? Probably as I often have, by ignoring them until the last minute. Then, somehow, just get through and try to remember pleasantly even the cold mists I have experienced.

Friday-

Wintry stasis this week, as the temperature has never left the thirties while precipitation has been constant, the north wind has blown unrelentingly, and the sun never broke through a heavy overcast. Vegetation kept slowly emerging, birds kept appearing more frequently and noisily. This Andromeda bush in front of the living room finally bloomed.
Sometimes it may seem I am partial to “native” species and “original” landscapes. But I am not nearly so naïve as not to accept the beauty of imports like azaleas and tulips as well. I try to enjoy what actually exists, however created, no matter what it replaced. Life is constant change, our aesthetics must recognize that reality. By the same token, weather like this is not cause for grand discontent, whatever we may expect, whatever paper claims is “normal.” Reality is each moment, however much we may wish it differently, and our spiritual test is to appreciate that we are living through it.

Thursday-

Still photographs may give the impression that this harbor is a quiet refuge from the bustle of civilization, but it is as noisy as anywhere else. Cars, hammers, construction, leaf blowers, sirens all pierce the air. Here the town dock is being rebuilt, pile drivers jamming in bulkheads. Huntington was founded in 1653, only twenty-odd years after the Pilgrims, and has always been a busy place. Halesite has always been the town port, where the deep water ended and marsh began. Periodically, everywhere along a tidal waterfront must be renewed or it falls into permanent unusable decay.
One of the glories of our culture is that we can realistically appreciate our past. Ignorant folk may glorify or denigrate what went before _ aborigines, colonists, farmers, suburban developers _ but all of them were people like us, happiness, pain, loss, and gain. We are fortunate to have records here _ massive original town documents carefully preserved, eventually including photographs almost from the time photography first became available. I love being able to look at a site like this and see not only the pilings and rocks but the layers of shellfish-based native settlements, lumber and local pottery and fish being shipped out by sailing vessels, clams and recreational use now, Nathan Hale, tidal mills, old trolley line, “town gas” production, and even, in my own residence, an odd succession of mostly terrible bars and restaurants.

Wednesday-

Just over a week or so ago, this hillside contained a marvelous tracery of white lines sparkling in sunlight, the result of a late snowfall. At the time there was no hint of green. Now the brambles are filling with color, and a close inspection will show buds beginning to burst out of each thorn-studded vine
. A week further on, the full transition will be underway as this patch of earth becomes impenetrable except to birds and small animals. Soon the only brown to be seen will be tree trunks standing and fallen.
Not a nicely composed picture, I know. Just a wall of stuff. Really, isn’t this how we see most of the world, most of the time? A jumbled painted canvas, often in our way, something we just have to chart our way through to get where we are going? When I walk, I have time to regard it otherwise, but otherwise I am no different. The frozen nature of a photograph or painting, its usual attempt to focus attention where we often do not, is one of the main attractions of the medium.

Tuesday-

If there is not, there should be a paint hue named “April Green.” New growth has a peculiar brilliant color that strikes through the existing soft patinas of old sienna and umber. A complementary shade would be “April Red” for the strong dark blush of new buds and vines beginning rejuvenation. Whole hillsides are now subtly becoming cast in those two filters, a transformation easy to miss until it is suddenly overwhelming.
Noticing such things has always been a primary value of sketching or painting as a hobby. Nowadays, the more impatient culture uses cameras, of course, and I also find that a useful reason to look more closely at what I otherwise fail to see. What is often missed is that photography, like most arts, is a meditative tool for the user. That aspect ought not be lost in our mad dash to share everything in lottery hopes of becoming rich and famous.

Monday-

Like life itself, language contains beautiful ambiguities. A word is defined by context much as behavior is modified by habitat. Fresh can mean cold, pure, presumptuous, unsalted, new, clean. April is all those things, and as the poem says, contains more than a tinge of cruelty. Momentous transitions are occurring, the world is constantly renewed and for all the hope of lying on the grass and watching clouds roll by, the air is often bitterly chill and the wind strips off body heat.
Those of us living in such climates claim to enjoy the challenge and opportunities. We like being invigorated, we say, unlike those who live in places warm and green all year round. We find lessons and interest in the thousand little changes each day _ I often find I can hardly keep up with so many so often _ then greening of the briars, the constant bulb blooms, the swelling and uncurling buds, the parade of waterfowl, the mating antics of creatures great and small, not to mention the first hints of insects. The sky here is pure blue, awaiting the certain rains which may fall for the next few days, more of what our fresh spring will inevitably deliver.

Emergence

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Sunday-

Showdrops in leftover leaves, a couple selected from large clumps growing on the bluffs on the east shore. Beyond the bare vine network brilliant blue sky promises a lovely day. But this morning, the sun and wind are involved in a classic struggle recalling the old fable. Where the sun shines and the wind is blocked, hats and gloves come off, where the wind howls and the sun is shaded, covering head and hands is hardly enough. Looks beautiful, no matter what.
I am easily pleased for a little while, then hope for better. Twenty degrees warmer than a week ago is wonderful, ten degrees more would be far more delightful. A snowdrop is fine, but where are the daffodils? And when all that happens, in due course, my insatiable desires will continue to elevate unabated. Kind of a curse, but one that forces me to always appreciate the infinite varieties of our world.

Saturday-

Sap rising, leaves unfurling on honeysuckle on the fence overlooking the inlet. Most of the tangle remains blasted and brown, but underneath the basic patterns and essentials remain, the spark survives, and miracles of near-resurrection occur once again. Every bit of new growth after such a long dormancy is a wonder and cause for rejoicing.
All of this affects my spirit tremendously. Some philosophies claim we should remain detached, take all as it is, be unaffected by the ebb and flow of event and circumstances. Once in a while I try such an approach, and then reject it. It doesn’t fit my own tides and emotions. I love spring, exalt in summer , savor autumn and endure winter. Being willing to let my spirit flow with sun and rain, cold and heat, calm and storm, bloom and blast _ ah, that is a joy of being conscious.

Friday-

At Hecksher park, turtles climb out of the pond to sun themselves on the banks of a few islands or swim slowly about, heads in the air. This one seems to be resting in a small stream, but as it never moved it’s hard to tell if it is really resting or dead. Seems a tragedy to make it through such a difficult winter, only to miss the spring, even for a turtle. Otherwise, except for the happy screams of herds of young children at the playground, only the warmer temperature gives strong hints that the season is finally progressing.
There are not many animals in my photos. I don’t pretend to be a photographer, and purposely use lower grade equipment, slow shutter speed, low resolution shots. That’s unfashionable _ I’ve read reviews of new cell phone cameras where a young woman describes capabilities with all the tenderness, excitement, anticipation, and sheer lust more appropriate to a lover. Some even here have telescopic lenses the length of rifles. For me, another minor tool, a sketch rather than a finished artwork, and usually incapable of capturing wildlife. Able to snap shots of turtles, however, especially if they are not alive.

Thursday-

In a forlorn marsh formed by a tiny brook that is more of a drainage ditch, in a forgotten back woodlot at Mill Dam Park, this reliable grouping of skunk cabbage is always fully in bloom by now. Being endothermic (generating its own heat) its flowers are only slightly affected by yearly variations in snow and cold. At least enough early insects are around to have guaranteed its survival _ and it is almost everywhere, particularly in places where people do not even want to walk. An overlooked native wildflower holding out against human encroachment on own terms.
I hope that such survival means other species will also make it through this epoch. We pave our cities and fill suburbs with strange exotica and carry invasive disruptions floral and animal throughout the world. Farmlands have become vast barren chemical monocultures. Wildlands and parks set aside are isolated and often on land that nobody wants for anything else, lacking the niches necessary to support any variety. Yet skunk cabbage is still doing well, a harbinger of spring, and a few other plants and animals seem to be creeping back into our worlds. I don’t give this hope much percentage of success, mind you, but it is at least possible.

Wednesday-

April arrives looking pretty much as March did. The evergreens are bright and cheerful, but the only other real sight of green is this verdant scum on the pond at Coindre Hall. Most years it hasn’t shown up until much later, perhaps the underground water supply is warmer than usual. It does provide an interesting aesthetic harmony with the browns of the reeds and weeds. Nature always surprising and always correct in its artistic judgement.
Scum is life as much as we are. An awful lot of our genes are shared, and we require almost exactly the same environmental conditions. Most of us have grown taught that we must be all that we can be, do all that we can do, that only being excellent counts. I wonder, sometimes, if being scum doesn’t count too. Not that I want to be scum, nor encourage you to strive for i
t, but I believe a human life without fantastic recognized achievements is just as meaningful in experience and being as that of any of those exalted by historians and publicists. We are each one of nature’s masterpieces.

Tuesday-

As the snow melts away, revealing sprouting weeds and greening shoots with a flower here or there, other objects emerge. Some trash was here before the winter snows, but a lot of it gets layered on between snowfalls, and remains hidden for months. Some artists might find in all this some kind of aesthetic vision.
Not me, however. Garbage is garbage. I admit that I have been pleasantly surprised this year that the actual amount is a lot less than I expected. I suppose the deep cold and constant precipitation made everyone keep their car windows shut tightly, so less opportunity to litter. Probably less pedestrians as well, certainly nobody on bicycles. All will now revert to form, and it will be a race between new growth and new human detritus.

Monday-

First flowers, first honors. This clump by the harbor always seems to manage to push up yellow buds before other crocuses in more favored locations. Old leaves and remnants of last year’s flowers lie all around, soon to be cleaned up by the caretaker in a fit of spring fever. Certainly a cheery sight, on a cold day with overnight snow yet again.
Crocuses are imported, but pretty well adapted and naturalized. Since studying evolution, I never saw nature again as I did when I was a young child. Even opening early is a ploy in survival and competition, gentle though it may seem. Survival is not all red tooth and claw, sometimes it is being first, or even waiting until last, or a faint color difference, or basic luck in where you happen to be. Not unlike our lives.

Nautical Necessities

Sunday-

Someday the weather will break and our neighbor will get this back in the water. He has been busy these last few weeks, getting off the tarp and fixing everything he can. A boat is a lot of work. There’s a saying that “the second happiest day in your life is when you buy a boat. The happiest is when you sell it.”
Any hobby can consume us. That is part of being fully human, and makes us feel more alive. I have had my own passions and enthusiasms for which I am grateful. There are far worse ways to direct your days than to dream of open waters and strange shores. Nevertheless, each of us, blinded by inner certainty, finds it easy to ridicule whatever that other guy is doing. I try, often unsuccessfully, to keep such an attitude under control.

Saturday-

Another boat about to be lowered to join the recreational fleet. In spring, under the right conditions of luminosity and humidity, lichen can glow with almost supernatural fluorescence. Contrary to myth, it does not grow only on the north side of trees. Around here, trying to navigate out of the forest using green on trunks would simply lead to frustrated madness and eventual starvation.
I’m frankly surprised that neighbors _who frantically, expensively, noisily, and chemically attempt to turn their lawns into rugs without a leaf or dandelion blemish _ allow lichen to remain. Surely there should be yard crews scraping and scrubbing the stuff off, maybe polishing the rough bits of bark as well. Corporations like Ortho and Scotts are probably ramping up such an ad campaign already.

Friday-

Work will have to be done, but sometimes a beautiful day is just a beautiful day, a lovely scene need not mean something more than itself. Traditionally, perfect days are sunny and warm, but there is a bewitching softness in cool light fog and the luminous grey light that coats everything in silver shades. Heavy air damps sounds of machine civilization, so that birdsong is more penetrating and remarkable.
Even though I know all this, there is sometimes a difficulty in getting on all the necessary gear and leaving the warm bright house into dark dank soup. Once I have made the transition, the experience can be wonderful. Making that transition out of a comfort zone is the problem. Make of it what deeper spiritual metaphors you will.

Thursday-

Like visions from Ahab’s nightmares, shrink-wrapped leviathans congregate along docks and are beached in every square yard of available flat land. Perhaps all that plastic, soon to be removed, will be recycled, but the extremely wealthy who play with these toys are not known for ecological awareness. Admittedly, none of these are quite on the scale of Moby Dick, but some which dock later in the year would be well worth harpooning. Needing to have something really big to prove worth has been a human characteristic since at least the time of the Pharaohs.
More by necessity than virtue, I have rarely been so afflicted. Lacking the means to own, I learned to enjoy simply by observing. That gained me the additional delightful ability to regard a leaf floating along in the current with as much pleasure and enthusiasm as if I were roaring about swiftly in a mechanical monster. Like all people with no real choice in the matter, I think of my own behavior as morally superior.

Wednesday-

Twenty-odd degrees plus harsh wind _ no matter _ the calendar declares the buoys must go out. From now on weekend mariners want to believe they could take their boats for a spin anytime they get the notion _ even though they will not really ever have the time nor inclination until nearly July. A lot of maritime work must be done in nasty conditions, at least these guys will be able to motor over to Halesite and get some coffee and hot chocolate.
Technology frees us from being slaves to the weather, which is on the whole a good thing. But that also means that artificial requirements and inflexible calendars encourage us to ignore the weather altogether, except when it slaps us in the face with a big storm. How often have I been trapped in an office during a fantastic spring morning, only to find that by the weekend dank chill driving rain trapped me inside my house! Even now, I find myself too driven by schedules when I should be open to serendipity.

Tuesday-

With typical Gallic overstatement, the French have just celebrated the “tide of the century” (which comes every eighteen yea
rs) and hordes of onlookers watched places such as Mt. St. Michel surrounded by higher and lower water than normal. There are no forty foot differences here, but anyone tied to the bottom of one of those pilings would not survive the next cycle _ the depth varies more than it seems at first glance.
Communities along this shoreline must pull floating docks up on the beach each fall to avoid the ice, and refloating them in the spring requires a keen coordination of high tides, acceptable weather, and weekend mornings when residents are available to help pull the ropes. As the harbor also continually silts up _ well evident here in the mud flats _ mariners must be also aware of the times of day they are likely to run aground. I love the varied panoramas presented by newly exposed seaweed or high waves slapping against bulkheads, a continuing drama without end, always the same, always different.

Monday-

March, like February, has been exceptionally frigid and snow filled. But as farmers always knew, there is no use waiting for weather to match mood. Chores must be done in anticipation of seasons, regardless of the day. So around here it is time for the docks to be repaired, or in this case rebuilt from scratch. The activity is not unlike that of little European fishing communities in the old days, each boat club and neighborhood pitching in on common work for a while. Up next, naturally, will be working on the boats themselves.
I did a lot of this when younger, but like so many things I have had to give up some of it with age. For me at least, age is not an illusion, and overdoing something can require a long recovery. Pushing too hard can lead to long-term ill effects. As a spectator, I enjoy the hard work of the younger crowd, and remember when I was involved more completely. Then I walk on with nothing more to do but think and eventually write. Not morally better, not worse, just as it is.

Welcome Equinox

Sunday-

Spring usually accompanied by breezes and winds of various degrees, so reflections from a relatively calm bay surface are rare. Reflections are easily ignored in the need to select what is important from a field of view _ after all, they will never interact with the “real” physical world. In fact, they are more easily admired in pictures than in life, and used to be a staple for cardboard jigsaw puzzles.
That is why I find that photographs tend to lie. This house is not so near, when seen from my vantage point, without the use of the zoom. This selected scene does not jump out of all the surroundings. Just about everything in my field of view is cut out, and other senses are missing entirely. Like much of what I focus on, I have created a beautiful lie.

Saturday-

Four inches of heavy white. California and Brazil are dried out, the rest of the world is overheated, but around here it has been a winter like those of the mythic 1800’s. All that has been missing is a horse and sleigh to compose a Currier and Ives print.
A half-empty guy would declaim how much better things could be. Being more the half-full type, I’m glad it’s not worse. For example, if any of the trees had seriously leafed out yet this kind of storm could be a disaster. It’s sometimes hard being Pollyanna in a Cassandra epoch, but at least it works for my daily life.

Friday-

Crystalline air, brilliant sun, sharp wind. The range of pure blues and soft browns is fabulous, each breath is delightfully clean. Maybe the temperature does not quite meet expectations for the season, perhaps the season itself seems a bit nastier than normal, but on its own terms this day is another miracle.

I hide too much behind polarized sunglasses, tinted windshields, or double-paned glass. I stupidly miss the incredible clarity of color unless I consciously strip my eyes and spend long minutes trying to see. I become so wrapped in remembering the past, fearing or anticipating the future, that I ignore the core existence in this moment that is what I really am. My lament is all the more foolish by being entirely my own doing. The world is always there in all its glory, but I must make the effort to engage.

Thursday-

Deep freeze has returned, but there are local escapes such as this greenhouse at Oyster Bay Arboretum. Wonderful in all seasons, it is especially (nicely) shocking in mid and late winter. For anyone impatient with the pace of Mother Nature this is a fine rest stop along the way.
Like everyone else, I take for granted the civilized miracles around me _ fresh flowers and food all the time, light and heat at the touch of a button, easy rapid travel to places like this, and on and on. Ancient and not-so-long-ago kings, emperors, and potentates would have given large chunks of the kingdom for comforts we almost ignore. Sometimes I reflect too much on nature _ which it is absolutely important to reverence _ while forgetting the daily conditions that allow me, especially at my age, to be able to enjoy it so completely.

Wednesday-

The differences between early and late winter can be subtle indeed. The only real clue in a picture like this is the color of the grass. Of course, in actual experience, there are a few more indicators such as birds and, for that matter, people. By the end of the winter, many folks and their dogs have adjusted to just waiting out the dark and cold days and taking advantage of any nice ones. At onset of snow, it was all exciting and “invigorating.”
Humans are instinctually pretty unaffected by season _ I am part of one of the most adaptive species that ever lived. We don’t depend on weather sun or moon for mating or much of anything else. A few are affected by seasonal disorders, and we all experience flu or pollen and other specific maladies often associated with a given set of months, but for the most part we get up, d
o what we must, and deal with whatever has been spread out before us. My main difference is psychological _ what is spread before me here seems a harbinger of warmer and nicer mornings soon to arrive, simply because I know it is equinox in a couple of days.

Tuesday-

No ballplaying here! There have been reports that in various parts of the island geese and ducks are starving because the marshes froze over so long and so completely. The huge groups here apparently decided to try the comforts of civilization. While the surface is waterlogged and the subground solid ice, there will be no competition from the softball leagues that pop up like crocuses with the first warm days.
Informally, it seems to me there are definitely a lot fewer birds around than there were back in January before all hell broke loose meteorologically. Our backyard feeder attracts a fraction of the swarms it once had. Yet there is plentiful birdsong and a few unfortunate victims still run into our windows each week. These guys seem fat and happy enough.

Monday-

In just about a week, harbor is practically ice out. Still parts frozen over, but any boats that want to go somewhere have clear channels cleared by others, and certainly nobody would try to walk on the treacherous half-frozen slush that is left. The hills have basically cleared back to brown, so each sunny day raises the ambient stored warmth. Not too many new craft out yet, but that will change soon, and the buoys that usually wait for official spring will be settled into place in the next few weeks. Activity keeps picking up, both natural and man-made.
It’s hard to say which is worse _ a long hard winter with a sudden spring or a lingering one which teases forever. I have no say in the matter, so I accept whatever comes along. It certainly seems that this year the astronomical calendar is racing ahead of the seasonal one _ this could be a typical mid-February many years. Maybe there will be a sudden jump and blossoming as April rolls around, but I’m not going to hold my breath.

Anticipated Thaw

Mon-

Huntington likes to retain a small-town atmosphere, some of which involves periodic parades. This is the annual St. Patrick’s Day setup, a bit early so as not to conflict with other, later, grander ones around the region, particularly in New York City. Children like the excitement, parents like the generational connections as they remember other parades they attended with their parents, only the motorists on the closed major highways are really upset. Vendors (none of Irish descent) sell various green trinkets appropriate to the occasion.

Parades are one thing that has surprisingly not changed much since I first remember them. There are still marching bands, decorated cars, walking functionaries. People have a few beers and cheer whatever may come along. Everyone is glad to celebrate almost anything as a break in what has been a dismal winter. Thank fully, these events have not yet been invaded by electronics other than too much amplification of the speeches of those who think they are important. But that, of course, has also always been traditional.
Tue-

Icebound boats are rare, especially this late. Usually, some enterprising clammer or other has cut a path out to the inlet, seeking riches while the supply to market is relatively restricted. Either the ice is too thick this year, or the baymen are discouraged by the unrelenting cold. This picture will be fully changed in one week, already the pack is breaking up from the end of the harbor, ducks and geese and swans flocking into the open waters.

It’s been nice flying in from somewhere else, having missed the daily drudgery, only catching the last glamour of what was hopefully the final snowstorm. Not having had to endure the hardships _ like most tourists _ I am free to be enchanted by the beauty. Since I am not planning to fly out again, I can confidently state that after only a week of this I am also about to cry “enough already!”
Wed-

Snowpack remains deep and hard to walk on, but dogs and their (nominal) masters have packed parts of the hill here at Coindre Hall into solid ice. With warmer temperatures, the inlet is completely open, and the rest of the harbor covering is quickly receding. From the picture alone, it could be late December or early January, but actually standing outside there is too much solar radiation and other subtle signs that this is late in the season.

Naturally, by now I am very anxious for any signs of spring. The first green shoot appearing above the first cleared garden soil, the first hint of grass, the slightest swelling of tree buds. Meanwhile, it is impossible to miss the increased birdcalls, although this year even their mating activities seem subdued. Nature will take its course and all will unfold into glorious bloom, but meanwhile we try to fast forward and are simply frustrated.
Thu-

It’s a certainty these hydrangeas will not bloom again this year _ the buds have been blasted once again. Now there is simply the question of whether the roots survived or not. The same with the fig trees and many other ornamentals and invasives _ plant and animal. The coldest month in almost a hundred years will cause some problems in what has been a long and slow extension of growing zone over the decades.

I keep hearing people exclaim that they are ready to move “I can’t take this any more.” Fortunately, our society will permit them to do so without much aggravation. But I wonder what they will say if hurricanes hit three years in a row, or heavy flooding, or deep drought. How many times should we fly from the aggravations we know to those we know not of? Perhaps it is generally better to stay put and adapt yourself as much as possible. Easy for me to say _ I escaped the worst of it this time.
Fri-

Yes, this represents melting and breakup, but it is late and the ice floats are so thick that boats still cannot punch their way through here nor on any of the other near bays. No icebreaker has been called, although I did see one frustrated clammer walking out to his boat and attempting to chop a passage out. A few less hardy boats have been crushed and sunk, only their masts showing through the crust.

One day in the fifties, and the rest deep freeze at night, thirties during the day, and in spite of the best efforts of the sun, winter is taking its time. A few areas have now opened on the ground where the drifts were lower, and in these I can sometimes see a green or red shoot. A few birds have come back to the full feeder, but the numbers are less than a tenth of what they seemed to be in January. Last year there were robins everywhere, and not a sighting so far. But, on the bright side, no snow has fallen for a week now _ I guess that’s progress.
Sat-

Spring advances here and there, the natural world begin to stir to its mysterious rhythms of duration of daylight, warmth, and internal clock. High up, the pussy will buds are swelling red, soon to open into soft grey. Where snow has melted back, there are leftover blades of greenish grass. I imagine that could I peer beneath the waters alongside me, I would be amazed at the activity. Lichen is glowing brightly whenever the frequent rains arrive. If I dared to walk through the still deeply-piled woods and perhaps dig a bit, I would surely find fruiting moss and skunk flowers in bloom.

The trick, I find, is not to keep waiting and hoping for a perfect day, with brilliant sun and no wind and warm air and life just so, but to start by assuming each day is perfect and then find reasons that it is so. What is, just is, and that is the wonderful and amazing world we are privileged to inhabit for a while.
Sun-

Fog can be interesting not just for its blurring effects but for the many metaphors our minds manufacture concerning it. Somehow it can come to represent the future, or the state of our knowledge, or the meaning of our lives. Once in a while it seems almost evil, hiding what might be threats. Other times it seems a soft cocoon against the harshness of the outside world.

Fog is also prevalent as seasons and weather patterns change, when warm and cold collide, one way or another. I find it a useful marker of changes to come, a separation from what was to what will be. That is my own mind’s metaphor, of course. One of the deeper questions I can ask about life is whether the fog itself is more real than my perception of it.

Flash Frozen

Mon-

“Relax, you’re here!” goes a local slogan, and “Just another day in paradise.” Truly the weather has been gorgeous, the green vegetation relaxing, the flowers beautiful. Logical thinking and planning is banished as the mind concentrates on the possible patterns of randomly breaking surf, the interesting jiggles of various lumps of flesh, the happy laughter of folks of all ages. The biggest question each day is “what will we eat for dinner?” and the greatest plans involve avoiding painful sunburn or hangover tomorrow.

Shallow Randian conservatives fear such wallowing in lethargy, believing people must be lashed to do great things with striving driven by harsh necessity. Vacation provides a necessary antidote proving we are also pure animals, with happinesses, experiences, and appreciations that are incomprehensible to words and logic and plans.
Tue-

I sat on the warm balcony and watched the expected sun rise, through clouds, as we prepare to return home tonight. Tomorrow there will be no balcony, no warm breeze, but certainly a sunrise. Our lives are filled with expectations we scarcely notice _ the sun will come up, the airplane will get us home, the house will be fine, electricity will be on. For that matter, an expectation that I will wake up tomorrow to deal with a driveway that has apparently been covered by a developing glacier since we left.

It has been nice, for a while, to let go of the expectations and plans and worries and just take each moment as if there were no other, wasting time watching the water go nowhere, sifting sand through idle fingers. It will, I suspect, be equally nice to start doing what has to be done once more, with expectation and outcome and consequence. All part of the balance of things. Right now, we have a few hours to enjoy so we shall do so.
Tue-

Jets take us thousands of miles in hours, from one climate to another. Barefoot in the sandy shore in the morning, home to snowbound landscape at midnight, looks like a foot of heavy cover.

I marvel at the convenience of energy all around and used promiscuously _ the jet, the lights of Ft. Lauderdale under us as we left, the car getting us back from the airport on plowed roads, the house warm and well lit. I’m too soft to survive as an aborigine, too old to have made it as an Iroquois in this landscape some five hundred years ago, and I am grateful every time I accept the bounty of modern convenience. I know our usage of resources has consequences, all profound, some unimaginably horrid, but can I stop? Would I even want to? And, if I did, what would it accomplish beyond making my life experience immediately miserable?

Wed-

Settled in and with some effort back to normal, when we are hit with another storm. Beautiful this morning, fresh white on branches. No doubt more magical to those who have been away from it all for a month.

Only last year did I give in and get a snowblower, reasoning that hiring a guy to plow the driveway had changed economics significantly _ at today’s rates three heavy snowfalls pay for my machine. I knew I could no longer do it by hand, the back had begun to hurt a little too much afterward, and massive unusual exercise could become scary itself. So I join in my little bit of making our neighborhood unlivably noisy. Guilty _ I actually enjoy using my new toy.
Fri-

Snow just keeps coming _ although a respite is promised soon. Those who have lived through a month of this are very very tired of it. The novelty of fresh white on everything can wear off pretty quickly, especially if it makes doing everything else more involved and difficult. Yes, it’s beautiful, but….

I’m amazed at my adaptability. Three days ago it seemed normal to watch the sun come up as I sat in pajamas on an outside balcony, to walk a sandy shore barefoot, to sweat on hot palm-lined streets. Yesterday seemed normal also as I cleared the driveway of its seven new inches, or this morning as I wandered in down parka to get the morning paper. It can be almost frightening to become aware of the massive changes I take for granted, day by day and over the years.
Sat-

With the coldest February since 1934, the harbor has frozen significantly. Old timers insist it is still less solidly blocked then when they were young _ probably the ocean water is much warmer now. Compared to recent winters, however, this is pretty unusual.

The sun shines brightly now, melting ice even when the temperature is in the teens. A slight change in wind patterns and the great thaw begins. Some of spring should be pretty rapid this year _ my mind is certainly ready for it. Already I anticipate the Andromeda, snowbells, and red leaf shoots. Running a bit too far into the future, but equinox is only a few weeks off.
Sun-

Sunset and sunrise occur everywhere regardless of climate or season. If not too obscured, they are always beautiful, even in Siberia or the Sahara, if there is anyone to see (whether anyone will notice is a different matter.) Cosmic realities are far beyond the trivial worries of whether it is cold or warm.

As all philosophers eventually discover, cosmic truth has little to do with individual daily life. Whether it is warm or cold does in fact matter a great deal to me, and a lot of other “minor” things too, such as if I am decently fed and happy. We may try to transcend this mortal shell, but mortal fragile shell it remains, and it reminds us constantly. I try to remember to pause and appreciate sunset, for it is good to do so, but not at the expense of ignoring the everyday mundane world that I inhabit each moment.

Lasting Impressions

Mon-

On Anglin’s Fishing Pier, in LBTS as the town terms itself to save paint on the street signs, tame pelicans lord it over all and try to pick up tidbits from the gawking tourists. They haven’t caught on to the money to be made from posing. The pier’s private owner has, so there is a $2 per person charge for entrance. It must be admitted that this is a very nice pier, long and well maintained, picturesque, and with the pelicans and almost as amusing the tourists, certainly worth the cost for entertainment value alone.

We enter our final week before heading back to Huntington normal. It may be a little hard to get up to speed after what has been essentially a month of what they claim is the goal of meditation. No thoughts, empty mind, days slipping by. Or, if you prefer, Margueritaville. No worries. Just letting more days pass, happily in ourselves and the beauty of a warm sunlit place.
Tue-

Beginning the real season now. Almost an impressionist painting in the center of town, colors and people and drinks all over. Never-never land, and like all fantasies it is probably best to just give in and go along with the dream. Reality will return soon enough.

Reality is a bit more amorphous for me, now that I am retired. There used to be a clear division of things I hated to do, or things I didn’t want to do at particular times and at the whims of others. For me, that was reality, and I tried to fit my own world around it as best I could. Now everything and everytime is my own, and I am only gradually (but very happily) adjusting to that fact.
Wed-

Another sunrise. Facing the Atlantic over the beach makes the early morning a defining feature, which eventually brings home the inevitability of truly big events. King Canute could not forbid the tides, nobody can declare the Earth should stop turning, power has limits. Individuals can hide from the sunlight, or use air conditioning to mitigate its effects, or ignore it, but day follows night regardless.

That is not unlike all those clamoring voices clamoring that by merely following their advice and paying for their predictions, I can avoid known catastrophe. I can double money entrusted to their care; I can prevent aging and death by purchasing their juices or magic elixirs or potent pills; I can guarantee happiness and prosperity to my offspring (or myself) by following the advice in their book. But the sun rises anyway. Finances rise and fall. Aging occurs. All life dies. My offspring (and myself) will, like all humans, endure our share of comedy and tragedy and glory, regardless.
Thu-

Humans frolicking in herds on the beach, relatively free of cares and worries. They were evolved for this planet, and in spite of all the world’s and their own troubles, they still fit into it perfectly and enjoy its enchanted majesty if they give themselves half a chance. That is what vacations are truly for.

Global worries abound _ catastrophes, long-term deterioration, elimination of species, pollution, population, disease, hunger. Local worries abound _ storms, climate, crime, society. Personal worries abound _ finances, career, health, mortality, control. Yet even now, in the larger picture, the days are beautiful, wonders are everywhere, and I can rest content with life, imperfect as it may sometimes seem.
Fri-

In spite of almost total redevelopment of every inch of ground on this barrier island, a few creatures remain to enchant us. Pelicans, porpoises, parrots and people, amidst the palms, shells and assorted other vegetable and animal species. Including these delightful tiny ubiquitous lizards that scatter from their sunning to hide under hedges as giants stride by.

I hope that it is not too late for our species to achieve social and technological maturity to preserve many of these wonders. Our immense growth spurt has placed things on a knife edge _ some days I am extremely hopeful, others despondent. Time _ which I do not have _ will tell, but today _ the time which I do have _ can be spent appreciating all that remains. Thankfully, an awful lot does remain.
Sat-

Into every life some rain must fall. Sunny south Florida during February this year has been mostly not raining, although clouds and wind were often abundant. In an interconnected world, the true variations of local climates can be forgotten, but they remain as powerful and strong as always. Today a few strong showers will sweep through off and on, nothing like the Northeasters to be encountered further up the coast.

So a lasting remembrance of this long vacation is dry days, warming cool days, at least some sunshine always due soon. It is probably most people’s vision of this place, and surely the one promoted by tourist guides, and fairly accurate at this time of year. Stubbornly, I cling to the idea that seasons are wonderful and I like the procession of life and storm, even through snow and cold. But even I am forced to admit that I would not miss February in Huntington at all.
Sun-

Final lasting memories are of ceaseless surf and happy people. The ocean does what it has done for billions of years and will do for billions more, life or no life. People flicker by without registering in the geologic time scale, but each is filled with infinite moments and experiences. At this time and place, everyone was relaxed and joyful and purely enjoying a fine time, mostly heedless of worries and cares.

That is reality also. We focus on the malcontents and badly adjusted and psychopathic and tortured, which fill our news and haunt our dreams. But most of us, here and now, do not live amidst such aberrations. Most of us, our friends, our families, our communities, are positive and grateful for the chance to be who we are. This vacation has helped me remember that, and to put all my roiling thoughts into perspective.

Sandcastles

Mon-

Almost anyone with access to the beach as a child has built at least one sandcastle, although nowadays serious adults usually produce “sand sculpture.” Castles must be built relatively near the tide lines, because otherwise the sand is too dry. That means that eventually, no matter how magnificent the structure, one wave or another from the rising sea will erase it completely. That is one of their peculiar charms, a lesson in life framed as a playful pastime.

When older folks review their lives they begin to realize how much like sandcastles our certainties and ambitions have been. The solidity of childhood, parents, early friends, young children, prideful career melt when encountering the irresistible waves of the future. Our bodies themselves erode over time, waiting for the final inundation of mortality to level them back with all the countless other grains. Yet that makes us appreciate all the more the eternal moments we have experienced as we concentrated on various turrets and walls and whatever else possessed our imaginations. As the song says, “they can’t take that away from me.”
Tue-

Geology claims that just about anywhere on the planet was once along or under an ocean, so everywhere is a once and future beach. The sandcastles people build are only of slightly longer duration than those of children, and are similar in being often decorated with frivolous details to their main purpose. In this case it is the fountain, the palm trees, and the square in the upper left which is a clamshell half roof painted (crudely) to resemble the real sky. Nobody needs any of that nor the landscaped parking lot in order to buy something.

Architects would claim that aesthetic touch adds value, and they are right. But why that should be so in the cold calculating social and economic world that “social scientists” inhabit is a complete mystery. At least to such frigid minds. I believe it is one of our most wonderful attributes that we add beautiful but functionally useless embellishments to everything we do. That separates us from the robots.
Wed-

Other creatures build structures, notably this coral which washes in constantly from a reef just offshore. Some of it is destined, like the chunks here, to be ground into sand. Some becomes embedded in sandstone, or with time and pressure turns into limestone or eventually is metamorphosed into marble. It is difficult to imagine any shopping center or nuclear power plant being transformed into anything as beautiful as marble, but over geologic eons, who knows.

Lately, strong “scientific” theses are being advanced about non-human animal consciousness. I do not think coral, or puppies, or dolphins can appreciate the beauties of those various forms of rock. Our experiential awareness is several orders of magnitude _ possibly an infinite degree of separation _ from the thoughts of those minds. I do not mean to lower the cosmic value of all forms of life, but rather to emphasize just how gloriously unique and privileged we each are.
Thu-

Lauderdale by the Sea, town center, evokes the temporary spirit of sand castles appropriately. Unlike its monolithic neighbors marching down the shore, each looking like it could withstand an apocalypse or two, this area looks like it could be blown off by sea surge or hurricane. Somehow, that seems right for building on a sand spit.

Besides, that is also the spirit of the tourists passing through. None of them are making plans for the ages _ most of them are probably trying to forget the problems and failures of plans for the ages. The locals are not into eternal memories either _ they just want to dip into the stream of money flowing by as they sell trinkets and serve food and drink. It’s fun to let the inner child play once again.
Fri-

Break from sand and decay and gloomy thoughts _ it’s vacation after all. Even if here in South Florida the temperatures plunging into the high thirties with fierce winds have driven those who cannot find down parkas to thoughts of suicide. Nevertheless, the sun manages to put on a fine show each morning.

One of the greates
t gifts we have, I think, is this chance to always wake to a new day. I have never been one to hate sleep, although I sometimes wished I needed a little less of it. But. like the sun, we get to restart and shine for a while, regardless of the past and before the moments weigh too heavily.
Sat-

Like many other places, Fort Lauderdale styles itself the “Venice of….” Canals alone do not make a beautiful city, although all of them collect the flotsam of heavy winds and lax tides. Here, amidst the coconuts and garbage, a dead pelican.

We all last longer than a typical sandcastle, although perhaps not so long as a few of the things we create. But only we experience each day as if it is endless, each moment as if it goes on forever, each experience as if it is simply a window into deeper and grander mysteries seen and unseen. Time for us is as fluid as water in these canals, and the occasional dead bird is a warning we easily ignore.
Sun-

Since anthropomorphic tales are such fun, we can picture the sea as carving its own castles _ the beaches themselves, the barrier islands, even this tiny cliff resulting from high winds. Every day it resculpts the shoreline into a slightly new pattern. Well, not entirely true. One grain may seem identical to another, but of course each is truly unique at the subatomic level, and each composing atom has its own complex history over eons of time, and grains are shifting constantly with wave and current and wind.

The ocean tends to evoke mighty metaphors and grand moralistic stories. Hypnotic and powerful, we imagine it as implacable and relentless. But all those adjectives are tinged by being applied to humans as well, and human connotations change everything. For now, I empty my mind and enjoy the play of water and sand and where we all have been and may go.

Snowbirds Swelling

Mon-

Driven by mysterious instinctual migratory urges, flocks of humans darken the skies and cover southern beaches beginning around this time of year. Often their temporary sandy nests are adorned with colorful scraps of all sizes and shapes. Curiously, this display behavior is most present in those well past courtship age. Many curious monographs have been written on the phenomenon by various xenobiologists.

Unfortunately, in spite of bitter protests from the scientific community, this peculiar natural marvel will soon be entirely lost with the construction of a new hyperspace shunt.

Tue-

According to native American legend, the “New River” in Fort Lauderdale appeared suddenly after a night of earth shaking. But its name is prosaically attributed to frustrated early cartographers because the inlet through the barrier island out to the ocean kept shifting by miles every time they remapped it. I suppose it’s better than some of the other words they probably used.

In typical Florida fashion, the city goes to a lot of trouble to make a beautiful parkland and restaurant-lined plaza along a lovely stretch of water, then lets insanely huge boats tie up alongside to completely block the view. That seems to be a common quirky aesthetic around here, a nice conception, a hint of beauty, then a prosaic slide into common ugliness, as if the original vision fades and is blurringly erased by selfish private wealth working its wonders.

Wed-

Although Sisyphus today has a big machine to help, his task remains unending and essentially undoable. This guy tries to hide the residue of every high tide under a blanket of sand, while incidentally picking up the worst of the trash that also floats ashore. No matter how successful he may be, the whole thing happens again in twelve hours. Forever.

We want our beaches “pristine.” Gleaming white sand, unblemished by dead fish, rotting vegetation, or the garbage that an increasing polluted ocean regurgitates. No snakes, no bugs, no thorns. As someone who has had a day at the beach ruined by a swarm of mosquitoes, a few pesky greenhead flies, or the stink of decaying flesh, I admit that I am as effete and hypocritical as anyone else. I want to experience nature, but only after vast amounts of effort and fuel oil have sanded down the rough edges.
Thu-

Could be almost any shoreline anywhere. Seagulls may not have arrived with people _ as so many invasive species have been spread throughout the world _ but they certainly thrive wherever humans do. The fact that humans also provide all the mounds of garbage necessary for food supplies probably means that these birds do not directly compete with locals.

Seagulls are incessant scavengers, beautiful in flight. Each aggressively defends its own turf, driving others away from a self-perceived treasure with shrieks, beak thrusts, and short charges. If gene cross transplantation ever takes over, a few chromosomes from them would probably make a more effective class of managers and entrepreneurs. They even know when they are outclassed and take wing to easier locales, in the avian equivalent of declaring bankruptcy.
Fri-

Beach peas in profusion on a dune with grasses bearing sharp burrs (from barefoot experience) and holes probably dug by rats. Fifty years ago, such wild patches in abandoned or undeveloped lots on the Jersey shore filled my young imagination with thoughts of how wilderness had been conquered, leaving these reminders of its might. Now there are no heartlands of wilderness, and when the seas rise perhaps the last beach peas will be gone.

Beauty will remain. Begonias and orchids, roses and seagulls, will probably remain as long as humans endure. Not butterflies nor beac
h peas. I have lived through the beginning of the sixth extinction, and fortunately will not live to see its completion.
Sat-

Sunrise over the ocean as theatrical it always is every dawn everywhere every time. Beautiful, awesome, majestic, no art can do it full justice. Beyond the magic of illuminating a new world after our profound vanishing into the darks of sleep, it represents a beginning afresh, and wonders to be seen and done, and hope and warmth.

That I can use such words, and you can find them meaningful, is one of the reasons human experience is unique. A mechanical intelligence could document the exact moment the red ball appears on the horizon, but can it be capable of why that is “theatrical,” “magic,” or “hopeful.” I think not. Recreating emotions and sensations and being, which depend on chemicals and hormones more than electrical connections, is beyond any conception of current artificial intelligence attempts. Not celebrating complicated human glory is a crime against our self.
Sun-

Fallen coconut shell in front of a fallen palm log on the only open space for miles along the beach. I am not sure if the lack of a huge skyscraper here indicates insufficient financing or the presence of a public park. Maybe that is a tautology _ I suspect adequate financing could purchase any public land. For the moment, it is refreshing to have a semi-large grassy expanse behind the dunes of the beach.

Not too many people along the shore today, it being cold by southern Florida standards. People get here and quickly get in huff along the lines of “I refuse to wear a jacket when I am paying all this money for warm weather. Let’s go eat at a restaurant instead!” It’s very easy to let expectations cloud reality. What would have seemed heavenly to folks a day ago in New York is now a cruel twist of fate from nature robbing them of happy times getting a tan. Me _ well I’m grateful to experience cold or warm or rain or sun _ just about anything at all. It’s the alternative that’s bad.

Florida February

Mon-

Humans are destroying the planet, extinguishing the biozone, doing terrible things to each other. But, boy, can they build when they want to. An extensive, convenient, and relatively inexpensive miracle of air travel gets one away from ten degree temperatures in hours, and allows some of us to spend time in the man-made cliffs lining the ocean down here near Fort Lauderdale.

The problem always was, and continues to be, balance and limits. What is too much? How far is too far? How do we stop ourselves when we know we must. Or are we doomed to destruction? Well, I’ve added my own bit of excess, and here I am in a fine warm place for a while.

Tue-

Monstrous skyscrapers march along the shore, an artificial dune of immense proportions, filled with coral-like residents who each decorate their little cubic spaces and try to figure out what to do with the day. It’s all cash all the time, because there are almost no public spaces and in a few years the income-starved local governments will probably be charging for air to breathe.

Most of the population here _ permanent or temporary _ is old. Some places seem an inch from becoming a necropolis. Even the young people _ servitors to the ancient geezers wheezing around_ move in a deliberate rhythm, as if lightly infected by the disease (of aging) that is slowly killing everyone around them.
Wed –

The Atlantic is like the Atlantic everywhere _ harsh and rough most of the time, with the wind usually blowing inland. Wave follows wave, as waves have in all oceans since the first waters submerged the planet. The continents may have changed, life may have arisen, the composition of the atmosphere may have metamorphosed, but breakers like these rolled in ever and ever.

I become hypnotized, lost in time and space, watching the everlasting patterns that are never identical, constantly moving. Sounds lull me into a meditative trance. Sand cushions my toes perfectly. At least for a time, all is perfect. But since I myself am not perfect, I will become bored and move on soon enough.
Thu-

Even here along a shoreline that looks more built up with skyscrapers than Manhattan, a small strip of wild dune is left between the buildings and the beach. Maybe it is aesthetic _ there is certainly not enough to protect from storms. Palm trees, grasses, beach peas, and a surprising number of other species eke out a living as constricted as that of the humans roaming the small condo cubicles above them.

Typically, this should provoke a lament on how people have destroyed nature. But I have seen remnants of the natural wild state of this strip at a couple of state parks nearby. Even though the countless snakes that originally slithered through the impenetrable mucky thickets and the swarms of insects that clouded the swamps are long gone, the remaining dense tangle is hardly the place for a relaxing vacation. All in all, I guess I prefer it as it is. I just wish there were some Michelangelo of coast development determining a better set of aesthetic considerations rather than the stark functional soviet housing blocks it has become.
Fri-

Portuguese Man o’War is as odd as its name. I thought at first it was all jelly, but careful poking shows it is a tough balloon. Reading indicates that not only is it venomous, but more startling it is not even a true multicelled organism. More like a beehive colony of single cells, which somehow support the shape, the air inside, and the venomous tentacles that swimmers (and beachcombers) should avoid.

I suppose, since it is classed under hydrozoa, that ancestors of this creature diverged from ours early on. I further suppose there would be little if any fossil record of their changes over the eons. Perhaps they have been around in the same shape since before creatures made it to land, or before there were multicelled animals at all. These interesting but useless speculations are both a blessing and a curse of our consciousness. It’s wonderful that we have the capacity to learn and think of elements of our u
niverse so alien to our everyday experience.
Sat-

Temperatures reported on the news are a little deceptive. With gale-force winds whipping off the Atlantic, churning the surf into a fury, a person can chill down awful fast, even after chasing a hat down the beach. So far, the winds have hardly ceased, and it feels at least five, sometimes ten, degrees colder than are measured inland a ways.

Except for the high-rises, it can look like Maine, lighthouse and all. Florida lighthouses I have seen look much better from a distance then up close. They are none of the European/New England cute stone fortresses, but rather squat black iron water towers braced by utilitarian ugly black iron beams. Post-civil war military utilitarian aesthetic. That period gave us the Brooklyn Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, a lot of historic New York and Paris, but passed Florida by. Of course, almost nobody lived here until the 1920’s, it was truly a wilderness zone.
Sun-

Sign at (private _ $2 to get on) Lauderdale pier reads “sea turtle nesting,” and countless signs along the main highway advise that street lights are dimmed during the nesting period. Turtles are an ancient order, although not nearly so ancient as the jellyfish which are one of their main food sources. Ocean warming and possibly pollution have dramatically increased the jellyfish supply, and perhaps the turtles are rebounding as well. Humans may be a silver lining for a few creatures beyond cockroaches, rats, and seagulls!

We have an odd place in our heart for turtles. They’re not exactly cute, but they seem about the least threatening objects around. Nobody has nightmares of being pursued by a giant tortoise, nor dreads being locked in a dark closet with a sea turtle. We don’t worry about falling overboard and finding one swimming toward us, and even the most ingenious and bloodthirsty cultures and rulers have unable to work them into torture. I wish them health, although I’ve never seen a live one outside a zoo or aquarium, and probably never will.