Frolic in Forest
My mother stares at this picture. She states over and over that she simply can't understand how it happened. To her, there is no difference in the genesis of this print, than in the special creation that populated life on this planet. It simply has to be done with "Intelligent Design." There is simply no other explanation that she can or is willing to understand and accept.
Even the teasing about the Virgin Mary appearing on a tortilla or dripping down a via-a-duct wall is all moot with her. It is simply a miracle in front of her eyes. Of course, I have tried, repeatedly, to give a rational and logical explanation. I don't wash my car very often (my bad!). Road film had built up on the surface, to include covering the back window of my van with that imperceptible stuff. The last time it rained was in mid-June, and that was a slow, gentle rain at that. The water did puddle and flow, by the force of gravity, down the window. Oil-film and water don't mix. But the water had to find paths of least resistance somehow, and it did. Little rivulets. Weaving this way and that, but always going latterly or downhill. By the time the period of rain had ended, the water had overcome some parts of the oily film. Force of gravity more powerful than the hydrophobia of oil. And that latent battle sat dormant all summer. But last weekend, coming back from a hawk-watch up in the Blue Mountains, I followed my GPS on a little used wilderness road to return out of the mountains. The movement of the car kicked up a swirl of very dry, powdery dust. The convection currents were such that this swirl of dust came in soft contact with the latent image of oil film residue. And St. Bernard Menthon, the patron saint of hikers in mountains, sculpted this scene.
_edited-1.png)
"Frolic in Forest."
The joyous balance-beam stretch on a felled log. A back-lit canopy of leaves. Fallen troubadours, the gallantry of the upward thrust now thwarted. But still not yet relegated to the cradle of soil . . . to the nourishment of the underworld fungus, the bacteria, the grub which in turn feeds the bear. A forest touched with chaos. The strength of a wind. The weight of ice. Gravity winning. The insistence, the dogma, the inevitability of gravity in its winning. But a hiker rejoices. Frolics. Extends arms like the high-wire walker balancing with poles. It is a place of life. Of joy. Of rejuvenation. In the spring, the foreground will flourish with fireweed. The fallen support the nourishment of the upright. The upright reach even higher to the sun. What some might think of as death is but life transferring to the new living. Rivulets of water course through the interface of Gaia and infinity. Water . . . solublizing life itself. And those rivulets of water obey what they must on the slope of a dirty window.
Even the teasing about the Virgin Mary appearing on a tortilla or dripping down a via-a-duct wall is all moot with her. It is simply a miracle in front of her eyes. Of course, I have tried, repeatedly, to give a rational and logical explanation. I don't wash my car very often (my bad!). Road film had built up on the surface, to include covering the back window of my van with that imperceptible stuff. The last time it rained was in mid-June, and that was a slow, gentle rain at that. The water did puddle and flow, by the force of gravity, down the window. Oil-film and water don't mix. But the water had to find paths of least resistance somehow, and it did. Little rivulets. Weaving this way and that, but always going latterly or downhill. By the time the period of rain had ended, the water had overcome some parts of the oily film. Force of gravity more powerful than the hydrophobia of oil. And that latent battle sat dormant all summer. But last weekend, coming back from a hawk-watch up in the Blue Mountains, I followed my GPS on a little used wilderness road to return out of the mountains. The movement of the car kicked up a swirl of very dry, powdery dust. The convection currents were such that this swirl of dust came in soft contact with the latent image of oil film residue. And St. Bernard Menthon, the patron saint of hikers in mountains, sculpted this scene.
_edited-1.png)
"Frolic in Forest."
The joyous balance-beam stretch on a felled log. A back-lit canopy of leaves. Fallen troubadours, the gallantry of the upward thrust now thwarted. But still not yet relegated to the cradle of soil . . . to the nourishment of the underworld fungus, the bacteria, the grub which in turn feeds the bear. A forest touched with chaos. The strength of a wind. The weight of ice. Gravity winning. The insistence, the dogma, the inevitability of gravity in its winning. But a hiker rejoices. Frolics. Extends arms like the high-wire walker balancing with poles. It is a place of life. Of joy. Of rejuvenation. In the spring, the foreground will flourish with fireweed. The fallen support the nourishment of the upright. The upright reach even higher to the sun. What some might think of as death is but life transferring to the new living. Rivulets of water course through the interface of Gaia and infinity. Water . . . solublizing life itself. And those rivulets of water obey what they must on the slope of a dirty window.
And some might limit themselves to the work of Intelligent Design.
Others see the majesty of Infinity itself.
Others see the majesty of Infinity itself.
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 1:50 AM
|
0 comments
