There's an intriguing quality to woodlands that I like to call the layered effect. It's most obvious when staring into a forested area that spans a large area and is composed of many different species of trees and other growth. Those in the foreground appear, of course, the clearest and offer the most detail. Pine needles, branches and leaves are all visible, distinct one from the other. But as the eye moves more deeply into the denser growth, images begin to blur, until they appear as layer upon layer of subtly different shades of greens and browns.
There, the edges of distinguishable shapes like leaves and branches blur, and smaller objects, such as individual pine needles, join to produce a tufted look when framed by the more delineated shapes of large boughs and trunks. Colors soften, and from that distance, pine boughs take on a bluish tint depending the slant of the light, becoming the stuff that woodland fantasies are made of.
This so-called layering process extends to all of life, from the air masses that exist above us to the ground we walk on. From its core outward, the planet we call home is a series of mineral masses that have continued to build on top of each other over billions of years. The uppermost layers, called plates, move constantly, releasing some of the intense pressure trapped beneath them in the form of earthquakes and volcanoes.
The oceans are composed of layers of water that start out relatively warm at the surface and get progressively colder toward the bottom. Clouds are layered masses of moisture, the air we breathe is just one layer in what we call our atmosphere, and in winter, snow accumulates in layers between storms. As all things grow, they do so by a process of new growth covering, or being covered by, old growth, as illustrated most distinctly in trees, whose new tissues emerge as rings that can be counted once they are cut down. As smaller plants grow, they do so as layers of new tissue displacing the old, snakes shed old skins to make room for the new, and even we humans evolve through growth that involves a layering process that takes place within and without.
Stylists speak of hair layering, painters apply pigment in layers toward the perfect finish, and masons put down stacks of foundational materials. We polish our nails with multiple coatings, we dress in layers against the cold, and even our lives could be said to be layers of experiences, one following another, each resting upon those that came before it.
Physically or philosophically, much of life evolves by degrees that often manifest themselves as shapes, objects, events or outcomes superimposed one upon the other. And the woods mirror that, in the detail they show us up close and layered against blurred masses of color and substance that act as backdrops, lending perspective and assigning meaning to what we are seeing. In this sense, nature is forever making connections between all forms of life, between the real and the abstract, between the clear and the hazy, between the lives of woodlands and wild creatures and our very own.
Looking deeply into the woods is an exercise for the mind and the eye, as both take in the myriad shapes, planes, surfaces and configurations that work together to produce what we see. And at some point in the farthest reaches, clarity dims as does reality and the imagination takes over. What is that over there, I often ask myself, when some shape, shade or shadow in the distance is too vague to identify. It could be nothing, I answer, or then again, it could be everything.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Showing posts with label atmosphere. Show all posts
Showing posts with label atmosphere. Show all posts
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Rain
"Last night the rain spoke to me slowly, saying, what joy to come falling out of the brisk cloud, to be happy again in a new way on the earth!~Mary Oliver
It rained last night, not the kind of insistent rain that quickly creates puddles and fills storm drains but the kind that drowns out other less desirable noises like radios playing too loud in other apartments and tires negotiating asphalt. It was a steady but soft rain that took awhile to drench leaf and branch but that kept singing long after from the eaves and overhangs. The air coming in through the open windows was clean and fresh, the dust having no power over this blessed elixir dripping from clouds that turned day into night a bit sooner than usual.
I went to bed earlier than usual, too, just to lie there and listen to it, to watch the leaves on the shrub outside my window glisten in what bit of light from the street lamps was able to penetrate its density. The long vine growing all summer around it extended its finger and tapped the glass lightly in the breeze, and individual leaves gave a quick start each time a vagrant rain drop fell on them. Even the cat slept more deeply in the knowledge that nothing interesting would be out on such a night, nothing to tease it from its dreams to the windowsill.
The rain suffers much chiding and derision, but really, is there anything to be done about it other than to accept it as the necessary and inevitable thing that it is? For what would any of us or anything be without it? All living things would die of thirst, nothing would grow, and dryness would rule the land. As the years move in on me, I am more and more contentedly resigned to whatever nature finds it important to do, and when is rain not important? It's been a relatively dry and rainless summer, much to the joy of those who insist on spending a predetermined number of days each year lying in the sun or romping on beaches or lake shores. But we are reminded every day of the consequences of going without rain for long periods of time by the sad pictures on the evening news of corn stalks that never stood a chance of producing and the implications of this on our food budgets.
Rain comes from clouds that are the result of water being pulled up through the atmosphere from the earth in an eternal cycle that keeps green things green and living things alive. It gently washes the dust from summer-weary plants and scrubs the very air we breathe. And who among us hasn't experienced the exhilarating and heady sensation of taking in a few deep breaths after a summer shower? Who among us didn't feel the urge, as children, to splash through puddles or toss stones into them to watch the water ripple outward, each tiny wavelet diminishing in intensity before vanishing altogether? And who hasn't held their face up during a spring shower in hopes of catching a raindrop or two on their tongue?
Rain means different things to different people. To some, it means cancelling a planned outdoor event or moving it inconveniently inside. To others, it means turning sump-pumps on and placing buckets under roof leaks. Farmers look constantly to the skies out of concern for their crops and to keep well levels up, while homeowners rejoice at not having to get the garden hose out as often to keep the lawn green. Rain can be a boon or a bane, depending on how we choose to look at it.
It rained again last night, as it has many nights in the past and as it will many more in the future. It was long slow penetrating shower that eased the earth's thirst and lent a note of freshness to the end of another muggy day. It will happen again in the weeks and months to come, and if I have anything to say about it, I will turn in early many more times to listen to its melody and bask in its coolness.
Then, when morning comes, water gems clinging to leaf and web will again split the light to brighten our world, an event which would not be quite as glorious were it not for the rain.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
It rained last night, not the kind of insistent rain that quickly creates puddles and fills storm drains but the kind that drowns out other less desirable noises like radios playing too loud in other apartments and tires negotiating asphalt. It was a steady but soft rain that took awhile to drench leaf and branch but that kept singing long after from the eaves and overhangs. The air coming in through the open windows was clean and fresh, the dust having no power over this blessed elixir dripping from clouds that turned day into night a bit sooner than usual.
I went to bed earlier than usual, too, just to lie there and listen to it, to watch the leaves on the shrub outside my window glisten in what bit of light from the street lamps was able to penetrate its density. The long vine growing all summer around it extended its finger and tapped the glass lightly in the breeze, and individual leaves gave a quick start each time a vagrant rain drop fell on them. Even the cat slept more deeply in the knowledge that nothing interesting would be out on such a night, nothing to tease it from its dreams to the windowsill.
The rain suffers much chiding and derision, but really, is there anything to be done about it other than to accept it as the necessary and inevitable thing that it is? For what would any of us or anything be without it? All living things would die of thirst, nothing would grow, and dryness would rule the land. As the years move in on me, I am more and more contentedly resigned to whatever nature finds it important to do, and when is rain not important? It's been a relatively dry and rainless summer, much to the joy of those who insist on spending a predetermined number of days each year lying in the sun or romping on beaches or lake shores. But we are reminded every day of the consequences of going without rain for long periods of time by the sad pictures on the evening news of corn stalks that never stood a chance of producing and the implications of this on our food budgets.
Rain comes from clouds that are the result of water being pulled up through the atmosphere from the earth in an eternal cycle that keeps green things green and living things alive. It gently washes the dust from summer-weary plants and scrubs the very air we breathe. And who among us hasn't experienced the exhilarating and heady sensation of taking in a few deep breaths after a summer shower? Who among us didn't feel the urge, as children, to splash through puddles or toss stones into them to watch the water ripple outward, each tiny wavelet diminishing in intensity before vanishing altogether? And who hasn't held their face up during a spring shower in hopes of catching a raindrop or two on their tongue?
Rain means different things to different people. To some, it means cancelling a planned outdoor event or moving it inconveniently inside. To others, it means turning sump-pumps on and placing buckets under roof leaks. Farmers look constantly to the skies out of concern for their crops and to keep well levels up, while homeowners rejoice at not having to get the garden hose out as often to keep the lawn green. Rain can be a boon or a bane, depending on how we choose to look at it.
It rained again last night, as it has many nights in the past and as it will many more in the future. It was long slow penetrating shower that eased the earth's thirst and lent a note of freshness to the end of another muggy day. It will happen again in the weeks and months to come, and if I have anything to say about it, I will turn in early many more times to listen to its melody and bask in its coolness.
Then, when morning comes, water gems clinging to leaf and web will again split the light to brighten our world, an event which would not be quite as glorious were it not for the rain.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
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