Layers

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.


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Summer's Waning

And so it begins, the slow and imperceptible yet inexorable progression of summer toward fall. Daylight's hold is weakening, and the sun's morning and afternoon rays penetrate the tree canopy from a slightly different angle at slightly different times each day. Oh, there is much left yet of summer, of those bright days and warm afternoons that distract from what lies ahead. And there is yet the early fall, that dry shining time of Indian summer and nights of cooler breezes and bright stars.



It's August, my favorite summer month, and once again, the wood and hermit thrushes have departed for other haunts, for woodlands less besieged than these by winter's extremes. And it will be many months before I once again hear them plying the hot muggy nights with their flute like melodies. The blue jays are more conspicuous now, as they seem to like this time of year when their cries seem to pierce the air more sharply, and many smaller birds that make these woods their home are more vocal, almost as though they are asking "Will you feed us again this year?"



The corn stands almost as tall as I am now, and there is lots of it to see this time of year in this area where woods open upon field after field lush with that familiar greenery. A few local farmers lease land on which to grow corn, and I watch its progression from mere green specks along the neat furrows in early June to the first young stalks to the tall proud plants that fill the rows come August. Tassels will be appearing soon, indicating the formation of the ears, and a few farms hereabouts are known for their corn, with many people finding the summer incomplete without a sampling of it.



Apart from its ancient beginnings as a dietary staple, corn still figures highly in both the human and animal diet. What isn't sold by the dozen from farm stands or grocery store produce bins is processed as silage for ruminating animals such as dairy cows or as feed for deer and other wild animals. In the Midwest and other areas of long summers, it's grown to be ground into the basic ingredient that goes into cornbread or hush puppies or processed as popping corn. The corn still standing in the fields in September in this neck of the woods is more than likely destined for the silo or the corn crib, while the corn that graces our dining room or picnic tables is reaching its peak as I write with people everywhere commenting on their "first corn of the season." Species that produce the sweet white and yellow kernels are in greatest demand, as all it takes is a bit of butter and salt, and for some, a bit of black pepper to round out the treat that comes only once a year in Maine. While corn can be frozen, it rarely retains that just-picked flavor and texture that can only be achieved by plunging it into the pot as soon as it's been picked, the reason being that the breakdown of sugars in the kernels begins the moment the ears are pulled from the stalks, a natural process that significantly alters its sweetness and flavor.



It's always a somewhat melancholy moment when, one day, the corn in one particular field is standing, and the next, it has all been sheared off close to the ground, its stumps awaiting burial when the soil will be put to bed for another winter. It represents another ending, just like the wood thrush's departure and the diminishing daylight. It speaks to our ancient beginnings and yearnings, when the seasons governed our lives, and we lived by the rising and setting of the sun, a way of life whose ingrained memory I think never entirely leaves us.


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