There’s a place that I sit. A place I feel most comfortable. My belief is that we all have “that” space, but maybe I’m crazy.
Situated near the back sliding door, with enough glass forward and to the left of me so that I can glance outside without any effort, I find there to be no better place to nap or read, not in this house, anyway.
It took me almost a year to feel comfortable in the spot, but the final decision that I was situated came during winter, when the dog was sleeping, and no one else was here.
Windy days after a solid dusting of snow are my favorite, once the sun rises over the house and illuminates the evergreens out back. The warming orb travels over the top of the dwelling all day, finally saying goodbye in repeated encores allowed by breaks in the forest canopy as it makes its way to the west coast; it’s not a meteorological fact, but that’s how I picture it.
There happens to be a hollow between several evergreen trees about fifty yards from the house, an alleyway of sorts.
It appears to have been created when they cut timber from this hillside a few years ago. Sprouted now, at ground-level, with whippet-like juvenile hardwoods, it’s a pathway better for the eye, but more difficult to traverse on foot because of slow-to-heal ditches where skidder tires worked hard to come and go.
Some folks feel forests rejuvenate on their own, but cutting and clearing make for a healthier environment. Regenerative forest growth feeds mice to moose, no different than a wheat or cornfield in the far west.
The alley is a target for errant wind, giving it a path through the woods to blindly follow. In that hollow, I see frequent miniature snow devil-like dust-ups. When the frozen flakes are the perfect consistency—cold and dry—wispy white lace curtains of flakes burst from the trees in floating confusion, trying to find somewhere else to settle for the night.
The best times to watch are in the late afternoon, when the low-angle sun is rationed into individual beams by the thick branches of spruce, hemlock, and cedar sentries. Warm rays of light are colorized by overpowering shades of fading blue from the skies, and floating flakes glisten as they flee from the wind, only to be caught in the act, surprised, almost, by the sun.
The thing is, I’ve wanted to capture it in a photo, and maybe video mode, but I’ve found it to be impossible. By the time I realize it’s happening, I think to myself, it’ll never look as good to the lens as it does to my eye, and by that point, it’s over.
It’s my spot. An imperfect path for my eyes to follow, but perfectly situated so that I can try.
Where is your spot?
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain comfortable, and
TC
*And, as always, thank you to my BuyMeACoffee supporters. You keep this train running. I appreciate your support. tc