Imagine a small island in a very big sea. Rocky cliffs on the south are carved by waves beating against the shore. Gnarled trees stand as witness to the prevailing winds.
A different world exists on the northern exposure. Sheltered by a larger island a mere canoe ride away, the land slopes into gentle bays where shellfish cling to rocks. Ducks and gulls paddle and dive for food.
The house drowses now in the sunshine, shut up tightly against the winter rains, waiting to open in summer when descendants of the original owners come to stay and provide information for boaters who stop by.
I stand in the long green grass and listen to hundreds of bees in the blossoms, busy about their work, unmindful of time and its effects. I think of all the bees that have buzzed over millenia and of the women who have stood, listening, while the warmth of the spring sun caresses hair and head. We hold that in common, those women and I: the desire to be in the moment, to take note of the change of seasons, of the aching beauty of our planet that is so often at odds with the horrors mankind inflicts upon it and upon each other.
A chorus line of daisies smiles up at me from the grass, innocent and cheerful regardless of any acknowledgement or scorn.
Grape hyacinths stand tall under an apple tree. Who planted them, I wonder? Did a child collect short stems in chubby hands and bring them as a gift to her mother?
Clumps of bluebells sway gently. In the cold morning a sleeping bee loses his grip and falls off his perch. He'll sleep until the sun's warmth awakens him and then he'll be about his work.
Flowering red currant is a spring time sight, beautiful bits of color among the forest's greens. We talk, we laugh, we explore. The past is very present. Time is suspended as we wander in wonder.
Russell Island is equally as beautiful in the spring as it is in the fall, featured here.