Human life moves in cycles like the earth, turning to complete itself. I feel these rhythms here on Taylor Mountain. Now, many years later, as I climb up the spongy ground of mosses and over the barren ground, my thoughts are joined by memories and emotions. Above me, the cirrus clouds stream in curving tracks across a washed out sky. Things seem so different now. I was 19 when I first came to the foothills of this place; in its ravines of willow I found flocks of ptarmagan to shoot and kill. They fluttered in the air and landed on nearby rocks, or clucked in nervous agitation along the ground as I sighted down the barrel of my gun. Many birds were taken that day, and I remember that it was Fall time when the land was dressed in bright colors and smelled of sweet decay. My innocence of place and time, not yet burdened by experience, gave me an intensity of being deeply alive. But it was the physical life of instinctual passions that animated the hunt. Thirty-five years later, the maturity of time and experience has extinguished much of the past. Now, the thoughts and moods of youth, once pure and strong, have faded behind a wall of words, caught like birds in a net; the beauty of nature, once felt with unconditioned joy, seems unreal behind the camera's eye. Today, the wind whispers a warning and blows continuously on the ridge, hinting of things to come. A hawk hovers above a pile of rocks, then flits away in search of food. But no ptarmagan can be found. It seems others have been here too. A shotgun shell lies spent on the soft earth. The noon hour sun flattens out the reddish hills, but other than the wind, the land is silent. So I turn, looking outwards to the south, feeling the warmth and chill as one, and know that something has survived the years-- the mystery of that old desire to wander and play in new fields of experience. Far off across the lines of blue hills, mixed in the smoke and haze, a large silvery lake unclaimed, unknown, waits. And the surge of old feelings come alive again. I wonder as I head back, what new riddle, what golden thread, will bring new surprise once I arrive? The link now formed, at first unseen when I was here before, has at last come full circle. On the way down the thought grows more intense--what lies beyond the lake?
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Circle of Dreams
Human life moves in cycles like the earth, turning to complete itself. I feel these rhythms here on Taylor Mountain. Now, many years later, as I climb up the spongy ground of mosses and over the barren ground, my thoughts are joined by memories and emotions. Above me, the cirrus clouds stream in curving tracks across a washed out sky. Things seem so different now. I was 19 when I first came to the foothills of this place; in its ravines of willow I found flocks of ptarmagan to shoot and kill. They fluttered in the air and landed on nearby rocks, or clucked in nervous agitation along the ground as I sighted down the barrel of my gun. Many birds were taken that day, and I remember that it was Fall time when the land was dressed in bright colors and smelled of sweet decay. My innocence of place and time, not yet burdened by experience, gave me an intensity of being deeply alive. But it was the physical life of instinctual passions that animated the hunt. Thirty-five years later, the maturity of time and experience has extinguished much of the past. Now, the thoughts and moods of youth, once pure and strong, have faded behind a wall of words, caught like birds in a net; the beauty of nature, once felt with unconditioned joy, seems unreal behind the camera's eye. Today, the wind whispers a warning and blows continuously on the ridge, hinting of things to come. A hawk hovers above a pile of rocks, then flits away in search of food. But no ptarmagan can be found. It seems others have been here too. A shotgun shell lies spent on the soft earth. The noon hour sun flattens out the reddish hills, but other than the wind, the land is silent. So I turn, looking outwards to the south, feeling the warmth and chill as one, and know that something has survived the years-- the mystery of that old desire to wander and play in new fields of experience. Far off across the lines of blue hills, mixed in the smoke and haze, a large silvery lake unclaimed, unknown, waits. And the surge of old feelings come alive again. I wonder as I head back, what new riddle, what golden thread, will bring new surprise once I arrive? The link now formed, at first unseen when I was here before, has at last come full circle. On the way down the thought grows more intense--what lies beyond the lake?
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This is one of the most beautiful posts I've read of yours. And what an amazing photograph. The idea of completion, of things coming full circle, has always appealed to me. Thanks for the pleasure of reading.
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