Alleyways of the Imagination

Alleyways are places for privacy, far from the busy streets. The hours before dawn are best. Usually the neighbors have left for work, or they stay indoors, hidden away with their secret thoughts. Like them, I too am alone, but outside in the these long corridors, slowly moving under the glow of the street lamps and darkness between. How different is the lighting and the mood in this borderland, this place of moods rather than fact. Perhaps the scenery is suggesting instead of revealing, but I like the ambiguity. This place is a reflection of the human mind--where the public eye seldom looks--with a lock on its doors, open to only those who live here.

The Edge of Afternoon

A thin veil of fog and cloud swept over the hills. In places, the peaks were visible islands rising above the airy sea, distant and untouchable to the eye. I stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. Here, a light wind blew down the avenue, but the sun still had warmth to share. One hour each day I come this way, and today the blues and gentle yellows were in attendance over the land; the sky and sun blended the shadows and light through the trees, onto the hills, and over the streets; and shapes with naked latticework interplayed within themselves.It seemed that trees, both evergreen and deciduous, paired up in spacial dance, weaving the movements of sight into their forms.

I turned back and saw that the light had turned from red to green. Then I dashed back into the mad flow of forgetfulness. At least another moment talked with me in the frenzy of the afternoon, but not to the busy drivers passing through. Sky and Sun serve the seasons well, while the other colors depend on a different time of year.

The Empty Vessel

In Winter's Kingdom the greys subdue all other hues. Still, the city streets bring in colors on traffic flow. And beyond, other curious murmurings can be heard along the trail, here and there-- something of worthy note may be seen.

Through the window shapes, tongues of evergreen meet the snowy hills, and corridors open in the marsh, where once the spaces were filled with greenery. This is the time of emptiness, when the mind might truly see the undergarments of Nature's sleep.

The Winter Palette

The colors of Winter's ground is muted and tonal in its changing display, but reveals colors, that in the Summer season would not call attention to themselves. At first, especially in fog and frost, grey and cold, the eye might not register anything of worthy note. But in the openings or sheltered nooks; out in the marsh or within the woods; and over the ragged teeth of the storm or icy blue of the sky--here are things to ponder and look a little deeper at, because in the the Winter palette some fugitive colors only wait the curious eye to find.

Before the Freeze

Within the valley curve, where wind pours fine dust down its length, the day blossoms with storm. But I feel the shaping of the land by the wind, and see the signatures of Winter drawn upon the ice and snow. But the deeper things are yet to come. Water still pours from distant places, the river still is open, and the ground barely touched by snow. Rather than bitter cold, the inner warmth that hides in the shelter of the hills, feeds the channels that continue to the sea.

I walk out into the middle of the river plain, exposing my face more to the blast of wind and dust. Like a fragile craft on a stormy sea, I angle away from the wind, with sails unfurled but not heading into the full force. Coming back I have the wind to my back. Now I can see the scene ahead-- exposed bars and twisted remains of trees, grey snow in hollows and dead channels-- and study the designs of colored stones and shifting lines written by the wind.

The open window of sunlight shrinks and moves up the Matanuska Valley, up into the headlands of the Talkeetna Mountains, where the glimmering sunlight casts a brief glow over the silent lands now shut up by snow. More dust blurs the outlines of the valley and the short day fades. However, the rivers move in turquoise lines, following the course laid down by the Glacial melting long ago, still melting even in this cold. Come Spring, when the light and warmth grow, I'll be here to cross the river, and hear the voices of awakening.

Frozen Light

This biting cold

Sharp teeth nipping at my hand,

Where sunlight brings no warmth,

As though the air and breath

No longer share or touch--

A shattered Crystal Mirror

And frozen light, when only ice

Settles on the land.

Solitude

I stop and reconsider, whether to go ahead or change course by way of another route. Here in the deep shadows of this ravine, the chill seems to suggest going ahead, moving upwards to the sheltered south-side slope, where the warm sunlight breathes. For up there, the mountain's face is bathed in a yellow glow, still unclothed of snow, and its raptured beauty holds me tight. But I see the faint outlines of a trail which wanders along the cliffs, high above the sunless bottom where now I stand. So, I choose another way instead, noting that the trail has been traveled too many times by other minds, filled with too many memories of crowds and city noise.

I prefer more rugged ground to climb, something that makes me feel more alive, off the trail and into the woodland solitude. Another story waits to be told. And by shaking the fog of sleep from my brain, the old smooth trail is left behind. So, I search for spaces and holes in the brush and dead fall barricades. Above are the steep slopes that stretch across the upper view. But first, the fallen trees become my bridges to the places just below; while the fields of devils club are spaces where secret paths are found; then, with some relief, I reach the blue-grey rocks, which are roads that lead to the high cliff dreams.

And now, on the edge of this bench, high above the bay, I look out far along the vastness of the world with its crystalline hue, exposed to the wind that blurs the view. I am like the tree, solitary and free, that has rooted itself deeply in the rock, not to be shaken by the storms that come at this time of year. We both will survive.

For in this place, within this solitude of thought, I hear and see and know the nameless, unconditioned freedom that this moment brings. I feel what children feel in their playful episodes: not measuring joy or following outworn truths--but singing new songs and enjoying the gift of life, never looking back or worrying for things to come.