It’s quiet season.
It’s the time of year when the earth and air of the village air allowed to rest — no vehicles, no undue noise, just the muffled sound of feet and low voices and a comforting stillness.
And, in a good year, of snow falling to the earth; later, of boots crunching through it, of shovels scraping on the roofs and walkways, and the occasional crackle of piñon from a fireplace or woodstove.
Out here, beyond the walls of the old village, there are no such strictures on sound, even for this month, but it becomes a way of life nonetheless. That’s especially true when the snow falls; it seems to absorb all extraneous noise, cocooning the world in softness and near-silence.
Even now, with no snow here, there’s still a faint sense of this phenomenon: Living, as we do, at the very feet of the mountain, the clouds that at this moment enshroud their peaks also seem to have wrapped them in the still softness of winter, something powerful but gentle: not the violence of the storm, but the medicine it brings to a thirsty earth.
The subject of this week’s Monday Photo Meditation is, despite the foreground emphasis on the upper walls and rooflines of North House, at least as much about the mountains behind them . . . and about the snow dusting all surfaces. Had the forecast for yesterday and today been accurate, we might have had our own view of the mountains that looked something like those, with new white between the stands of evergreen,, but for the most part, the meteorological experts have failed us miserably. As I look out the window at the lower slopes of Pueblo Peak’s west side, the only part visible beneath the clouds, there is in fact a little snow scattered here and there, but in this wan and pale sunlight, even the evergreens look gray now.
I don’t mind gray, generally speaking; cloudy days are in fact the best days, as far as I’m concerned. But that’s a phenomenon of air and sky. When the earth goes gray, it’s something else entirely.
In these lands, snow is more than mere crystalline flakes; it’s an alpine winter’s medicine, and the land needs its healing now.
The long-range forecast is not promising. There is still a small chance of something yet today; a decent chance of a dusting on Wednesday. Beyond that, the outlook is bleak, to say the least.
But the winter birds are here; the elk have been, and will return. This is the season that births a new year, and a new world with it — in this land, at this elevation, winter is what keeps the land alive.
There is still time for medicine.
Which means there is still time for hope.
~ Aji
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