Tuesday

Fall Covered Forest



There is a medieval wash over this fall. So much so it has been easy to imagine a tonsured monk leading a donkey over our western ridgeline.  Or perhaps a group of ladies, escaped from the Duke of Berry's Book of  Hours, wearing high hats with wimples, riding merrily merrily across a still green meadow.  All the golds, both burnt and newly minted, mix with bark browns, bark greys and deep-toned evergreens to create this cathedral-worthy palette.

The first of the serious frosts, yet to come, will scatter ruby red across the whole shebang, the thought of which returns me not to the 11th century but to the Medieval Room at the Metropolitan Museum in New York which holds their treasure.  I like to stand in that room letting everything merge.  I am not indifferent to the individual objects of the room  so much as mesmerised by the world created by their union.  Much like the forest that took me there this morning.  All paradox marry in this merge:  the small with the large, the transient with the stable, the simple with the complex.  And the marriage creates grandeur that lets me know, once again, we are more than our separate parts.  Lets me know no matter how difficult the confusions of the human made world,  to be one with a season, however briefly, is to be one with magic.

I traveled through a fall-covered forest.  The forest took me to a room in great museum in a city many many miles away.  The room in the museum took me to another time.  The other time returned me to a forest burnished gold and brushed with silver.  Magic.