There is a fullness to early morning that can’t be found at any other time of day. At 6 am the air silently snaps its fingers for attention, flaring nostrils and tingling the senses with playful, teasing gestures. The world is sharp and cool, and the dappled light through the firs and madrones is like the murmur of memories.
The weight of afternoon can overwhelm the senses, lay heavy upon the mind, the body…but morning levitates my soul.
My daily hike circumscribes our 66 acres of steep canyon, farm and forest in a clockwise circuit of landscapes. My retriever, Rex, is quick to my call, bounding before me through my lavender bed (" No Rex! No!") and scouting scents at the fence line. While my pace quickens to his, I use this time to capture the immediate. My whole day is already heaped with planned activities and duties — the scope and sequence of my life will soon hold me captive, but in this exercise I am in the moment, fully and completely given over to now.
I relish this time; it is the only slice of the day I can savor as my own.
Rex and I circle the vineyard below our house: Rex in search of jackrabbits and unguarded turkey chicks while I breathe in the last faint smell of bloom. I choose to forget about mildew spraying, trellising and harvest; I want to focus on the abundance before me, the exquisite Monet that has risen from the vision of one man. The thousands of hours of work slip away as the sun breaks into the canvas, casting long shadows between the neat, almost-straight rows our children helped to create.
My circumnavigation complete, I head down along a graveled path to the acre pond below, which has as yet not seen the morning sun. The air has a damp sweetness here, and it is hard not to pause to watch the mist dance upon the still green water that remains cool throughout the summer day. The silence is broken only by the sound of a woodpecker until Rex makes his grand entrance. The circus clown of our menagerie, Rex takes a mighty leap into the water to retrieve a stick no other earthly creature could have the slightest interest in. The comedy does not begin, however, until Rex makes his landing, for his favorite game is to chase me — yelling in mock terror ("Oh no, Oh no! Mad dog! Wet dog!") up the hundred-yard incline into the forest until my breath gives out. Then, and only then, does he shake his saturated coat to give me my second shower of the day (if you know the scent of wet dog and pond water, it should be clear to you that I will need a third).
But it is a small price to pay to share his primal pleasure as we now enter the domain of firs that forms the back 40 acres of our property. Some speak of the silence of forests, and surely the needled path muffles my quick step to a large degree, but there is so much to hear. The trees whisper above, birds carry a syncopated tune to the ground, random twigs snap, and a nesting red tailed hawk endless repeats her warning to me. This layering of sounds rounds out the visual palette of images: carcasses of spring iris, the oily brightness of poison oak, top-heavy foxgloves kowtowing to princely saplings while an army of ferns looks on beneath the canopy of swaying trees.
I gather these images quickly, my arms swinging rhythmically at my sides. Rex has long outpaced me. He, too, is tired from our steep hike, but he knows the creek is not far below us. Sure enough, I turn right along a downhill trail toward the gurgling water, finding him amidst what a month ago was a sea of skunk lilies, eagerly lapping up the spring-fed sweetness. I give him a moment, lost in memories of Nick’s fort in the moss-covered maple by the creek ("Do you dare go into that spooky old tree? Do you DARE?"). But those Berenstein Bears days are long over, and I must tackle the other side of the canyon and my neighbor’s replanted clear-cut if I am to make this circuit complete in time for my class.
Rising up above the forest to the other side of the canyon, I return to the bright light of the open sky -- the afternoon is hours away but the promise of heat is already singing with insects here. It is a steep climb through the newbie trees that peak over the tall grass on this logged hill. Yet I see no ugliness here; just the endless circle of all life. Here the hawk finds his prey more easily and a snake solemnly accepts the rising heat into his skin. A herd of elk was here yesterday evening, grazing serenely as if no man had ever dared to raise a rifle. Tiny yellow flowers I’ve never seen before have sprouted between Indian tobacco and sorrel. The clear-cut is dynamic, alive; it accepts the changes brought upon it and sets a new course of endless growth.
Reaching the top of the hill, I pick up the logging road through a high section of older firs, embracing the cool shadows gratefully though Rex follows with reluctance. The temptations of open ground behind me cause a brief waver in his loyalty; he knows that our hike is nearly over. We skirt the edge of our property on this trail, gazing between the brushstrokes of trees at the vineyard below. The bleating sound of our pastured sheep can be heard behind the next stand — the one Matthew thinned when he was fifteen and needing money for his first car. I see my little flower garden above the house; its muted colors call for watering.
Once again the "real world" reaches out a duty-bound hand to me. Rex heads for his water bucket; I grab the hose, debating whether to take chicken or lamb out of the freezer for dinner. I need to help Nick pack for college and call Matt to see how his internship is going. Maybe tonight I can spend some time on that third paper if Chris doesn’t need my help with the pig.
And I think I’ll plant more lavender next spring.
Sheree Shown
7/3/03