Happy Winter Solstice! (I think that's an appropriate greeting.) As near as I can tell, we Minnesotans are suffering overcast conditions as they did at Stonehenge, but our celebrations are likely to be quite tame compared to the festivities our cousins across the pond engaged in. If our local weather were more cooperative, I might have been able to grab a solstice shot something like this, minus the leaves of course. Maybe next year?
local sunrise (not solstice) © harrington
Is it just me or do you detect a slight similarity in appearance between Merlin and a certain jolly old elf who's going to be visiting in just a few days? I doubt I could get behind Santa with a sword. That's carrying the naughty and nice thing too far, but since I've never heard of Santa arriving at Stonehenge, I don't think we have to worry. Santa comes at night after we're all asleep and the celebration at Stonehenge is during the day when we're awake (although some of the folks at the Stonehenge celebration may make us think we're dreaming). If you use your imagination a little, you might be able to picture a sunrise in this photo, which is about what it looks like around here today.
winter morning © harrington
I hope you're grateful for the beauty provided for free in our Minnesota. Think about what your taxes might be like if it weren't for the free services Mother Nature gives us. Aren't clean air and clean water among the best presents ever? Where would we be without them? One of my Christmas wishes is for fewer children who "forget everything." I'm trying to figure out how to go back and remember.
That child was dangerous. That just-born
Newly washed and silent babyWrapped in deerskin and held warmAgainst the side of its mother could understandThe language of birds and animalsEven when asleep. It knew why BluejayWas scolding the bushes, what Hawk was explainingTo the wind on the cliffside, what Bittern had found outWhile standing alone in marsh grass. It knewWhat the screams of Fox and the whistling of OtterWere telling the forest. That child knewThe language of FireAs it gnawed at sticks like BeaverAnd what Water said all day and all nightAt the creek's mouth. As its small fingersClosed around Stone, it held what Stone was saying.It knew what Bear Mother whispered to herselfUnder the snow. It could not tellAnyone what it knew. It would laughOr cry out or startle or suddenly stareAt nothing, but had no wayTo repeat what it was hearing, what it wanted mostNot to remember. It had no way to knowWhy it would fall under a spellAnd lie still as if not breathing,Having grown afraidOf what it could understand. That child would learnTo sit and crawl and stand and beginPutting one foot forward and following itWith the other, would learn to put one wordIt could barely remember slightly aheadOf the other and then walk and speakAnd finally run and chatter,And all the Tillamook would know that childHad forgotten everything and at last could listenOnly to people and was safe now.
Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.