Winter's Child

Winter's Child
Sharon Hawley Flies North for the Winter

Monday, January 11, 2010

Ranier to Remember

With only three days remaining, I walked to Ranier for the last time. I unzipped my jacket and took off my gloves on the way home because the air rose to plus ten, and I felt warm. This seemed strange because on those California days at Mt. San Jacinto when it was around twenty I was thickly bundled. Something has changed inside as if antifreeze now runs through my veins.

It’s a fine sunny day, and I even see traces of diamond dust in the morning at these higher temperatures. I can’t resist taking pictures of the illusive sparkles, trying to show them as they are, against snow in its many forms. Boulder and desert snow, tiny stars in the boulders, shimmer of water in the desert.

I still see deer tracks, squirrel, others too I’d like to meet. I hear the familiar sounds—the whistle of the driverless train bringing wood chips from Chip Mountain just a quarter mile to the mill, the squeak of tires on packed snow, and the call of a raven.

I am the object of this writing, this novel; I have no protagonist. Being here is so much like an image of something real, not reality itself, that it makes the whole experience seem already made into a poem or a painting. The need to make metaphor and impression seems not as strong now. I have called relationships together in these missives and drawn attention to the things back home as likenesses of things here, but now it’s like the ending of a life where what has been done is final and only recall remains.


Birch trees with their horizontal lines and vertical strength, bark that sheathes canoes, roofs dwellings, bark that heats the paper mill, their wood from which I read a book, write a letter, eat a bowl of soup, and set the bowl on, these adaptable, bendable, and recoverable trees are on the level and they measure up. I can’t get enough of them.










Whenever I have gone to Ranier, I have taken a picture from this viewpoint. This final entry into that sequence.














Diamond dust and boulders












10 comments:

  1. Have you entered that surreal state now Sharon? You will open your eyes soon to find that what once was, is now what is, once again. Magical memories for sure. I think you will miss your diamond dust. I will even miss your diamond dust and reading your daily recaps. It's been a wonderful adventure for me too. I think that I can clearly speak for everyone on this..... thank you in advance for taking us all on this virtual journey with you. : ) Our delight!

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  2. Thanks Gail, surreal is a good descriptor for how I feel. It has been a wonderful experience and everyone who responded made it better. I appreciate your words.

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  3. "Being here is so much like an image of something real, not reality itself, that it makes the whole experience seem already made into a poem or a painting."

    I can truly relate and especially your comment on how metaphor disappears. It seems that this is the crux of living and also the epicenter of the best kinds of poetry.

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  4. Yes the roots so solid, the metaphor disappears into itself and life stands for itself, it speaks through it.

    Your last three pictures show the gargoyle snow as if inhabited by poets, artists, creatures of my heart, buried in white glorious crystals... Where are the artists and poets there, I ask... have you heard anything of them, how can the people there not burst into word, color, song of the beauty that surrounds, that pours down on them in sparkles? I don't think you have mentioned finding any who do so... are they hiding, perhaps only come in summer,(foreigners, and only you in winter... it seems strange. I know dealing with the elements consume the time... but still there must be those who sing out a voice above the rest somewhere there? Maybe because there are fewer people, then more space between? I wonder. Are they hiding?

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  5. Lois and Kathabela said what I was trying to find words for. You and your writing have made a leap to a new place. Woke up this morning counting days to Sharon. It will be good to see you back where you belong, in Kathabela's kitchen, pouring the red wine. Looking forward, Liz

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  6. And I completely agree with you about trees.

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  7. Thanks Lois for understanding. Often I try to make a poem when it isn’t there, but the best ones are just waiting to be found.

    Roots of a tree, Kathabela, hard to see, but quite important. We’ve all seen them exposed, but not entirely as a whole, not down to the fine tendrils of meaning, flowing to corridors of theory and finally to the trunk.

    I found no poets concealed in the gargoyle boulders of snow, but agree there should be. How many poets reside within a radius of a million people from your home—say 200? That scales to one in this town of 6,000. Nevertheless, there should be more, the surroundings demand it.

    Liz, welcome back. I will be happy to pour you a red wine also.

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  8. Other poets do exist in your neck of the woods, in fact the mysterious bicycle rider may be a poet as well.

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  9. Oh, who are they. They should be here, yes.

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  10. OOOOOH I like Michael's idea... the mysterious bike~rider poet, yes...

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