SWEET SUNSHINE!

Look up…is that the moon we see?

Can't be, looks like the sun to me!

—Ricky Nelson, 1959, "It's Late"

Late, early, or possibly a miracle, seeing the sun this morning—however briefly—has been an unexpected blessing; soothing balm for the winter weary heart. Not to mention a genuine surprise. According to the National Weather Service's latest area forecast, today is supposed to be cloudy and overcast, with snow showers this afternoon. Not exactly news, except for the possible snow part. Otherwise, dense overcast has been the norm for what seems like days on end. For suffers of SAD (seasonal affective disorder) the unrelieved gloom has made them them depressed, listless, sleepy, craving sweets and starches, and moody as rats in a box. This morning's brief shot of actual sunlight was doubtless refreshing therapy.

Sycamores upstream from the cottage,

their white trunks lit dramatically.

When the sunshine came, suddenly, just as I sat down at the desk having returned to my work room following breakfast, the light looked odd, almost spooky—a bright beam, coming from a low point on the eastern horizon and sweeping westward across the yard and river. Dramatic sidelight which lit the trunks of the sycamores leaning along the far bank upstream from the cottage. The trees' white bark absolutely glowed again the dark backdrop of sky.

The riverbank critters—feathered and furred—certainly seemed energized by the sunlight. Bird traffic at the feeders increased noticeably within moments of the sun's appearance. The Cooper's hawk executed a flashing pass-through around the cottage, temporarily scattering the early meal party, but otherwise doing no damage. I think he may have just been showing off, or perhaps gave in to a moment of devilment, hoping to frighten the breakfasting crowd—like a teenager jumping out of a closet at a roomful of kindergartners and yelling, "Boo!" Squirrels chased each other through the treetops. The Carolina wren cut loose with his merry Sweet 'tater! Sweet 'tater! Sweet 'tater! Sweet! song. The pileateds over on the island began yammering maniacally. I hustled out and made a few photos. Moon the dog took herself a little di-do run across the grass.

The first green daffodil shoots—so encouraging!

Looking around, I noticed a bit of green near the cottage wall and ambled over for a closer inspection. Oh my! The green proved to be the first tentative shoots of some of the spring bulbs I've planted all along the foundation—probably the earliest variety of daffodils. A handful of green here, another there. Several dozen plants sticking their emerald periscopes up for a precursory survey. Oh, my! Though I didn't think the few minutes of sunlight had simultaneously popped those green tendrils from their underground beds, I do know they weren't up and visible Saturday because I filled the nearby seed feeder then, and would certainly have noticed such an eye-catching reassurance of the season's progression.

On this planet, light and life are all but synonymous—at least to the majority of plants and animals along the riverbank. I don't mind a week or two of dingy gray days; but I also didn't realize how much I would enjoy even a few minutes of strong sunlight.

Ahh-h-h, sweet sunshine. Neither predicted nor expected, but welcomed by one and all.

SIMPLE SATURDAY MORNING

Saturday morning along the river. On the hill above the cottage, the rising sun is climbing through my neighbor’s towering sycamore. The air is cool and damp, sweet.

Moon the dog and I amble up the drive to the road so I can look in the mailbox, because I can’t remember checking it last evening. Nope, nothing inside. Which still doesn’t tell me whether I retrieved whatever there was yesterday, or forgot and the box is empty simply because nothing was delivered.

Either way, I’m probably losing my mind.

The grass wears a silver sheen of dew. It is still a deep, luscious green. Here and there tiny water droplets sparkle like diamonds on velvet.

In a shadowy corner along the fenceline, a few tattered leaves hang suspended in a bit of sun, illuminated as if by a spotlight. Without the dramatic lighting those leaves wouldn’t merit a second glance. And yet now, momentarily, they’re quite captivating—made special by the light.

Isn’t that so often the case with us? Aren’t we all sometimes uplifted, transformed, made special by a certain setting and the power of an outside source? Love, for example—when it is good—brightens and inspires, raises us up, restores, empowers.

We can all always become so much more than the plain old mundane us when transfigured by an outside light.

Back at the cottage, I stand on the bank and watch the river’s moving mirrored surface scatter and swirl the pinkish morning sunlight. I never tire of seeing the interplay of light and current.

Moving water has always captivated me in a way that water stilled never manages. Not that a lake or pond can’t be astonishingly lovely. But they don’t speak to me the way moving water does; streams are alive, fellow travelers. Creeks and rivers, brooks and rills seem possessed of their own restless spirit…a feeling I know well.

Seasonal change is afoot here along the river—though there’s not yet much to see other than a few clumps of yellow-brown leaves distributed here and there amongst the otherwise still-green foliage of the sycamores.

The tiny quick hummingbirds are still hanging around. I keep expecting them to vanish any day—and they will, eventually, when whatever embedded bit of ruby-throat wisdom stirs and whispers its annual message—informing them the time to head south has arrived.

Not, however, on this sunny, blue-sky Saturday morning. The only thing moving onward today is the river….