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How beautiful it is on Denman in the spring. The sights for the eyes are as good and nourishing as any meal at any time in any country, real or imagined. The greens of the forest; the blues of the skies and the oceans; the whitegreys of the mist, fog and rains. The shimmering sun and moon on the waters of the sound; and lighting the soft meadows and trees.
Who knew? Here, where there is supposed to be only rain and no light, that in fact the light is sublime and the sky blends with the horizon, extending to the mountains and the ocean in all directions. Who knew the long views of the quiet road touring through the cedar, fir, maple, arbutus, and more I can’t name? And the night? The so called dark that is as pitch, and so full of stars that each one is your heart bursting into its own countless night of breathing heart stars?
I can’t begin to tell you. And everything is curving. The turn of the harbour seal, again and as quickly a memory diving flashing curves in the blue; the vanishing pointed bodies of the trees, tall and so tall again how is it possible they remain so, not fallen but swaying as graceful as they would appear ungainly? The waves, up close at the arching shoreline, or from afar, each one of an infinite choosing an entire painting by an artist, some master of the curvaceous who never painted anything else but this.
And, the flowers.
The sounds. Now, spring, is sung by frogs at night, countless seeming as the stars; and the birds, returned, take up their joy in the morning and sing it all the day long. The eagles have been here always, so many it would seem they aren’t rare after all, only majestic. Their chittering tweeps mystify, until you’ve heard the curious sound, and someone says "oh, those are nesting eagles", you can’t imagine, but you’ll never mistake it for anything else again your whole life long. And the lions of the sea, barking their calling song, all day, every day, in every season; but especially now that the herring are giving their universe of eggs for breakfast, lunch and supper: their tonic of spring.
The wind, at night, straight on from the great west ocean, brushing the pliant trees like a crazy lover’s hand through grass, and as careless a caress, how can anything remain standing?
The silence, The strongest chord of all. Between the leaves and branches and budding, the quietest silence of the still breath of the forest, unbroken even by the hollow deer hooves... (could they be pounding?) And unbelievable buzzing beauty, the vibrant dance of the hummers...the thrumming humming sumptuous buzz and dart of vibrating green red and orange. Here and not memory the same, the humming bird.
And of course, the rain. A thousand ways it whispers its own name, a thousand times a thousand sounds it plays, and drips, and pours, even after itself, dripping itself, waiting its weight in the boughs, and dripping itself again. The air itself all a single drop of rain. The great vaporous being.
And, the flowers.
I can’t begin. To smell all the smells. Even here, on the highest ridge in the middle of the land, as far the island gets from the ocean, the living smell of the water bears all scent with its briny body. It lifts the greens of the grasses and trees, carries the wood smoke on its substantial form, freshens and rots, births and decays all the living and dying world with its gifts for the breathing nostrils. Each breath a course full for all the senses.
And, the flowers.
If gods should be, flowers are their best surrenderings.
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