Trying to explain the mystical lake I’ve dipped my toes into is like trying to explain the color green without referring to things that are green. Especially to someone who has never seen what you’re talking about. We have a wide variety of trees in this area. Maples, oaks, birches, poplars, pines, firs, spruces and cedars to name a few. Each one with its own particular shade. Or the foliage on daffodils or cone flowers.
And they all look different depending on whether it’s cloudy or sunny, windy or still, early morning or high noon. Imagine trying to describe the color of the needles on a high plateau Ponderosa pine at sunset to someone who’s never seen one would be, well, nearly impossible. And don’t even get into the gray greens of the sages in Eastern Oregon. Now that I think about it, Misty’s eyes are about that color. Maybe a little greener. (insert sound of very loud raspberry) They're sort of green, sort of grey and they match her perfectly.
I suspect I’ve managed to link, just a tiny bit, into that wonderful, awful (in the original meaning as full of awe), frightening current that ties us all to our mother earth and to each other. And it is full of wonder. And it can scare the hell out of you. But, I think I’d rather take the risk than never hear the music.
Ah, this wonderful blunt instrument we call language. The words I try to use dance around like sunlight on ocean waves. If you touch where they are, they go somewhere else.