Together but Separate…

Sometimes, my Love catches me staring at her. I cannot help it. I am mesmerized—still—by her infinite beauty.

“Stop it,” she protests, always possessing that sixth sense (only inherent in women?), knowing that someone is looking at them.

I tell her I am intrigued by her loveliness. She smiles and says, “Rub my feet.”

We are on the sofa, at the end of the day, watching some show on Netflix, or Hulu, or Amazon, I don’t know. There are so many shows out there. But it’s not only when we sit mere feet apart on the couch; we could be in the car, and I’d glance over at her, sneaking a peek once more.

“Stop it,” she’ll say again, not even looking at me but knowing. Or we could be lying in bed, our respective books in hand, and I’ll steal a glimpse of her, lingering in my stare, marveling at her angelic radiance.

‘What?” she’ll say. “What are you looking at?”

“You. How truly beautiful you are.”

“Rub my feet.”

And I would, or rub her back. She is afflicted with chronic back pain that no doctor or surgeon can seem to remedy. Sometimes I get a little perturbed, of massaging her back once again. But what right do I have, being the supreme wastrel, not doing much but flailing at my writing.

She is, as I’ve said, a Saint. And I suppose the reason I mention any of these sideways glances at my Beloved, the purpose of this post is this: of all the days, of all the years together, spending every day with each other, how much time is spent not looking at each other?

Perhaps it is only on the rare occasion when we go out to eat, sitting opposite each other, that eye contact is made for any length of time. It is probably the only time that two people so united sit in such a way. Unless you’re the sort who actually sits down at the dinner table, in the oft-maligned, rarely-used dining room, where family gathers for a repast and repartee. But that doesn’t happen too often.

Every night we eat in the living room, curled up on the couch, watching something or other, and have our dinner. There are not a lot of moments where you can simply peer over at your significant other. Because as you know, she’ll develop that sixth sense, suddenly look at me, and say, “Rub my feet.”

And I do.

 

Copyright, Paul Grignon-2017

Cusp of April…

What lies beyond?…

The snow slowly vanishes and in its wake shadows return.

Andi sees them, out there, beyond the fringe of woods. And within the shadows’ midnight countenance other ‘things’ lurk within.

Wild, wild woods.

Who knows what Andi sees in such darkled recesses and folds, creases left lightless through leafless trees?

Usually I let him out for his morning pee. But today I opted to take him on a trek across fallow fields, windswept with blowing snow. Snow! On March 28^th.

He stops along the way, sniffs and stares into the black bowers surrounding the field. Out there, beyond the perimeter, creatures unseen skitter and scrabble stealthily, within thicket and dormant shrub.

Only the faint glimmer of sun strains to release its visage upon the world, emitting sallow beams that feebly shine through a knot of pine.

Gurgling winter brook.

We enter the woods. Silence greets our footfalls. No birdsong is heard. Only the faint trickling of a thawed stream murmurs muted along its meandering path. A single crow flutters past and disappears between saplings and fir.

Trudging along, Andi again pauses to take in such environs. A steady, light snow filters through trees, settling quietly on delicate limbs.

Fragile winter finery.

I turn to go and manage twenty paces before realizing Andi has not followed. Patiently do I wait for him to come by my side. But he stands, resolute, staring and sniffing the frigid morning air, perhaps a brief glimpse and return to his forebears, his roots as a member of Canis Lupus, once again part of the wolf pack. Reluctantly, he releases his stare into the distant forest.

We amble back, onto the deck, where candy rockers replace my former snow-made sofa and side table. Andi still peers through rail slats at the woods beyond.

But with a twist of a doorknob, Andi’s revelry is broken.

Once again does he instantly return to his domesticated self, a canine who relishes the warmth within, a safe haven from whatever creatures stalk the pitch black underbrush.

He clicks across the tiled kitchen floor and hops onto the sofa, where Julie and I reside, nursing cups of joe, heaped with blankets piled high.

Andi lies comfortably ‘neath our mounds of cloth. The invisible creatures remain outside, hidden in darkled forests, and whatever glimmer of joining a wolf pack has fled his mind, as he lies nestled and warm and content between his two loving caretakers.

Although at times it seems a shame that Andi has lost his wild side, his ancestral calling to roam the world, it is a comfort and pleasure—in a selfish human way—to have this loving, beautiful animal, this wonderful dog, curled near.

Andi, our pet ‘wolf.’

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2015, All Rights Reserved.

A Day in December…

Claude Monet

The bitter cold seemed not to bother Andi. He jigged and pranced in the driveway, his tail whipping the frigid air. I tugged on my gloves and joined him on the pavement, securing his leash for our morning stroll. Well, not exactly a stroll; more like a brisk jog/run. Damn, it was cold!

We crossed Rte. 19, passed on through a slight dirt road, and started our walk up Tower Hill Road. It was early, about 7:30am. There was not a hint of wind. Bare trees scraped the dun colored sky, and a mere smudge of sun appeared now and then through streaking ragged gray clouds.

No one was up and about. Distant dogs yowled as we trudged upward, Andi sniffing everything in sight, pausing here and there to listen to the howling of unseen hounds.

We ascended the hill, and with the higher elevation, a brisk brumal wind whipped at my layers, as Andi peered up at me, pleading for a return to warm confines.

But I would have none of it. It was good to be out in such frigorific climes, braced against such biting winter chills, and I knew the walk would do us both good.

To assuage Andi’s beseeching stares, I started to run, something I knew he loved to do. We raced, up and up, the cold stinging and tearing my eyes, Andi frolicking through pockets of snow and piles of dead withered leaves, up, up we went, and soon I paused, slightly out of breath.

We crossed the road to a lifeless lea, flora long dead, mere fragments of stalks jutting from crusted tufts. I let Andi run loose and gave a half-hearted chase, but soon I elected to stand rigid in the middle of the meadow, while Andi skipped and whirled in wide wild arcs across the fallow field.

I stood there and embraced the icy grip, at one with nature; the brutal cold; the thin, skeletal branches of a windbreak swaying gently in a winter breeze; the bruised passages of sky above, the wan sun feebly filtering through scudding scrapes of clouds tinged in pinks and grays and purples.

I was one with everything. Even Andi stood motionless, his gaze far off into the darkled edge of woods, where unseen creatures scampered.

A lone crow appeared, a black rent in the sky, cawing as it glided by.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” it screeched, but to me, it sounded like, “Paul! Paul! Paul!”, as though it was my Dad, just passing by, saying a good morning hello.

‘Hi Pops!’ I whispered back, as the crow disappeared over a copse of birch.

We stood there, just Andi and I, immersed in the wonder and beauty all around us. Some folk would describe the scene before us as drab and dreary and depressing. But I thrive in it, allowing my body, mind, and spirit to embrace such a peaceful vista.

At length, sensing Andi’s desire to return, I leashed him and we wended our way down, down Tower Hill, across the thin expanse of dirt, and back into our yard.

Once ensconced inside, Andi bounded on the couch, gnawed his bone for a moment, and promptly went to sleep. I poured a cup of coffee and stood by the kitchen bay window. A light snow was falling, and the last of the sun disappeared. Cradling my coffee, feeling nice and toasty, my face still thawing, I relished our little walk.

A crow suddenly appeared, and perched on the wooden fence beyond the driveway. It bobbed its head, this way and that, and then fixed its onyx stare upon me. We gazed at each other, for a moment or two, and it turned and flitted off, cawing as it sliced through the swirling snowflakes.

‘Bye, Dad. Hope you are well.’

I turned from the window, sat down to my laptop, and began my post.

©Paul Grignon, 2014 – All Rights Reserved.

The painting above, by Claude Monet, is called  ‘The Magpie’. But for all intents and purposes of this post, it is a crow.

Spirals…

This just occurred to me when I ventured today for a stroll with my dog, Andi.

This was not my intention at all to compose something like this. I have a backlog of, well, logs to post, but something struck me about the nature of things.

I was going to wait, until I had the requisite photos in hand, but why bother? Why not let you envision the visuals to my words?

Early this morning I took Andi down our usual path, past the cemetery and to “The Meadow”, as it is called. There, strewn about the fields, were finely woven spider webs, each intricate iteration delicately produced along tips of grass.

It was a magnificent display of ingenuity, how such tiny, unseen arachnids could spin such delightful whorls of thread.

From there, Andi I proceeded down a country lane. Further along, I encountered immense heads of Queen Anne’s Lace, their respective heads arced in unison with the sun. Beautiful! And captivating.

It made me think of those shapes. How the webs and lace echoed those of hurricanes, as seen from satellite. You know, those pics taken from high above our spinning blue orb.

And then it dawned on me. How these images echoed our own cosmos. Think of it; from web, close to ground, to the lace reaching for the heavens, to the spirals of hurricanes, to the varied and infinite galaxies that spin and stretch in all directions in the universe. (Who knows what transpires in parallel universes…)

Spirals. The lowly (but equally stunning) spider web, hung in dew-laden fields, to the Queen Ann’s Lace, straining in its own antique-white countenance among a verdant universe, to the power and magnificence of hurricanes as they spin and weave their way along coastlines, to the majestic and never-ending spirals of never-ending galaxies, all spinning, forever, in an endless and ever-expanding Universe.

Magnificence at its finest! From trembling, unstable webs on the ground, to staggering, unimaginable lengths of time and space.

Remarkable. Beautiful!

I was going to write about our past trip to Peaks Island in Maine, or our past pleasant and brief respite in Scituate, both pleasing environs held in the fabric of largesse and kindness. But something, something about these shapes struck a chord. Something struck my soul.

I just thought I’d share this with you.

But rest assured, Peaks and Scituate are not forgotten. It was just that…that certain aspects of nature embrace you, and you just have to write about it.

May your own strolls along singularly spectacular side roads provide a glimpse into the tapestry that exists, for those who pause and witness the infinite beauty in nature.

Thank you, for stopping by and reading my words. I appreciate it.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2014–All Rights Reserved.

Frissons of Winter…

Clad in Arctic gear, I gingerly wend my way with Andi to frozen fields distant, where an ice paradise awaits us.

Fir trees, straight out of an eerie Hopper canvas, hover on the periphery. They bow with ice-laden boughs, in reverence to Winter’s majesty.

Grass underfoot produces a sound filled not with vowels; a sort of scrnznkschy noise with every step. Each blade is sheathed in ice, as though one has stumbled upon a vast pasture of crystallized French green beans, a bag found in the freezer years later, hidden beneath yet another crystallized slab of indeterminate meat.

Andi is leashless. Sometimes I like to set him free, unfettered from the 20-yard line of rope that keeps us tethered. I watch as he frolics about, sniffing here and there, his part hound breed searching for unseen New England truffles. He doesn’t seem to mind the snow and ice. So far.

A lone crow sits uncharacteristically quiet on a barren tree limb, its perpetual silhouette a slight rent against the expanse of gravid gray skies.

Andi darts to a tree, and a squirrel makes a quick escape. Andi sniffs the ground, perplexed as to where this creature might have fled.

Atop split rail fence posts, an almost perfect circle of ice sits, a winter’s version of a sand dollar.

There is nothing quite like a slow winter stroll to take in the mastery and beauty of a December day.

I stand between grass and road. The tarmac is covered with a thin veneer of ice. I watch in fascination as the subsurface water trickles its way down a tiny incline, inching along like a watery worm, its form reminiscent of blobs from a lava lamp.

I stand still and embrace the silence. In the distance, a vee of Canadian geese veers towards swamps that hold captive naiads ‘neath thin ice.

Andi looks pleadingly at me. He longs for the comfort of our couch. Reluctantly I turn homeward, and he bounds excitingly, in his zig-zag fashion, knowing that soon he will be ensconced in cushions and warmth.

Within its myriad of daunting guises, Winter still can provide a soul frissons of both wonder and calm.

 

©Paul Grignon, 2013-All Rights Reserved.

 

Sunlight in Vermont…

This past weekend we spent a splendid respite in the pleasing town of Wilmington, Vermont. Once again we were ensconced in a mountain retreat, not far from the slopes of Mount Snow.

Early morning, as seen through our bedroom window, brought lazy, fluffy flakes and a brilliant sunrise. Light filtered through the dark pines, and pristine snow glistened in the backyard.

While others headed to the slopes, Julie and I opted to cross-country ski, something I have never done before.

We wended our way along Route 100, through Wilmington Center, and took a left onto Boyd Hill Road. Our destination was the Harriman Reservoir, which is also called Lake Whitingham. It is the largest body of water contained within the state of Vermont.

We turned right onto the Ward Access Beach Road and braved the steep decline to the parking lot. This picture of a birch tree, with the mountains behind it, greeted our arrival.

Carrying our skis and poles down the hill, we noticed the water level was incredibly low. During the winter months the town drains the entire reservoir. Here and there, huge slabs of ice buckled and collapsed, and we wondered if it was safe to go out on to the ice.

But then we noticed this tree stump, a vestige from the old lumber town of Mountain Mills, which was flooded in the 1920’s for a hydro-electric dam. After witnessing this stunning scene, we deemed the ice safe enough to ski.

Donning our skis, we ventured across thin layers of snow, punctuated by swaths of ice. Not ideal conditions for skiing, but then we had the entire place to ourselves. Not another soul was about. We stood and marveled at the surrounding and silent beauty. There was not a sound; no birds, no planes, no people. Just me and my Beloved. It was…ethereal.

I found a discarded piece of 2×8 board, and mounted my camera on it to get this shot of us against the backdrop of distant hills. I had to hustle to get into the picture, slip-sliding my way into the frame.

Overall it proved to be a successful outing. I learned (sort of) how to cross-country ski, and we both got in an excellent workout. The temperature hovered in the mid-thirties, so after the slightest exertion we realized we had dressed to excess.

Sunday, St. Pattie’s Day, turned out slightly different. The weather wasn’t agreeable at all, and strong arctic winds scattered snow like a savage winter haboob. It was cold.

This time we decided to stay closer to home. Just down the road is the Sitzmark Bar and Grill, on East Dover Road. We parked there and valiantly attempted to ski the golf course.

These pictures capture the surrounding beauty of the area.

If you have the chance, plan a visit to this enchanting stretch of land. And even if you don’t ski, the magical and timeless beauty of Vermont is breathtaking.

Narragansett Beach Revisited…

This past Labor Day weekend we found ourselves once again ensconced in the healing environs of Narragansett, where an abundance of sand, sea, and sky were to be had. It was a last summer respite, a day and a half spent at the beach, soaking up the simple beauty that exists within this enchanting littoral land.

The boys were at their Dad’s, and our dear friend Beth allowed us to stay at her lovely pink cottage in Saunderstown, a mere five miles from the beach. In order to access Narragansett Beach, one needs to arrive before 8:30am, as they start to charge people just to walk onto the sand! Preposterous, I know, but we managed to arrive prior to the dispensing of funds, and we then enjoyed the next seven hours immersing our souls in the splendor of the sea.

The above picture, however, is not of the beach. It is of Beavertail, located in Jamestown, and it is a fabulous place, replete with a rugged coastline, a constant and welcome breeze, and magnificent views. This photo was taken from our perch upon the rocks and nothing blocked our view save the incoming boisterous sea.

We stayed there for five hours, and then made our way to the house. We unpacked, and then wended our way to the beach. After 5:30pm, they stop charging walk-ons, so we were safe. It was great to run the length and pause at the end, where the confluence of tides meet and where deceiving currents tug and turn, a maelstrom that can pull an unsuspecting beachcomber into its rapid and rapacious swirl.

It would be difficult to top this picture of the beach. The sun’s rays pierce billowed clouds, and distant sparkles are visible in the churning sea.

Such unimaginable beauty awaits those whose souls are so attuned to the allure and essence of the sea, a constant flow of cascading waves, a timeless traverse upon ancient sand. What more could anyone possibly need? Julie and I reveled in this ethereal realm, a healing and comforting stretch of land that speaks to those who welcome such spectacles of grandeur.

This picture to the left was taken on our last day at the beach. Long, languid hours were spent reading, or napping, or simply gazing at the deafening surf as it rolled in along its endless grip upon the shore. It is a siren, rhythmically calling to your soul, yearning for your return to its pulsating and primordial depths.

Hypnotically, we all succumb to such roiling seas. It beckons, and we submit. We sit, transfixed, mesmerized by timeless beauty. But all too soon we pack our bags, and drag our belongings along the shore, to reluctantly leave this haven of heavenly delight.

We leave, content and complete, awash with the sea, sun, and sky upon our skin, and the ride home is met with silence, as each soul seeks to recall individual moments of sheer bliss experienced upon the shore.

Narragansett Beach is indeed a magical and wondrous place, a stretch of sand that will transport you to a world of comfort. Do walk its length. Revel in its welcoming presence. Become one with its eternal and infinite charm.

You will be transported. Your soul will be healed. The beach will, as you travel barefoot upon its cooling sands, be an instant balm.

Make the journey. It awaits you. What are you waiting for?

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

My Beloved…

She walks in beauty, like the night,

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes…

…And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

   But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

   A heart whose love is innocent! ~ Lord Byron.

How utterly true do these words ring! My beloved, My Love, my wife. Julie!

How entranced was I when I first gazed into her hypnotic eyes, many Moons ago, and here we are, many years later, still entwined, still in love, and still am I enthralled with her essence.

Those eyes.

All who witness her splendor are so bewitched, as my Love exudes a sensuality that transfixes all who chance a glimpse at her exquisite beauty.

Lord Byron himself must have been so enamored by such a woman, such a love, to compose such wondrous words about a lovely and beguiling woman.

My Julie, my love, my wife, possesses such enchantments, and at times I simply stare–spellbound–wholly mesmerized by her infinite and ethereal beauty.

My love, my Julie!

How totally in love am I with her. She is indeed innocent, and angelic.

She does ‘walk in beauty’…

…and I love her, completely.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.