February 9, 2010
It’s one of those sunny winter days today, the kind of day where the brilliant blue sky and light filtering through the window almost convince me that spring is here. Alas, I come to find that it is cold enough for my fingers to throb in a stiff and cold complaint about my lack of gloves. I am sitting in the woods on Redstone campus, on an old, weathered stump, wondering why there seemed to be so many more trees the last time I was here. . . I am at this particular spot, not purely out of choice, but mostly because of physical limitations. But I do like it here. The stump I am perched upon is located on the edge of a small clearing of sorts, and the sun is angled in such a way that everything has an almost otherworldly glow, and it is conveniently warming my face. The squirrels are nimbly maneuvering through what I can only describe as a playground of conifers and bushes, eyeing me questioningly from a distance. Although this place is close to humanity, all that I hear of it is muffled. Instead of cars, I hear the light crunch of snow beneath my feet, cushioned by a thick layer of moss and pine needles. I hear a bird deeply focused on creating a cacophony of mock agony, and I hear the chatterings of squirrels, along with the slight rustlings of smaller winter birds. This place has a unique separation, a semi-microcosmic feel, that I think I will come to embrace over the course of time. The woods seem weary, and I hope to see their heavy limbs perk up when the ground begins to warm. I need to find my sketchbook, so I can show you small pieces of this place, and so that maybe I will come to confirm in my mind that nature is not just found on a mountain.
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