Aren’t we like 10 days away from the end of the world, at least according to the Mayan calendar? I never once worried about the end of the world, because, in a way, at every moment that comes it’s the end of the world that was before that moment made for a new one… I don’t mean to get deep or mystical. Not that I could do either, even if I tried.
Still, the way the weather turned today, along with the growing gathering of crows in my backyard, it felt very end-of-the-world like in terms of the gloom quotient. Not that the day didn’t start with sweet sun and puffy clouds and blue skies, and plenty of color – as today’s picture of the mountain hopes to show. But it being December and so near to the longest night of the year, I do find it easier to slip on the slicked patches of gloom along winter’s way, even here in generously sunny California. Every now and then, I also flash back at scenes from Lars von Trier’s film Melancholia, which though was an almost indulgent visual feast about the end of the world, it also served up the right flavor of how depression devastates. In my mind, that movie was never about the end of the World; it was about how one particular world ends when depression hits.
But I don’t mean to dwell on – or in – the shadows. Of which there seem to be so few, at lest for now, in my part of the world. Our “gloomy” weather interludes rarely devastate; they nourish the land, so that when the sun comes back, nature is aglow and bursting at the seams. The hills glisten green, bared trees sprout tiny buds, and everywhere, even in the crack in the road, there are tender new shoots, ready to claim their moment in the sun.