Stepping Stones

Stepping Stones

My journal is filled with disconnected ideas, weather conditions, and random thoughts.  Days and dates, and months of the year quickly pass by.   Yesterday marked the first day of Spring, an annual milestone, filled with new hopes and dreams, like a toddler taking their first steps across the room. 

I don’t remember learning to walk, but will never forget when I learned to ride bike.   One day, a small bicycle suddenly appeared in the yard, and I knew what to do.  It wasn’t mine.  It was borrowed, and I would teach myself to ride.  No eyes watched me, and no one talked.  No training wheels attached themselves to the frame, either.  It was hop on and go, from the top of a small embankment of the lawn, down.  The incline was slight, and the soft, fluffy grass protected me when I fell.  The time  spent balancing became greater than time on the ground, until finally I was sailing away.  It only took a day, or two.  Left to my imagination,  in this crucial task of growing up,  the  way to build and sustain my fragile confidence, was to be left alone, to own the accomplishment for myself.  

It just occurred to me that the photograph I took of the stepping stones, leading from the forest into the open field, can be a metaphor for every task I embark upon, in every new stage of life, like riding the bike.  And now, as each page of the calendar gets turned, and every new season passes by, the uncertainty remains as powerful as before.  But, to move along means to cross the stepping stones at every  juncture, and make the most, of tous les jours.   

Images from Home

The seasons converge in Autumn; Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. September, October, November and December come together. Snow, sunshine, birth and death happen. The wind blows, or doesn’t blow, and what we know for sure is that which we don’t know, in the face of uncertainty. We feel sadness, happiness, hope and despair. One is irrelevant, without the other.

March is Still

In the forest, wooden trunks, and structures

stark in sunlight, stand tall in their multitude.

Sentinels ready to file into Spring,

without snow.

Inside, the cawing of crows, outside.

The ticking of the clock, on the mantel.

Shapes of sound, poured into silence

of time and space.

Lush earthy aroma of cinders in the chimney

permeate the air.

February, gone away,

March is still.

GRB ~ TiffanyCreek