An attempt at poetry after years of dry spell
An attempt at poetry after years of dry spell
It’s 8 degrees here in Sierra Nevada and I’m shivering in bed, unable to sleep. Perhaps it’s the cold; perhaps it’s the 4-hour long siesta I had in the afternoon. Either way, my brain is producing words faster than I can comprehend. So write, I shall.
But where do I start?
As I sift through the pictures on my phone to find a good story to narrate, I come across three interesting ones I took in the evening today.
Wondering why they’re interesting?
OK, let’s go back to my school days, especially the geography lessons I was taught. Hidden amongst the whole lot of text, I remember studying about how geography changes from place to place. The biggest notable factor for this is weather. And by just looking around, you can see the tell tale signs of the weather patterns expected in the area around you.
Notice the sloping roofs, the covered garbage can and the thick cone-shaped shrubs.
Can you guess what these point towards?
Here’s how the landscape looks like, if you want some more help:
The sloping roof helps the snow to fall down to the ground and not accumulate much on the roof. The shrubs need to be thick to withstand the cold weather and be cone-shaped to shed snow. And well, the garbage can needs protection too. Else, it would be overflowing with snow and not garbage. Of course, there’s also the danger of the snow water and moisture degrading the garbage. Hence the cover, one that slopes too!
Had it been a rainy area, sloping roofs could have been replaced by efficient plumbing that gathers the water from the rooftop and takes it to the ground. But that can’t be the solution for snow. Hence the slope.
Even the vegetation in the area show all the signs of being in a snowy place.
And it’s amazing that my education enabled me to observe these facets of nature. To the curious, even a meagre education can work wonders.
So all those who crib about the uselessness of the subjects in school, reconsider. Our education, at best, imbibes in us the art of scientific thinking. Yes, I call it an art because science helps me look at how artful nature and life is.
It feels like everything around us is telling its story. Like this worm that ate the small leaf, but left the veins exposed.
Or these trees that announce the change in the sun’s direction of movement—the reds and yellows narrating the story of the change in seasons.
Of course, it’s not yet autumn in Granada, where these flowers continue to bloom in full rigor.
Or notice how this harmless snail wants to be left alone, contemplating it’s own existence. It’s shell, thus, a beautiful match with its surroundings.
And then, you marvel at the beautiful creations around us; at nature’s perfection:
Just like the snail with its perfect Spiral, the goat manages to blend seamlessly in the background.
I’m lucky. I’ve been blessed with teachers who helped me see that science is nothing but a language that equips you to see the stories being told around you, stories by every living organism or even a supposedly non-living object (like the flysch as below).
And I’m lucky to appreciate at least some of the myriad stories around us.
If you only open your eyes, ears, nose, and other senses!
Bonus pictures: This gorgeous sunset in Sierra Nevada, when the drowning sun played hide and seek with the clouds.
I can’t help it. I love it when they’re light in colour. Call them fair or anything you want, but I can unabashedly say that I prefer that over their darker, brownish counterparts.
And before you take up arms to write me down in the comments section, let me clarify. I’m talking about the water.
There’s just something about a blue-green ocean that calls out to me. Like Moana. Especially if there’s the vivid green of a grass or a set of trees to contradict the blues of the sky and the water.
I mean who can deny the attraction to this:
Or for that matter, this. The island in the middle just makes it all the more moving.
Naturally, I’ve been sitting here for god-knows how long while the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds, leaving me alone with the incessant waves for company. But I’m alright. I find that time moves a little more invisibly when you’re near the shore. It feels like time rides the waves. Initially, you’re aware of each wave that lashes at the rocks near the shore. But then, over time, one wave seamlessly merges into the next one, giving enough space for time to pass away, hidden from your consciousness. Of course, it could also be that you’re simply lost in the way the green water slowly and steadily turns blue, the transition stretching all the way to the distant horizon.
That I love it would be an understatement. I’ve come to accept wholly that I’m a water bum. Funnily, it wasn’t until a friend pointed it out that I realised my penchant for water. Yet, I find it hard to answer the ‘beach versus mountain terrain’ question. Why do they have to be mutually exclusive? Give me a mountain beside a sea, and I’d gladly spend my days staring out at nothing.
Note, how I’m avoiding phrases like ‘forever’ or ‘spend my whole life there’. That’s a conscious choice. For what I love, I love it and live it today. Only today. But I can’t say if it’s what I want forever. The weight of a lifetime is not something I can carry. Nor do I want to.
Time couldn’t even last long enough for the beach and the island to be together. They had to be separated, each craving for the other… Waiting for the day when the ocean will devour the last few rocks in the island and the beach, for them to be lost in eternity—but together, at last.
But enough musings for this poor bench. The earth’s gravity is calling out to the liquid building within me! 😛
P. S. Location is San Sebastian, Spain