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 |  Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here. |
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NURTURE your NATURE  Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it? We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.   |
| Lavinia suggested we go out for lunch. She ate her chicken singapore (garlicky) while I indulged in shrimp osaka (mustard-ginger). We spoke about how we are both struggling with unresolved mental/emotional/physical issues. Outside snow pebbles (grapple) were falling and thin white veils were descending from the clouds and moving across the valley. So I wove this poem out of those images; At the Noodle Express White pebbles falling. A curtain pulled across the valley. Grey clouds approaching snow clad peaks. A peek of white where sun breaks through... ...and you, eating rice and chicken with a spoon... ...and me, working sticks to grab plump rice and shrimp. We discuss our middle age malaise, our failure to staunch the growing sense: it’s now or never. Pebbles melt to puddles as mountain veils dance minuets. So much like us: it’s now you see them, now you don’t. © Kåre Enga 2010-03-22 [167.5] On the 24th I strolled down Hellgate Canyon noting the melting ice, finding a couple buttercups in bloom. The ice-castles of the mini-waterfall are dirty, sad, no longer sparkling. The river's low, but one sees the greening up on Mt. Jumbo, the moss bright green on the rockface of Mt. Sentinel. I even saw a striped squirrel (or chipmunk) on the rock scree. Mergansers were resting on a log. One notes the pines high up on the ridge as Hellgate Canyon is a deep gash between the Sapphire Mountains that defend it. I wrote this poem and include a picture taken in silhouette from earlier this month that only hints at how the pines appear as guardians. Until a better picture... Guardians See the Guardian trees of the ridge, their Commander at the pointy edge, What lies below their silent silhouette cries in shadow or hides in crevices of ice. Green moss, grey lichens creep and colonize this sullen rock as chipmunks clamber over scree where mountain face has fallen, sloughed. Above soft whispers of a west wind bringing warmth the roots of the Guardians hang on to rock; they've seen it all. The talons of the Commander on the pointed edge defy it all. © Kåre Enga 2010-03-24 [167.7]  Missoula, Montana, March 22 and 24, 2010 |
| Stroll towards the North Hills, March: The glow of the golden tunnel, the tunnel-noise.  Song of the trucks before reaching the slopes. The dogs, one the size of a horse, the green bags of dog s***... ...and the green in between stones, the soil bone-dry. The rocky path to the line of posts, the climb to the iron frame H. The wide stony path going north through the North Hills; me going south.  The way slowly down passing green needles of the bitterroot, soft to the touch; no flowers yet. The burst of bloom of the Missoula phlox in a riot of pink.  Missoula, Montana, March 19, 2010. |
| Swimming in Anabel's tub: The float of legs lifting buoyed by the warmth, the swim. The swirl. Steam rising over the roar of water. The pulse against shoulders and thighs. Pushing the button to turn off the pounding of flesh, the quiet of clearing steam. The float. Eureka's waterfront: The unnamed ships, the ships: Sea wolf, Dena. The slap of waves on wharf. The distant fading motor-rumble. Haze between bay and distant hills. The sea gulls, sea birds, birds in the air, or floating, diving. The Josie L. Orange and pink shirts chasing their childhood; my long gone youth. The ripples crisscrossing, sliding under the boardwalk. The Mary C churning past the smell of fish, the swirl of calling gulls. A sign on a boat: Humboldt State University: Coral Sea. 2010, January 5. Eureka, California. 146 |
| Missoula on a cold sunny 25th: The orange of mountain ash. One squirrel scampering, snow clouds seeding the slopes of Sentinel. Designs of car tires in light snow. Brown leaves. Everywhere, brown leaves. Limp flag. A family of four skating over an ice slick. The plop, plop, plop of a neon-melon jogger, her hair swishing. A red carnation flower on the snow covered frozen mud. open water flowing through the canal, going over an icy rapid. sliding on a thin layer of snow on an ice puddle. white dog trotting; old dog reluctant to be out in the cold. No one at the Mobash skateboarding park. Cathedral of arches under the Orange Street bridge. Sun patches on the cloud shadowed hills to the north. Glow on the steeple of St. Francis Xavier. An archway of brown maples over blue tiled roofs along Spruce Street. The taste and smell of turkey, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie at Charlie B's smørgåsbord. The not-so-stale smell of beer. hugs from friends, the warmth of greeting. Waxwings sitting in the mountain ash, plucking berries, their yellow under-wings. 2009, December 25 |
| A stormy night: snow clinging to brown leaves, the splash of tires, the sidewalk snowy or just plain wet, the contrast. sticking out my tongue until a snowflake lands there, unsuspecting the tang of melt. the plop plop plop of stick and release as my shoes walk through an inch of wet mush. Soaking in the tub: Warmth and the scent rosemary sage like a goose dinner cooking my itchy feet soaking with my maroon shirts maroon water everywhere reading a used paperback as Nancy Drew exclaims, Fire! and the maroon tub draining red, red, red. 2009, December 23; Montana 129 |
| After half-time at the basketball game: Being goofy, waving at friends. The moisture of the closeness, sitting next to an Oregonian (here 30 years, not dried out yet). A blimp that circles the arena taking pictures. I take one of it. A contest on baby cycles; the women win. Long pony tails and white faces of the cheerleaders. Non-white thighs of the team: American, African. Next to me: the scent of french fries. Going up the aisle: a bucket of popcorn. Montana's Lady Griz in maroon and white. The Portland Vikings in black with a touch of green. The crowd rising in cheers or jeers: yelling, screaming, clapping. The not-so-silent silence in between. Whistle of crowd; whistle of the referee. "That little bald referee" shrieks Linda, sitting next to me. Announcement of the attendance: 6,734. The final score: 70-60. 2009 March 7th. Dahlberg Arena. Missoula, Montana. A poem: "Linda at the Lady Griz game"  119 |
| Some landscapes are human: The babble of Greek ... it's all greek to me. Photo of Hydra: white buildings, white birds, white flowers, blue sky, blue sea. The flag of Greece, blue and white. Condiments: ketchup, tobasco, salt, pepper and orange (paprika?). Outside: benches a shade of indigo. The salty feta, the lamb of gyro, the pita fried and greasy, tomato, lettuce. Musica. Sun streaming in on the table; the two other metal chairs empty. Black and white dog at the door. As written down at #1 Gyros, Missoula, Montana on 2009, January 16th |
| Bright sun, no clouds blocking the bowl of blue above; ice flows past red osier as dogs run about, sniffing anyone who stops. I walk on ice pack to avoid the mud. Caw of crow flying towards Sentinel, frosted at top. Those who search for Spring will not find it in yellowed grass as rumbles come from traffic on the bridge above. Rapids flow quietly below. Lap of waves against pier and the slap, slap, slap against ice on shore. Ice caught in an eddy heads upstream against the flow. A frozen pool of smooth ice, reminding me of childhood, unscratched until I glide across. 2009-02-08. Walk along the Clark Fork river, from Higgins bridge to Madison bridge to Kiwanis Park. Missoula, Montana. 113 |
| As recorded in my Journal, page 1,945-6: I went for a walk along the river, went a ways down the Kim William's trail, still frozen and in shadow. I went as far as the small spring now frozen into ice castles. The pictures won't do it justice. How do I capture the moon 3/4 waxing in a beautiful blue sky framed by the canyon. How to capture the flow of water breaking out of the ice by the rapids. The fire department rescue was out there clad in red and yellow. Mt. Jumbo is mostly beige but the far mountains were glistening. It was easier to walk where the ground was still frozen than in the puddles of mud and gravel. I noticed the tracks: the ichthys of the trax, horseshoe shape of a heel, big-dog paws, the long snakelike indentations of bicycle tires. What is smelled? not much in winter. What is touched? shoes padding through puddles. Plenty is seen - the moss and lichen, a couple birds in the distance. And heard? the trickle of water, voices in greeting. There is nothing to taste while walking. 2009, February 4th along the south side of the Clark Fork River, from the Higgins bridge to the Kim William's path, Missoula, Montana. 108 |
| A fragrance of the 70s as a man passes near the brewery. 3 splats of vomit on the sidewalk on the way to the uncontrolled 4 way on Wolford. Puddling along the frozen edges of the walk, snirt melting slowly under a weak sun that lights the skies, but hides behind the clouds and then the mountain. Salt. Black shriveled berries, orange berries of the rowan. A guy practicing with his skateboard on front porch steps. In the Rose Garden: pine cones, rabbit pellets, no snow under the pines; two dogs. Pistachio and Bacio gelato at Caffe Dolce, smooth, nutty and sweet on the tongue, eaten with a small blue plastic spoon. No birds in flight; none seen nor heard. 2009, February 2nd from Myrtle Street to the Rose Garden on Brooks, Missoula, Montana. 106 |
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