Don’t sling mud at the season of renewal and reflection
My significant other reminds me daily of the ability of people to be mindful. From the time I was a young boy I have been mindful and present of all the activities I have been involved with.
I was a good listener and loved to look, smell and touch everything in the woods around my Limekiln Lake home.
In early April of 1975, I witnessed the woods around my house come to life.
I was ever so mindful of this change of season—the smells of the Spruce floating over soft springs of melting snow, the rushing sound of a rivulet stream gurgling with melted off winter, and the warmth of sun on my face.
It was tough-going as I plunged deep into the woods through the foot of soft snow left lingering on the forest floor of Seventh Lake Mountain.
With every step another trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck.
It appeared that my dog Mutt was just as mindful as I of the smells in the air and the sounds of the forest as she stopped every twenty yards to perk up her ears and nose.
Along the way we found a great boulder that was dripping wet and shiny on all sides. I walked all the way around the mammoth rock looking for a spot I could climb.
The mosses that had been covered by winter snows were starting to peak out along the edges of the downturned surfaces.
The dark wet greens emitted a dirt-like smell that signaled an end to winter much more than any date on a calendar ever could.
Everywhere we walked the snow was granular—much like pellets—yet wet and heavy. It clung to my boots like cake batter to the beaters of a mixer.
Most of that afternoon we hiked in the last of the winter snows, mindful of the woods’ awakening. It was too soon to see buds on the trees and too late for sledding.
However, it was just the right time to witness the eruption of the woods from its five months of slumber.
Mutt found some deer droppings to roll in. The mild crunching of the snow beneath her was enough to let me know that winter had lost its grip here in my woods.
We snooped around for another hour or so until the muscles in my legs burned from tromping through the last remnants of winter snow.
I was mindfully awake of my woods and could not wait to see the greens of spring.
Later that afternoon, as Mutt and I sat inside with our backs to the heat of the woodstove, I heard the plops of the final icicles loosening their grip on the eaves of our house and dropping to the dull grey snow below.
I could barely wait to go back and visit the giant boulder once all the snow had gone.
I spent the next month sketching boulders, rocks and such until my woods were green again.
While some referred to that time of year as mud season, I preferred to call it a season of mindful moments put to good use with pen and ink.
Mitch Lee is an Adirondack illustrator & storyteller,
living in his boyhood town of Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com
