|Oak trees wait until they are absolutely sure that Spring is here before opening their buds.|
The sun flashing brightly on the gently rippled ocean surface is well on its way towards its full summer glory. It has already drawn almost every bud and stem of grass out from its winter sleep. Maple trees drape their blossomed boughs out over the beach toward the light and bushes of ocean spray flash patterns of tiny leaves in the vivid air. Red currents are brilliant against the rock and white shell beaches. Everything is so alive, so freshly minted. Spring!
In this familiar place it is easy to think of the rocks, water, trees and sky as extended family and revel in the joy of new life. The ancestor ocean and grandparent bedrock that have given structure to everything, the tall cedars and firs who stand benevolently beside the trail as parents, aunts and uncles watching over me. Those smooth skinned arbutus reaching their seductive limbs out to the light of the bay and the oak trees cautiously waiting to be absolutely sure of the season before opening to the light.
It is so natural afer all to let ones mind slip into a sense of relationship. A knowledge that the landscape is me and that my unconscious self really is the totality of the natural world. On a morning like this it is hard to think of exploiting, of fishing out the seas, logging off the forest, mining out the minerals, because it is so obvious that I would be cutting off my nose to spite my face, self mutilation. I wish that more people could directly experience a Spring morning at Indian Point or, more to the point, find an equivalent space within their own lives.