Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all....
Emily Dickinson
Yesterday, Thomas and I went out to walk here:
But as I pulled up to the trailhead, I could see other cars parked there, so I turned around and drove to another spot. Again, I saw cars. I get it; people are doing what I'm doing, walking off into the hills to exercise instead of walking around town on the sidewalk where others might be walking (because our sidewalks simply aren't wide enough to stay six feet--or even half that--apart).
So I turned around again and drove to this spot:
Heavy, dark, early morning clouds were looming, but we had plenty of space here and no one else on the trail. Well, almost no one else. About a quarter mile in, we happened upon this pretty girl:
You might have to peer closely to see her, but she's a lovely, light-colored tarantula, probably a "desert blonde tarantula." (I'm assuming female, as they live much longer than the males, but I could be wrong.) Generally, they hunt at night and remain burrowed during the day, so I'm not sure what was going on with this gal (or fellow). We sometimes see them when they migrate in August. I've never seen one in early spring before, so this was quite surprising.
We also saw some lupine that had already jumped out of the ground to celebrate all the rain we had in March:
Forgive the poor photo; it's challenging to juggle my phone while holding Thom's leash and making sure that when I go down on one knee to take a picture, I'm not crushing anyone or anyone's habitat.
What surprised and delighted me even more than the wildflowers or the tarantula, though, was this:
Behold the rolling waves of grass! From a distance, that oak looks just fine. But a close up view (which I took but discarded as it made me sad) reveals that the tree is actually completely charred.
This is where the wildfire burned in October. These hills were burned to ashes last autumn. Now they are covered in beautiful, lush, green grass. Some of the old oaks burned, but some survived, and clearly our little arachnid did as well, as did the seed pods for the lupine and other flowers that grow here in the spring.
Nature is absolutely amazing, isn't it?
As Thomas and I turned and walked back toward the truck, the gray clouds of early morning began to brighten into fluffy white cumulus, and I thought about the ability of so many living things to survive the most catastrophic events and still emerge with such beauty and resiliency.
And that gave me hope.
We will survive. We will endure. We will emerge with renewed joy to celebrate all that remains.
So I turned around again and drove to this spot:
Heavy, dark, early morning clouds were looming, but we had plenty of space here and no one else on the trail. Well, almost no one else. About a quarter mile in, we happened upon this pretty girl:
You might have to peer closely to see her, but she's a lovely, light-colored tarantula, probably a "desert blonde tarantula." (I'm assuming female, as they live much longer than the males, but I could be wrong.) Generally, they hunt at night and remain burrowed during the day, so I'm not sure what was going on with this gal (or fellow). We sometimes see them when they migrate in August. I've never seen one in early spring before, so this was quite surprising.
We also saw some lupine that had already jumped out of the ground to celebrate all the rain we had in March:
Forgive the poor photo; it's challenging to juggle my phone while holding Thom's leash and making sure that when I go down on one knee to take a picture, I'm not crushing anyone or anyone's habitat.
What surprised and delighted me even more than the wildflowers or the tarantula, though, was this:
Behold the rolling waves of grass! From a distance, that oak looks just fine. But a close up view (which I took but discarded as it made me sad) reveals that the tree is actually completely charred.
This is where the wildfire burned in October. These hills were burned to ashes last autumn. Now they are covered in beautiful, lush, green grass. Some of the old oaks burned, but some survived, and clearly our little arachnid did as well, as did the seed pods for the lupine and other flowers that grow here in the spring.
Nature is absolutely amazing, isn't it?
As Thomas and I turned and walked back toward the truck, the gray clouds of early morning began to brighten into fluffy white cumulus, and I thought about the ability of so many living things to survive the most catastrophic events and still emerge with such beauty and resiliency.
And that gave me hope.
We will survive. We will endure. We will emerge with renewed joy to celebrate all that remains.
