On this last day of the year the misty morning and spring-in-December air invited me to lift my bright orange kayak from its hibernation spot in the garage. It was the first time since late August, given how flooding this fall affected the quality of so many local waterways. The only sounds I heard after plopping the kayak into the backyard pond were the birds, their songs many and varied, loud and lasting. Water’s surface was still, no wind to speak of, but now and then a slight breeze nudged any of last night’s rain balanced on branches to drop, dance and ripple. One anhinga swimming ahead of me appeared to be the only other witness to the exquisiteness of the early hour grey.
As I made my way up the narrow canal of water, I closed in on two crooked wooden posts, old and algae-covered. I noticed that filling the space between them stretched a large intricate spider web, perfect. I slowed my movement, realizing the angle of view had to be just right, as did the background of water: dark, with just enough but not too much light. It was so easy to glide by, otherwise, and miss it.
Pausing to take it in, I thought how fitting this image was for a new year ahead. How a nearly imperceptible web exists to sustain life. Hidden, yet in full view, the design unfolds. Its creator chooses what could stand still enough long enough to birth a form so delicate and strong. To hold a place for it to last, whatever the duration.
May we take the oars in our hands, and find the beauty awaiting us. May we risk getting wet and cold, opening to the possible in any season. May we offer each other just enough light to see.
December 31, 2018