Mid january and curled yellow leaves still cling to the pear trees at the back of the property. Their beauty is set against a blue grey fog, suspending this cold winter morning in waiting. A muted light envelops the trees in demure pastel softness. The trees are almost bare, stark, with bark darkened by perpetual dampness. They reach up and outward, frozen in embrace of summer’s fullness, the joy of all trees incarnated in wood.
The gabled roof of a house behind forms an inverted “V” above a rectangle, partly obscured by thin branches high up. Clear geometric lines inform beauties’ multitudinous cascade of form, infinitely recomposed through perspective. A blue jay hops across a nearby roof, full of assertive bluster, emitting the familiar screeching call and clawed taps with each bounce.
The feeling of mild irritability from broken sleep is carried in, suffused with and one and same “substance” as those leaves. There really is one equality of all perceptions, a primal neutrality. That mystery of awareness imbuing all that appears in perceiving, with the one light. There’s no need to evaluate a feeling as more significant than a leaf, a feeling which, even if intense and distracting, is made of the same lightness. A pleasant feeling, an unpleasant one, woven from the same; marked as different by a passing thought which is woven from the same light as yellow leaves, irritable feelings.