Dec. 8, 2011
I sit in front of a picture window facing east and watch the far ridge go through every shade of red, pink and orange I can imagine, like a river of color slowly flowing across the hills as the sky lightens and the stars fade.
It is my first morning on Afton Mountain. Last night I drove up from Charlottesville through brisk winds and swirling snow, certainly not a blizzard but a bracing welcome to a new world. The higher I drove, the more that sense of separation from the valley below grew. Though the Jeep handled the climb adroitly, my sense of vulnerability and exposure increased—if I slipped on ice getting out of the car or suffered some other minor mishap, the consequences could be dire. But that’s part of the man/boy appeal, part exhilaration, part threat, part wonder, part the sense of being on the edge so that you are forced to be in the moment.
The house creaked and groaned last night as the heat came on, warm waves coursing up through the vents. I rubbed my hands and gave thanks. The stone exterior gives the house a sense of fortress, and last night I welcomed that feeling of impenetrable shelter. The evening passed quickly with rummaging and exploring, and I slept well despite apprehension that the strange surroundings would keep me awake.
Now I find it difficult typing. I’m sitting with all the lights off to savor the first sunrise, and every time I look up the sky has changed color and texture. Five crows just flew by the window, cawing harshly; are these the roosters of the dawn? The snow lies like dust, a confection for breakfast. And the valley below, earlier just a puddle of glinting shadow, now is taking on detail, meadows and woods becoming sharp, and the breathtaking sweep of the view keeps drawing my eye from these keys. So now I pause, thankful for the beauty and aware that I will never experience this initiation again. But no two sunrises are the same, eh? I hope for many more.
Lovely…