It’s a wet kind of cold, the kind that still allows things to grow. The cloudy sky and diffused light makes the green of the plants more striking and they glisten with the drops of rain. Actually, the rain doesn’t quite drop. The air is so thick with water that it falls in a mist, mot even heavy enough to be a drizzle. It makes me feel like I am walking through a long, white cloud, as if I am so far above the earth that I am inside the sky. Only the moss reminds me that I am at sea level.
The tree outside my window has been dying all summer, but now, in the cold of the autumn rain it has begun again to grow. It also seems confused by these antipodean seasons. It lost its leaves in the shining sun of the summer drought, and now that it’s fall, it’s sprouting new life.
The koru seem unsure about whether or not to open. I am sure I’ve seen the ferny tendrils on my path tentatively stretch open, and now they’ve closed again, as if pulling back from the abrupt, damp, winter. Their spiral fractals seem to contract and breathe, opening timidly and closing again.
It’s on days like this I long to be outside, to feel the growth and life. The plants and ground feel full with the potential that the rain brings, bursting with possibility and expectant growth. I want that potential, that possibility, that growth.
This is a little birthday present from New Zealand for my awesome, amazing, inspiring cousin, Janelle.
Also, Kiwi Creative Commons love to Brenda Anderson for the photo. Thanks so much!