I was struck this weekend by the differences in Oregon's micro-climates. Here in the Willamette Valley, it's been "spring" for a few weeks:
|Daffodils: evidence of spring|
|One, two deer . . .|
|Three, four, five, six . . .|
I enjoyed the rare company of my son the last weekend of his college spring break. But when he left on Sunday, I stayed at the cabin, sick with a stomach flu. I spent many hours watching the weather changes, listening to the rain drumming on the metal roof, then experiencing the total silence of a winter snowfall in the woods.
Later in the afternoon, I closed the curtains and took several deep winter naps, catching up on lost hours of sleep. In between, I watched a film about Andy Goldsworthy and his art . . . twig sculptures bound together with only thorns, rocks balanced one upon another, ice shards molded into graceful curves, autumn leaves trailing in a colorful display over river rocks. And hearing him talk about his art and what it means to him, well, all I can say is that it filled me with inspiration.