Ennui. That's what Scott calls it when the cat gets in a mood, thumping its tail on the carpet and then ripping around the house after absolutely nothing (the French have the best words) --and that's what I've felt, a kind of otherwise nameless, restless sort of (I hate to say it) boredom, for which I know of very few cures. Bring on a heavy dose of woods, which works immediately by wrapping me fully in all it's rich and thick and heavy and lush
woodsiness. Wild geraniums, each blossom host to a tiny black bee curled deep in its petals. The trillium, which I've barely paid attention to, fascinating me suddenly -- their crepe-y fading blossoms seemingly more luminous in their decline. Mayapples in bloom. Birdsong bright and clear in the low light. Paw Paw flowers. They defy my capture every time. My iphone hates them and refuses to focus on them at all. This time with the dslr I lie on my back on a fallen tree and hold my breath as I press the shutter button. Finally I give up, let out my breath and put the camera down. It's just me, lying on my back, on a log, feeling all of this deep damp -- earthy dim -- late-spring -- closest thing to Nirvana I know -- woods -- closing in around me.
