deep blue night

i took a long nap yesterday afternoon and awoke, deliciously rested, to nightfall. there are often times at dawn when everything ~ the river, the sky, the trees, the earth ~ takes on a monochrome sheen. all silver or completely green, white in winter or brown in early spring or pink at sunrise, the marsh becomes one. last evening it was deep indigo, the riverbanks were dark blue, then the water a lighter, shimmering, iridescent sliver of sapphire, the trees across the way and the thick grove running north along the river and the heavens above cobalt, with a soft layer of clouds in between the palest baby blue.

it grew darker and darker as night came on, until i couldn't see anything but the darkness but still it is engraved on my mind like a masterwork, intact.

isn't it something how millions of versions of that little experience happened for other people, other human beings, all over the planet, at the exact same moment? in the rain forest, the grand canyon, the himalayas, the serengeti (where i've never been but can imagine); the entire eastern shore of lake michigan, on the drive down highway one around big sur, the san francisco skyline from the top of twin peaks, in armstrong woods, the freestone valley, poipu beach, the atchafalaya, from a rocker on the porch of the highlander center, captiva, the outer banks, devereaux beach, the aberjona, the merrimack, the porch and the deck on seal cove (places i have visited or lived, all imprinted on my soul and in my heart) and now the salt marsh.

and how i felt so many years ago when in the middle of night i was perched in my rocking chair nursing precious julia, darling sam, and thinking how all over the world there were millions of other women doing the same thing at the same time, and together we created a kind of community, a solidarity of mothers, a rich communion, one with each other, soothing and singing and rocking in the deep blue night.