Ingela Bohm's Blog, page 41

Mist on the water

After the sparkling post-shower raindrop extravaganza earlier, the sun set in a haze of mist.

Like a gauze veil, or cotton wool. A soft bed for a tired king of the heavens.

Goodnight.

After the rain

Nature’s jewels, in the form of raindrops on a fir tree.

This means I’m learning to take photos. On the bus home, there was a sudden rain shower, and instead of thinking, “Damn, I don’t have a coat,” I thought, “Yay, I’ll have to head out afterwards and take photos!”

Because light.

Evening shadows and light

Last night I made it my mission to chase the evening light and to capture the shadows it cast behind the trees. At first, the moss glowed green between fir trees that shone white in the light of a sun that had only just begun to set.

When the sun sank lower, I had to move to the edge of the garden, where the birches and last year’s yellow grass smouldered white and blinding. Almost impossible to look at because it was so bright.

Still later, I had to move up the slight incline behind our cabin to capture the reddening rays of the setting sun. An old baking cottage from the thirties (but still in use) lay in green shadow, but reflected the piercing gold from the horizon.

This was a strange place. The pine tree forest ended abruptly, along a straight line, to make place for fir trees. The towering pines dwarfed the younger trees, and the gathering dusk painted the firs in a smoky bluegreen colour that looked almost water-like.

Finally, the low-hanging sun dotted these lingonberry bushes with reddish glitter. It’s like a path of gold, leading the way to Phoebus himself.

A place of inspiration

In all its dimunitivity, this little house and its surroundings sum up northern Sweden for me: the typical dark red walls, the birches and fir trees around it, the dappled forest light, the moss glowing in the afternoon sun.

We’re having some absolutely lovely days at our cabin in the woods, and I’m brimming with ideas for my Midsummer Night’s Eve story. It will be set in a place like this, with the forest a stone’s throw away and the midnight sun painting the landscape in pale gold. And in the middle of ancient nature, a botanist and a – yes, you guessed it – photographer bonding over their love of flowers.[image error]

We live in Rivendell

In a way, this is a picture of nothing. It’s just a row of trees with the sun shining through the needles. But sometimes that’s exactly what you want to convey: a pattern so repetitive and perfect that it becomes an illustration of calm. These pine trees have stood here long before I came to the world, and chances are they’ll still be standing when I slip into the old wooden suit. Maybe I’ll even give nourishment to one of them, because even though we may sometimes forget it, we’re a part of Creation – not the masters of it.

Ugliness beautified

Most of our cabin is a sorry mess (working on it!) but there’s an absolutely adorable attic that just breathes history to me. You wouldn’t believe it now, but it used to be a rubbish heap covered in bird poo and mouse droppings. There are still mice, but I’ve cleaned up the space pretty well and oiled the wood.Spaces like these remind me to breathe. The warm reddish tones of the walls and floor, the dried flowers from last year, the soft shadows. It doesn’t matter that the window is grimy. The griminess is part of it. It’s ugliness, but beautified.

A faithful old servant laid to rest

We found an old boat, all overgrown, years’ worth of leaves strewn inside and trees growing out of it. And yet, so well preserved. The bottom was rotted away, of course, but the rest of it was pretty intact. It lies there in the middle of the forest, right by the stream where it used to plough through the surface as someone fished for perch and pike. So peaceful. It has done its duty, and now it enjoys countless years of well-earned rest.

A coppery spectacle above our heads

“If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction,” Fabian says in Twelfth Night, and when it comes to pine trees, I’m inclined to agree. Now, my photography skills are still on noob setting, and I haven’t bought a proper lens yet, but the colours you see are true. In fact, they’re even a bit drab compared to the unbelievable copper glow of the pine tree trunks, painted by the light of the setting sun.

It’s one of nature’s miracles. All day, the forest looks grey and dry, and then bam! The sun goes down, and the secret is laid bare: those trunks are red – red to make your heart shatter into a million pieces.

The final rays of sun tangle in the dead branches like Zeus descending to earth in a shower of gold. The coppery shafts filter through the branches and hit the trunks like dashes of paint.

By yonder blessed sun I vow, that tips with copper all those pine tree tops…

Blink once and you’ll miss it. It’s a spectacle that lasts a mere hour, just before darkness falls. It’s a light show that plays out fifteen metres above ground, way above the everyday goings-on of us mere mortals. If you don’t make a point of looking up, you won’t see it.

To catch the fiery dust that’s showered on the world just before bedtime, you have to raise your eyes to the sky.

The hour after sunset

The sun always gets all the glory, but it’s the clouds that make sunsets spectacular. Clouds, those pesky things we think we’d rather avoid. They make the day grey, and sometimes they rain on us. As a metaphor, they’re used to symbolize depression and disappointment. They’re the party poopers, the dreary blanket that deprives us of light and warmth.

Except in the evening. A sunset without clouds is nothing. Without clouds to reflect its orange goodbye, we wouldn’t pay any attention to the setting sun. I’m sure there’s a moral in there somewhere…

Last year’s goals

It’s a dangerous thing, setting up goals. It can make us focus and work hard towards something we want, but it can also turn out to be too hard, and then we tend to beat ourselves up because we weren’t perfect.As if what we did achieve was worthless.Look at the target above. It’s been hanging on that tree for a year. It’s been rained on, snowed over and yanked at by the wind. But it’s still there, as a reminder that you didn’t succeed with every shot. The holes are still there, showing you how all your efforts mostly failed. Not a single hit in the bull’s eye.But wait… you hit other things. Those points don’t disappear just because you didn’t get the highest score. One day, those points may come in handy, even if they’re not enough to beat the champion – but who cares about the champion? This is about you.And if all else fails, look at the warm green of the trees behind the target. Maybe a walk through the woods is a better bet right now than aiming for excellence? You can always set a new goal next year: a clean slate, a fresh piece of paper. There’s still time for both failure and success.