Sometimes it seems words can get in the way of our will and our wants. Often even. Sometimes words blur or over-focus or misrepresent… But they’re what we’ve got. And so it is that my morning words today, “Midwinter Mending”, endeavor to broadcast my will and want without blurring or over-focusing or misrepresenting. Allow, if you will, that these words are optimistic and matter-of-fact. An apt title for a tiny clutch of poetry that, like a seed perhaps, might germinate and flourish.
Midwinter Mending Haiku
A tiny building on Rosslyn’s waterfront. A tiny poem on a tiny moment like a threshold — midwinter, mid-repair — captured in a snapshot from a close friend. Probably a phone photo. A delicately distorted photo, watercolor-like in it’s impressionist abstraction, not altogether unlike stained glass that offers a fresh perspective on the familiar.
I hope that this haiku will fertilize the Rosslyn boathouse rehab, accelerating its already delayed completion before Lake Champlain’s winds and rising waters and, possibly soon, her ice begin to battle with the dock house. I hope…
Slightly Off-kilter: West Elevation, Interior Structural Cladding (Photo R.P. Murphy)
Another milestone. Interior structural cladding of the west wall is now complete. This will please the engineer. And this, in turn, pleases me. Even when the photograph, subtly askew, causes me to question perspective, to reach out for the countertop, steadying myself. It’s as if I’ve been sailing and, stepping ashore, I need to pause a moment, swap sea legs for earthier pegs. Or a touch too much grog at lunch?!?!
Slightly off-kilter, listing and ungravitied, far-flung photographs.
A quick post today to document yet another important step forward. I actually have several other posts in the works, meatier posts, but completion so far is eluding me. Something to do with perspective, I think. Or proximity, perhaps. Tomorrow, I’ll make more headway. For now I will yield to the listing and bid adieu, conclude this pre-Friday the 13th slightly off-kilter…
Rainbow Resonance, August 18, 2020 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Perhaps a purist will scoff, a musicologist for example, when I hitch a rainbow (a double rainbow) to resonance. But I’ll claim poetic license long enough to sneak past the physics police or whoever else patrols these matters. Rainbow resonance isn’t just a pleasantly alliterative title for this post. It’s an observation. Rainbows — witnessed in person, via image, or in words — resonate. They reverberate. Visual reverberation, visual resonance. I’ll defer to the more scientifically inclined to explain why this phenomenon is true. I’ll simply assert it. Rainbow resonance is real. Spy a rainbow, and you instantly want to convey it through some form of communication.
“Hey, look. A rainbow!”
Or you snap a photo, text it to your beloved.
Maybe you pen a poem or paint a watercolor or compose a song…
On August 18, 2020 I witnessed and romanced this rainbow from Rosslyn’s lawn and then from our waterfront. I snapped a photo and typed a quick haiku. And then I shared them. Rainbow resonance. It’s real.
Rainbow Resonance: Haiku
Here’s the arresting impossibility of a double rainbow distilled into as few words as possible, lest the words occlude the vibrant arcs.
Iris arcing her
opulent salutation
‘tween earth and ether.
Perhaps this is a nod to Pablo Neruda.
Dónde termina el arco iris,
en tu alma o en el horizonte?
Where does the rainbow end,
in your soul or on the horizon?
— Pablo Neruda, Libro de las Preguntas (Book of Questions)
Or perhaps this is just a haiku nodding at a double rainbow…
Rosslyn Rainbow Resonance, August 18, 2020 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Rainbow Reverb: Social Media
Sometimes a thought, image, or video posted onto social media drifts briefly and then vanishes. Short lived. A non event. A message whispered into the chasm, swallowed by the wind and water and a mesmerizing murmuration.
Once in a while a message is timely or touching, a lucky capture, or for some other mysterious reason finds its target. Again and again. Reverberating. Resonant. These moments can be affirming and beautiful.
When I shared the rainbow over Lake Champlain photograph at the top of this post (and below) on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter on August 18, 2020 I was pleasantly surprised with the feedback. I include all three posts as an effort to interweave some of the most compelling comments. Enjoy.
Today’s a day for peach haikus. With blustery storm incoming, our team concerned about balancing inclement weather reports with an ambitious 4-day scope of work, and the sort of bone-deep chill that shivers the bones and shakes the confidence, I propose that we take a micro-vacation. How’s that? Let’s flip the calendar back to sunny August when Rosslyn’s peach trees offered up sun warmed fruit bursting with nectar. A pair of summer-soaked watercolors and a pair of poems just might take the edge off and remind us that similar joys lay ahead. I hope that you enjoy these peach haikus.
Peach Haikus
As I’ve mentioned previously, recent years have drawn me toward the humility and mystery of haiku. Through brevity and minimalism blossoms a microscopic world. An invitation to disconnect from the hurly-burly for a while in order to immerse ourselves in a moment, a fragment. And often that miniature moment actually contains something immense, universal. A bit like gazing into a small drop of water that appears to amplify the world around it like a gnome-scale snow globe. Minus the snow. We’re trying to conjure summer vibes after all.
Summer’s first peaches,
sunshine soaked and siren sweet,
seduce all senses.
— Geo Davis
Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)
Peach Haikus in Mid-December
There’s something decadent about peaches in wintery months. Once upon a time it would have been an impossibility, of course, but in this brave new world it’s possible to purchase peaches year-round, harvested faraway in warmer climes. And yet, no matter how reputable the source, there’s simply no comparing a snow season peach to the fresh-off-the-tree variety we enjoy in mid to late summer. The colors are almost impossibly saturated, and the sweet treacle that drips from lips is an indulgence on par only with fantasies. Even the aroma of a sun soaked peach pulled from the branch is an extravagance. Store bought winter beaches often have no smell at all, or only the subtlest of ghost-smells, like a facsimile transmitted too many times, diluted with each new iteration.
And yet, perhaps, just maybe these images and these peach haikus will conjure for you a recollection so tantalizing that your optimism will rebound, incoming winter will settle into a less ominous perspective, and your enthusiasm for next summer’s fruit will revitalize your spirits. Hope so!
Hankering for a hammock huddle this morning, so I’ll I revisit the photograph I shared on June 6 depicting a herd of hammocks near the orchard. Yes, the color is a little over juiced. And the shadows are dark almost to the point of feeling ominous. Or cozy? But this moment beckons this morning given yesterday’s storm damage. (I’ve included another image below capturing just how close one of the fallen trees came to both the icehouse and the hammock huddle.
Hammock Huddle Haiku
Together apart,
plein air cocoons canopied
beneath maple trees.
— Geo Davis
Pandemic Precursor
While quarantining during the early months of the pandemic Susan and I spent time exploring and experimenting with aspects of our property that we’d never considered before. Or not recently, at least.
Sixteen years have lulled us into habits, ways of living and looking at Rosslyn that have possibly become more confining than we’d realized prior to weeks-on-end of quarantine.
We spent many afternoons and early evenings on the lawn of the abandoned clay tennis court (located west, northwest of the icehouse). It started because the early spring sunsets were best visible from here, but it continued because we discovered a fresh and inviting space and perspective that we’d previously overlooked. And this new vantage, this new ritual catalyzed a shift in our thinking. Wondering, really. We’d inadvertently stumbled upon a liminal space. And the longer we spent hammocking together near the glowing Solo stove fire pit gifted to us by our older nephew, bundling up as the evening grew chill, witnessing another pandemic sunset, the more our conversations and questions raced into exciting new places. Our wondering wandered further and further into liminality.
Transitions. Flux. Liminality. Interstices. Inflection. Evolving… We are awash in transitions! (Source: Transitions)
Three years later we’re navigating a tempest of transformation. But I’m tickling a tangent, so best to stick with our hammock huddle for now.
Ensemble Hammocking
Our earliest ensemble hammocking in this location, back in March or April 2020, was nestled up together in this wooden arc stand.
Pandemic Hammocking 2020 (Source: Geo Davis)
Needless to say, no side-by-side reveal since we were quarantined, and we weren’t super swift with selfies…
We’ve long loved hammocks, stringing them up throughout our property, so it occured to me that it would be fun to create a group of hammocks hanging together in the hopes that soon we’d be able to be joined by friends once again. Recumbent social distancing!
The hammock huddle shown at the top of this post was born. The same is shown here, minus the giant maple tree that used to tower nearby.
Hammock Huddle (Source: Geo Davis)
As it turns out, the hammock roundup has been a hit. For the third season in a row we’ve enjoyed group hammocking among the still adolescent stand of maple trees growing between the tennis court and the orchard.
Yesterday‘s storm damage was distributed throughout our property, and the immense maple that succumbed in the photo stood right next to the hammock huddle. Guided through the forceful blow by some benevolent force, the towering tree exploded onto the ground without damaging the hammocks, the maple trees in which they are suspended, or for that matter any of the adjoining trees save a few branches here and there. It’s remarkable really. Even the gate through which we drive the tractor was unscathed. And, as I pointed out yesterday, if the wind been blowing in the opposite direction, the maple would likely have destroyed the icehouse that we are just beginning to rehabilitate. Instead, we have a new aperture of visible sky this morning and a year’s worth of firewood.
Recent nights are feeling more September than August, and even some of the days. Dry heat (trending cooler) during the daytime, and crisp-to-chilly at night. This bodes well for apples, pears, grapes,… And so my mind is in the orchard.
Orchard Harvests (Source: Geo Davis)
Holistic orcharding has forged a gradual, intimate familiarity with my trees and with their habits. Harvest time offers confirmation and encouragement, but also occasional frustration and puzzlement. A bountiful harvest. A meager harvest. Coloration. Flavor. Texture. Orcharding and gardening hone appreciation for seasonality, serving is delightful reminders to remain humble and grateful, but also to aspire and stretch and explore. I am struck by the fact that no to harvest are identical. We cannot map one growing season onto another without blurring the picture.
Orchard Harvests Haiku
Orcharding seasons overlaid year upon year, harvests offset, fugue. — Geo Davis
I’d like to shift your focus for a moment to the almost-ready-for-groundbreaking rehabilitation of Rosslyn’s historic icehouse situated just north of the carriage barn. Has your focus shifted? Good. Now let’s zoom in a little tighter to the icehouse door. Perhaps imagine yourself walking south on the sidewalk in front of Rosslyn, looking across the front lawn past the stone wall, toward the setting sun. Can you see the west facade of the icehouse? Can you see the door?
Icehouse Door Haiku
Sightlines and viewsheds
in the historic district
hinge upon a door.
— Geo Davis
As I’ve remarked in the past, there are times when a tidy haiku might accomplish more than a verbose dissertation. If in your estimation my mission is accomplished in the seventeen syllables ahead, I invite you to abbreviate your read here.
If you’re inclined to probe a little deeper, or simply have no clue what I’m getting at, please read on. But, note that a dissertation isn’t in the offing. I’ll take a reasonable run at the idea(s) in the haiku above, but the bottom line is this. The west facade of Rosslyn’s icehouse is within the public viewshed and various sightlines reveal the icehouse door from sidewalk, road, etc. What does that mean, and why is it important?
Sightlines & Viewsheds
In architecture, design, and urban planning “sightlines” is a relatively self-explanatory term combining perspective and line-of-sight visibility within built and unbuilt environments. Hhhmmm… I’m pretty certain that armchair definition wouldn’t pass muster with the AIA, so let’s try a different approach. Within a building or any space, really, what you can see and the relationships between what you can see are your sightlines. What is visible? What is partially or completely obscured? How do visible elements relate to one another? Is the relationship between visible elements visually appealing?
Okay, so what about “viewshed”?
The good folks at Merriam-Webster define viewshed as “the natural environment that is visible from one or more viewing points”. Sounds a little bit like the way I’ve tried to explain sightlines. Let’s see if I can muddle things even further by dipping into the collective genius of Wikipedia.
A viewshed is the geographical area that is visible from a location. It includes all surrounding points that are in line-of-sight with that location and excludes points that are beyond the horizon or obstructed by terrain and other features (e.g., buildings, trees). Conversely, it can also refer to area from which an object can be seen. A viewshed is not necessarily “visible” to humans… (Source: Wikipedia, September 18, 2022)
All cleared up? No? Hhhmmm… Let’s tap a few other resources.
Viewsheds are visualizations of what is visible from a given point and are often used in urban planning. (Source: ArcGIS CityEngine Resources)
When I was 5 years old, I used to play hide-and-seek with my friends. Just like any kid, I’d always try to find the best hiding spots. I used to wonder: If I hide in this spot, what is visible from the observer’s point of view all around them (viewsheds)? Or if the observer looks in a straight line, what is obstructed or not (line of sight)? (Source: Line of Sight vs Viewshed: Visibility Analysis – GIS Geography)
Assessing what’s visible in a straight line from an observer’s specific location involves consideration for obstructions, topographical/elevation change, etc. This, as I understand it, is the sightline. Whereas the viewshed encompasses all visible objects and areas from the observer’s point of view.
In the case of our about-to-start icehouse rehabilitation, both the public viewshed (from the road, the sidewalk, even the lake which is a public thoroughfare) and the various sightlines (all three I’ve mentioned not only offer multiple perspective and multiple lines-of-sight on a spectrum from roughly north-to-south, but they also represent different elevations ergo unique topographical angles) are relevant, and they loosely informed the considerations of the Town of Essex Planning Board (and general public) when we presented our proposal this past July and August.
Essex Village Historic District
Because Rosslyn is a prominent part of the Essex Village Historic District, and because the historic icehouse is deemed important within the historic district’s public viewshed, the icehouse door became a point of discussion during our Planning Board approval process. The discourse and consideration is actually quite interesting. Historic icehouse. Historic icehouse doors. Historic District. Public viewshed. Public sightlines.
I’m going to treat this as a two-part post, this first installment to introduce the relevant considerations, and a follow-up once design decisions are finalized. For now, I’ll withhold the drawings as originally presented, in order to stimulate your own contemplation…
I recently learned that autumn isn’t the best of times for drone honeybees, but there’s still time for the rest of us to get high on nectar. And since the humble haiku is nearly nectar in the poppy fields of poetry, I’ll defer today to an industrious honeybee high on nectar of a windblown poppy blossom.
High on Nectar Haiku
Pink petals flutter, honey bee, high on nectar, bustles, persistent.
I remember, as a boy, seeing a mature bald eagle sitting in this oak tree. It must’ve been 1984 or 1985. My mother was driving us from Rock Harbor to Plattsburgh, where we went to school. It was less common to see bald eagles back then. They were present in the Champlain Valley, but less abundant than today. So it was a big deal to come upon one unexpectedly. My mother slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road, cautious because there was very little room to pull out of the lane without getting stuck in a ditch that divided the road from the adjoining field. We sat a few minutes — my mother, my brother, my sister, and I — observing the majestic bird. Substantial in size and commanding in posture and intensity. It may have been the first time I saw this iconic raptor up close, and it made an enduring impression on me.
It was late winter, as I recall, and the monumental oak was bare, damp from rain, imposing. It seemed the perfect perch for such a majestic bird. A tree with dignity, with gravitas. And yet, I yearned for the eagle to spread his wings and soar. We asked my mother to honk the horn. She declined, reminding us that the eagle had been there first, that startling him would disrupt him unnecessarily. I suspected that she too wished the eagle would fly. But she slowly pulled back onto the road, and we continued our commute.
Since returning to the Adirondack Coast in 2003, I’ve made a point of stopping to appreciate this handsome tree during jogs, in the early years, and bike rides, over the last decade. I’ve never spotted another bald eagle presiding over its gnarled limbs, but some day I might. In the meantime I honor the tree — vibrant leafed, laden with acorns, rusting in autumn, bare but for snow frosting — enduring across decades but otherwise virtually unchanged.
Lone Oak Haiku
Dripping after rain, a vast acorn nursery, lone oak towering. — Geo Davis
Sally & Sentry
When I shared this lone oak photograph and haiku on July 23, 2021, our friend and Essex neighbor, Tom Duca, surprised me with a previously unknown detail about this tree.
“You know Sally Johnson saved that tree. Look close. She had a cable strung between the two big limbs so they would not split apart.”
I had not known. But knowing has added to my affinity for this lone oak. A quiet, timely, essential act of kindness by an admirable woman to honor and preserve an iconic tree, our Adirondack horizon’s sentry.
I’m fond of the French word, “robinetterie“. In English the translation is “fixtures”. Not quite as intriguing a word, in my opinion. Nor are “plumbing fixtures”, “faucets”, etc. But “spigot“, now that’s a fine word! It conjures the drip, drip, drip… of a leaky spigot.
I know, pretty subjective, and perhaps a little esoteric. But I’m an unabashed connoisseur of words. I appreciate words the way others value gems or cigars or heirloom apple varieties or single barrel bourbon. Ok, I’m pretty fond of the last two as well, but words are my currency. I collect words, romance words, share words. And so far as I’m concerned “spigot” and “robinetterie” are in a class apart.
Leaky Spigot Haiku
Sometimes the soap dish,
sometimes the [leaky] spigot,
always drip, drip, drip,...
Spig’spiration
It’d be tough to be an old house enthusiast without appreciating antique and vintage plumbing fixtures. Fortunately Rosslyn’s kitchen, bar, bathrooms, and hose hydrants have undergone years of rehab, replacement, and TLC. But I live a peripatetic existence, and travel taps into my drippy robinetterie nostalgia from time to time. That leaky spigot in the photo above was photographed on July 21, 2014 in coastal Maine. Even now, I recollect my relief at not being responsible for fixing it!
But the seed for this micropoem was planted by another, Matthew Aaron (@_matthew_aaron_), with the following Instagram post. Thanks, Matthew!
Per Matthew, “the soap dish is everything”. Per me, the spigot is everything. It may not even be a leaky spigot, but I’ve exercised some poetic license. After all, the layers of life patinating the oh-so-very vintage robinetterie speak in drips. Can you hear it? Drip, drip, drip,…
The soap dish is everything (Remixed from photo by Matthew Aaron)
Poetic license bled into the visual domain. I’m not 100% able to explain why Matthew’s photo grabbed me the way it has, but I’m grateful for his permission to include both the handsome original and my derivative remix. A wonder-fueled wabi-sabi water faucet. A visual poem of a leaky spigot.
Whether hummingbirds or butterflies or honey bees or bats or scores of other pollinators accidentally doing the work of fertilizing flowers from generation to generation, the appetite for nectar powers progeny. A sweet song of perpetuity. A dulcet dance engendering poppies aplenty.
Papaver Bee-ing, Haiku
By coincidence a poppy pollinator, the bee nectaring.
I wonder, in our quest for mythological nectar, if we ungainly landlubbers might inadvertently be pollinating poppies. Occasionally. Let’s hope so.
