acrylic on paper
The only time I've ever been to Snoqualmie Falls was in the autumn of 2001. I was upset about something - probably the frustrations of trying to find a job and worries over what I'd do when the money finally ran out - and Cass made a detour on our way home from Index one day. It was a sunny, dry day. Leaves that had fallen early had dried in the gutters and crackled underfoot. The sun winked through the trees as we turned down these winding country roads. He wouldn't tell me where we were going. It was a surprise. And what a surprise. I recognized it immediately - from the picture on the paper bag of pancake mix that my parents always bought (when they weren't buying Bob's Red Mill buckwheat pancake mix, that is). It cheered me right up.
So last week, when I found myself nursing a grief-hangover from the first anniversary of Herb's death, Cass took me again. What a difference this time - as we headed toward the pass, the sun faded into a haze of clouds, and at the falls, everything was green, pale, misty. I have been thinking lately about how the Irish language has a word - glas - that means both "grey" and "green." It makes sense, if you think about their climate - and ours, too. Though perhaps we need a word for "blue" and "grey" instead. Still, the environment was all glas at the Falls: all misting, dripping, grey-green, steam rising from the green forests and twining with the lowering grey clouds.
It rained - I wouldn't say it was quite pouring, but there was plenty of rain. We mingled, stoically and without umbrellas - like any self-respecting Seattleite - amidst the handful of tourists braving the wet for photo and video ops. We took the new (since we'd been there) path down to the water, and walked along the embankment. It was lovely.
And while I wouldn't say it cheered me right up (te heartache of grief is a harder one to ease, I think, than money worries), it did give me solace and ease the hurt. Oh, those magic falls.
Hm. Suddenly I want pancakes for breakfast.