White sky days…I love them as much as blue sky days.  Like an empty page waiting to be filled with text, handwriting, or a splash of paint, there is a story in a white sky day.  Your story.  My story.  A legend.  A fairytale.  A hero.  Blue sky days carry me into forever. White sky days bring forever home to me. The air is heavy with moisture as though I’m in the heart of the cloud itself and it is holding me close to the earth in a gentle embrace.  White goes on as endlessly as blue does but closer somehow.  These days slow me down inside and out leaving behind an inner repose that calms my soul of its worldly concerns.   I look more closely at the smallest things.  My eye searches the forest floor rather than soaring to the tops of the tallest pines.  White sky days don’t always bring rain.  Nevertheless, there is a respite from the brightness of the sun.  No squinting today.  Perhaps that’s why I see more.   The brightest sun on the bluest day lifts my spirits joyfully but keeps my eye moving in self-defense.  Some moments are beautiful because of the softness in the air rather than in the glory of the light.  Science tells me that white is not the absence of color but rather the gathering together of all color.   Whether it is in the form of a bit of glass or a raindrop, a prism takes white light apart and we are gifted with a rainbow.  The chance to see that out of the seeming nothingness of white comes the blessing of all color.  How wonderful is that?!  An artist chooses white to guide my eye carefully through a painting.  At least that’s what I’ve read and after plenty of gazing, it does seem to work out that way.  A dash of white draws me from this place to the next one, from a hand to a cheekbone to the twinkle of an eye, the very window to the soul.  Does the Artist create it just so?  The light is softer on a day like this allowing me to gaze as long as I like. The whites of the ground reach  out to me as though just a smidgen of eternity has fallen to the earth.   These days have a lonesome feel to them.  Not in a sad way.  Rather, it is as though there is something unseen and you feel it must be lovely, if only…    When rainfall does accompany a day such as this then soon faery mushrooms will emerge here and there and the tiniest frogs will cover my path.  One can almost set a clock by these moments.  When enough moisture comes to rest on the ground mushrooms gather within themselves all they need to put on a lovely show.  I look forward to them and begin watching for a hint of a dirt mound suggesting there’s a surprise waiting.  Mushrooms rise up in the same places over and over again. Usually something has died in that spot, the remains of a tree decaying invisibly under foot.  Even in its absence the mighty tree continues to offer life.  Is anything ever truly gone away?  Next time you notice one mushroom, look around, there may in fact be a circle of them where the base of a majestic tree once stood.  Legend names that a magical faery ring.  First a tiny mountain of earth is disturbed.  The next day I might begin to see a touch of color. After that it is truly a mushroom but still contained within its own reality, a closed  umbrella waiting to open at the first sign of rain.  Finally and dramatically it opens itself to the world in trust.  Mushroom!  A room of mush?  A room for mush?  Room to gather what seems mush to me and create something stunning in its complexity and beauty although sadly short-lived.  Mushrooms of all sizes shapes and colors seem to fall in the realm of the faery world, don’t they.  They are petite and invisible most of the time but when they do show themselves there always seems to be a bit of magic nearby as though you might have just missed something quite extraordinary when you were blinking.  Was that a hint of a wing or only a leaf  being carried by the breeze?  Who can tell?  By the following day one can already see signs of the end.  The tiny life begins to split  and brown around the edges.  Its bright color of the day before is fading.  In one more day it will be gone altogether and perhaps forgotten.   Like the snows of winter it will return though, on the heels of a white sky day.  Then once more I will slow to the world and open my heart to the eternity hiding in the smallest seemingly bit of nothing.

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