2024 by Lori-Ann Willey
This morning, I reheated my coffee before stepping outside into the fresh, cool morning air. Instead of settling on the deck, coffee in hand, I wandered down to the dock. I sat facing the mountain, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, with my back resting against the frame of a solar panel. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was manageable. Though there was no steam rising from the water today, clouds gathered at the peak of Mt. Katahdin, draping the entire landscape in which she sits -bold, powerful, and rugged. The layer of clouds blocked the sun, casting her in a slate hue, with all its darker shades.
While
she sat still, the clouds did not. They moved constantly, somewhat puffy and
hovering, as if hiding something up there. Her outline was obscured, restless
clouds traveling along her length. I imagined Pamola coming to life. Often, I
like to observe nature as if I had no knowledge of science or history. I let my
mind wander, pushing aside the facts that prove folklore to be just
that—folklore. And still, I allow myself to create stories from what I see. In
those moments, I feel like "early man", maybe even one of my ancestors. What did they think of
clouds? What stories did they tell to explain the unknown? Without science or
history, the mind weaves imaginary tales.
This
morning, I watched the creation of Pamola—though in folklore, Pamola is a he,
not a she. With my patoot resting on the cold dock, I clutched my warm coffee
cup and watched as Mother Nature shaped several versions of Pamola. Each one
resembled man, moose, and eagle.
During
these mornings, my mind wanders and wonders. It writes. It describes the scene
unfolding before me. Every day, there's a new story being told—one that stirs
emotions and deepens my appreciation and respect for the world around me.
Today, in a playful twist, I watched as Pamola laze across the summit, spewing
one cloud baby after another, each drifting toward the sunrise until they
disappeared into its light. After birthing four cloud babies, Pamola’s head
lifted just enough to catch the soft pink of the sunrise, as if to steal one
last glance before they faded away.
Some
might visually describe this morning as dreary, with its many shades of gray. I
can understand why. But as I sat there, watching and listening, with a
child-like mind, an array of stories filled my brain, it didn’t find the sky
dreary at all. One short-lived story was briefly interrupted -maybe even
enhanced by the call of loons in the distance, the swoop of an eagle from a
nearby tree, a seagull, three mergansers, and a lone duck flying overhead -a fowl
parade of sorts. I sipped my coffee through pursed lips, watching as the
morning grew grayer, yet somehow even more beautiful.
