A huge mural covered an entire wall in an old-time doctor’s waiting room. It showed a stand of white pines in winter. It was early morning and filtered sunlight created a dappled effect on the snow.
The old doc has long since passed away, his home and office sold to people who probably never knew the man. But this isn’t about the doctor; it’s about the mural.
For me, that picture epitomized winter. While waiting to enter the examination room, I would often sit and stare at the thing, allowing myself to become part and parcel of it. It had a cold, yet clean and pleasing feeling about it.
That same feeling has come upon me many times over the intervening years and it always takes me back to that mural.
Every once in a while, the mural springs to life when hazy, cirrus clouds filter the morning sunlight in just the right way. Then, the white pines behind my house become the trees in that picture. Looking at them I tell myself that I have seen this before, have experienced this before. It becomes a moment in time that repeats itself every so often, an old friend with a likeable and familiar habit.
It seems improper for me to examine this thing too closely. Acknowledging and accepting it without question makes much more sense.