I touch the frost with my bare hands as I open the gate. It’s beautiful. The icy crystals sparkle in the weak early morning sunlight and I wonder what secrets it holds?
Jacques Benveniste’s research in the late 1980s confirmed water’s ability to store memory, while Dr. Masaru Emoto’s work showcased the beautiful patterns found in frozen water crystals. Furthermore, he discovered the environment dictates the shape these patterns take. When classical music is played the crystals take a harmonious structure; whereas a full scale argument would be a different matter as the molecules fly in frenzied patterns and freeze in a jagged configuration.
So, what formation does this frost on this chilly morning secretly conceal?
Was there a fracas in the lane when the temperature dropped below zero to freeze the ambient moisture to my gate? A fox making off with my guinea fowl? The fear and flapping leading to jagged patterns within this icy tentacle. Or, perhaps the hares were hurrying home after some successful scavenging in the hedgerows and brought balance and joy to the air, resulting in beauty within these frozen forms.
Whatever the story, this frostiness glazed to my gate holds a myriad of mysteries I am unable to unlock without the use of a microscope, a lab coat, oh, and some not inconsiderable knowledge on the subject.
Instead, I pull on my gloves against the chill and brush the flakes of crusty ice from the iron work in order to open the latch and make my way onto the track.
The whole vista sparkles with icy magic. Grass tips frozen like statues; branches and boughs of cork oak trees dazzle with icy brilliance. I put my camera to my eye and snap one, no more, many, many more photographs of the Alentejo countryside encased in a sheath of frosty magical patterns, undiscerned by the ordinary eye, but there nonetheless.
The energetic events of the night, be it animals or fairies, ghosts or ghouls, are captured and entwined in the water droplet patterns of this crispy, crunchy beauty.
Sun rises, frost melts, and another story is left untold; only to be written in another form on another night when the temperature drops below zero.
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