Ghostly mushrooms with thin stalks stand sentry on rotting logs as my husband and I dare to disturb the quiet with our footfalls.  We hike at this nature preserve, complete with a pond and two waterfalls, frequently.  We pass by the translucent white fungi, having not exchanged a word for the past half hour.

Approaching the pond, I scan for beavers.  I've only seen a beaver here once, it's head much larger than I would have thought.  He parted the waters from the neck up, carrying himself with great dignity, before disappearing into the murk below. 

Once again, I'm disappointed; I haven't seen what I am looking for.  Fall leaves crunch under our boots, and I shift my gaze from searching for beavers to admiring the mist hovering over the water.  A black and white duck bobs on its surface and my mind takes flight.  I imagine a world in which all is black and white. 

Black waterfalls splashing over white rocks. 

White banana slugs leaving a trail of black slime. 

White cedars draped with black snow.

But, oh, how much I would miss the subtlety of green.  The lime green moss.  The hunter green of my husband's coat.  And the oh-so-delicate-green of what looks like four-leaf-clovers floating on the pond's surface.

It's then that I notice a whole other reality.

A rend in the green floating on top of the pond reflects the trees and the sky.  It's as if a whole forest grows beneath the water.  The tree trunks appear to be shooting downwards, perched on top of canopies of green.  While my husband turns back to the trail, I pause and reflect.  Maybe it's not the sky mirrored in the pond, but the pond mirrored in the sky.  We assume that we know which direction is up.  How funny if we have it backwards.

These ruminations slip beneath my surface when my husband coughs, signaling me that it is time to return to the black and white earth beneath my feet.

Mid-Week Mantra Eight:  I invite new thoughts into my world, eager to see where they take me.