"There are no trees like the trees of that land. For in the autumn their leaves fall not, but turn to gold. Not till the spring and the new green opens do they fall, and then the boughs are laden with yellow flowers; and the floor of the wood is golden, and golden is the roof, and its pillars are of silver, for the bark of the trees is smooth and grey."
So says Tolkien of Lothlórien. Forest of the silvan elves.
Here at Casa Nanaimo, I usually lead the life of a dwarf. A creature that feels far more comfortable with his feet planted solidly on soil.
And that is my realm. The house has two units. I live on the ground level -- where my garden is my kingdom. And with quick access to my allies the crocodiles.
While the house was being painted, my ground level routine was disrupted, So, I escaped to the roof terrace usually restricted to the occupants of the upper unit. But there have been no visitors for months.
The terrace is on the equivalent of a third floor. As a result, the trees that form an umbrella for me on the ground have a far different look on the roof.
It is an elvin world. Flamboyant blossoms -- along with last year's crop of saber seed pods. Mangoes. Tamarind fruit. All set off by the clashing texture of foliage.
The wildlife is quite different up there, as well. Squirrels. Orioles. Hummingbirds. Grackles. Flycatchers. Golden-cheeked woodpeckers. Animals that I hear, but seldom see seated 30 feet below.
My tenure as an elf was short-lived. The painters made the roof their secondary command post. So, I retreated to my life as a dwarf.
Now that the painting is down to a bit of cleanup, there is no reason for me not to spend more time on the roof while it is available. After all, spanning the gulf between the worlds of the elf and the dwarf is an art.
And, according to Tolkien, it is through such reconciliations that the earth is healed.
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