There is a period between seasons when things invisible suddenly appear. In this case, for several years I pass over a bridge on my way from home to somewhere important. Usually work, but also the doctor, the bank, the car wash, the hospital or the market. In the summer the forest is green and covers the creek and all the trees. In winter, the trees are settling in for their sleep, but still they seem the same. Then all of a sudden, a lone white trunk appears, by the creek, brighter than anything around it.
It isn’t always like that though. Most of the time it blends in, doesn’t make a fuss about itself. It’s settled in, by the creek, nowhere to go, putting down roots.
I noticed it last year as I drove by, distracted by my important life with somewhere important to go to.
But the tree was patient, never gave up, probably never even thought about sticking out to me, let alone to anyone. The thing is, this lone tree is beautiful whether we notice it or not.
On an early morning run this morning, blistering cold wind in my face, I took a detour by a wall. As I ran past it I noticed the stark primary colors of red and blue and my favored green color. Several hours later, after I did all of my important chores I returned to snap a shot of it. It’s nothing, just a red wall and blue sky and a green ball field. But in its simplicity it is beautiful, whether we notice it or not.
So it goes with life and the wine in it. Last night over the dinner table we were talking with Barbara Widmer, winemaker at
Brancaia, about the comings and goings of important wine critics. Some are trees in the forest and some are bright red walls. Others are not. But they bring to us the possibility to enjoy something beautiful and wholesome and, whether there is a score or not, something that augments our life and makes it better.
That’s a perfect role for a critic, isn’t it? Simply to point out what has been there for a while and tell us to stop and enjoy the beauty of the moment.
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