I don't know where bees go for the winter or how they know when it's time to come out. One warm, sunny day this week the crocus in my window well opened, joining the snowdrops in sending out enticing signals. The bees buzzed in by the dozens and dove in.
This was the same day that ended in a fiery blaze of glory.
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I took my Windwatchers group down to the calendar garden this past Saturday, to do some beholding.
The art of beholding is like this. "Behold" means to hold something in your gaze. To behold is not to stare or glance; it is not a quick scan or an expectant look. Beholding has a slow and spacious quality to it. . . . You release your expectations of what you think you will see and instead receive what is actually there. . . . Hold your camera in your hand and open yourself to grace and revelation hidden in each moment, just beneath the surface of what seems to be another ordinary moment. from Eyes of the Heart, by Christine Valters Paintner One can move into life with openness. It is as if one says to the world, and to life, and to one's self, and to God, "Surprise me!" This simple shift of attitude can make the difference between boredom and beauty. from Simply Sane, by Gerald May And there were surprises and beauty -- the many shapes and patterns of flowers and seeds, fall-blooming iris and Lenten rose, the delight and energy of four young boys finding the perfect race track in the circular shape of the garden. More images from Camp Friedenswald. Later Saturday morning, I walked the Fen Frolic trail and found flowers and ferns, mushrooms and mosses.
Fens, for those of you wondering, are rare prairie wetlands. They occur in glaciated regions of the upper Midwest and are fed by groundwater from underground springs, rather than through precipitation.They are less acidic than bogs and richer in biological diversity. A dewy fall morning at equinox, and the garden is full of zinnia fireworks and bespangled kale and kohlrabi.
This yellow flower is now starting to bloom in the prairie plantings near the railroad tracks. I don't know what it is, but I was enjoying the mix of yellow with a touch of pink on the buds. Then I found a bloom with a couple of pink petals -- or so I thought until I looked at it more closely. On another recent morning, our third monarch had emerged from the chrysalis by the time I checked on them. When its wings were ready, it made its first flight to a nearby houseplant, and I was able to carry it outside the screened-in porch with ease. A few minutes with wings full spread in the sunlight, and it took another brief flight and perched on the screen, slowly pumping its wings. The last set of photos is a slideshow of four photos -- if you get this blog by email, you'll need to go to the website to see the butterfly slowly building his wing strength (the spots on the lower set of wings mark it as male). This was a good week for a trip down to the calendar garden, where the summer flowers provided bright splashes of color -- and so did the insects. One image that didn't make it into the camera is the many blue dragonflies helicoptering over the pond. And another is the golden eyelid on the frog sunning himself on a lily pad. There was plenty of other color, though, and the intricate lace of a golden dragonfly's wings.
This past winter I was working with Steven Chase's book, Nature as Spiritual Practice, and found the following reflection on Queen Anne's lace. I wanted to run out and look for the secret he mentions, but it was the wrong season and of course none were in bloom. I was able to find it in one of my summer photos however, and I started looking for it again this summer, as soon as I saw Queen Anne's lace in bloom, letting myself be attentive and astonished. Here are a few glimpses of the many faces of Queen Anne's lace.
From Steven Chase, Nature as Spiritual Practice: In open dry fields, prairies, and along roadways -- often growing in friendly gatherings from mid-July through early September -- is a wild flower that I invite you to bend down and look at carefully. It has very small cream-white, lacy petals that are collectively formed in the shape of an inverted umbrella (called an umbrel). The umbrel is rounded at the bottom and nearly flat at the top with a slightly blueish-green stem; the green leaves are very finely cut, almost fern-like, and they smell of carrot when crushed. Beneath the umbrel of petals is a parachute pattern of stems that together support hundreds of these tiny floweret-petals, each one no more than one-eighth of an inch across. This wildflower is commonly called Queen Anne's lace (Daucus carota), named for the lace-like patterns formed by the formal, intricate arrangement of these hundreds of small flowerets. But besides the beauty of the lacy patterns, Queen Anne's lace is a flower with a secret. Within the shared umbrel, in the very center of the hundreds and hundreds of flowerets, is one -- and only one-- reddish to wine-purple floweret, also one-eighth of an inch across. Just one -- no larger or smaller than any of its uncountable, creamy white brothers and sisters. Facing Queen Anne's lace -- letting it be as attentive to and astonished by you as you are by it -- you share with its wine-colored eye something only the flower and the prairie know...." p. 48 I went for a walk on the millrace path one bright morning earlier this week and found dewy jewels everywhere I looked. The beginning lines from the refrain of one of the songs we sing at church kept running through my head, "Fresh as the morning, sure as the sunrise..."
One of my friends dislikes the way the refrain continues -- God always faithful, you do not change, He feels that it plays in to some people's perceptions that God is impervious, impassive, and incapable of being affected, avoiding change. The refrain keeps singing in my head though. For me, "you do not change" connects with "always faithful" and with the sunrise -- returning every morning, yet different every time, As I look around the created world, it looks to me like God takes great delight in diversity and change. So I will go ahead and take delight in this moment and in this dew that will be gone before midday, knowing that tomorrow morning will have its own sparks of light. The day lilies and black-eyed susans are blooming in my back yard -- the day lilies with their brazen trumpets and glowing centers, the black-eyed susans timidly opening. Somehow it's easy to anthropomorphize these images -- one looks like a choir gathered near the microphone, others are hiding their faces, some warm themselves at the fire, and one looks like it's breathing fire!
The prairie plantings on campus are full of color. Earlier this summer, the campus staff mowed the plantings by the music center and the dorms, hoping to delay the blooming so that students -- most of whom aren't around in July -- would be able to enjoy the show when they return to campus. The plantings by the railroad are tall and exuberantly in full bloom; the mowed areas are shorter but still splashed with color, and catching the light in their own quiet way.
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My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Archives
August 2020
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