I visited one of the prairie plantings on campus on a recent foggy morning. It may have been a gray start to the day, but there was still plenty of cheery yellow in the perennial sunflowers and the flitting goldfinch. And plenty of interesting drops on the grasses and pokeweed.

One more round of photos from our early July stay at Camp Friedenswald -- the peaceful woods. We enjoyed getting out on the hiking trails, enjoying the mix of sunshine and shadow under the trees, glimpsing the white tails of deer bounding away in the woods and the movement of toads hopping away at our feet. And the meadow near the woods was in full summer display, full of black-eyed susans and touches of purple and white. And we had time to hike Turtle Hill, a new trail for us.

More from our Camp Friedenswald getaway earlier this month. . .a favorite spot is the lookout over the fen, especially at sunrise and sunset, and enjoying the birds and other residents. We heard but did not see sandhill cranes this time, and we heard and saw redwing blackbirds.

We looked for the very rare Mitchell's satyr butterfly which can be found in this fen. It was the season for them, and staff told us that the researchers who had done a count earlier that week were delighted to spot ten. We did not see any, but this little fellow posed for us -- a northern pearly eye, from what I can see on the butterfly identification charts.

We had a Calendar Garden outing on Saturday. The summer quadrant is always the one bursting with color and blooms. And in this case, dragonflies.

We had a getaway at Camp Friedenswald last week, enjoying the change in landscape. Both mornings we headed across the lake in a canoe, avoiding the shoreline with all the houses, and coming back along the wooded lakeshore. The floating turtles we saw all took a quick dive for the bottom. The dragonflies circled round and sometimes rode along with us for a spell. Near the fen, we passed water lilies and then John called out, "Look at all that blue!" We paddled in for a closer look. Dragonfly orgy!

A medley this time -- from the prairie plantings on campus this time. Three on a sunny day, and the last two from a dewy morning. I watched that damselfly hanging from the edge of the leaf and then swing itself upward till it was on top of the leaf. If you zoom in, you can see that both the leaf and the damselfly are covered with dew.

I am fascinated by all the varieties of dragonflies I am seeing in my own backyard these days, and by the sometimes amusing faces, as well as the beauty of those latticed wings.

Summer is here and it is the season for dragonflies. And damselflies, which are very similar. Dragonflies have thicker bodies and dissimilar wings outspread, damsels rest their wings together, parallel to the body. We went walking at Oxbow Park earlier this week and saw damselflies darting by the dozens -- tiny, pastel colored ones resting on the path and flitting away too quickly to photograph; the dark lacy kind above (zoom in to see those intricate wings!) and brilliant blue greens basking on sunny leaves (I managed to get either sharp pictures where the brilliant color only shows on the edge of the wing, like below, or slightly blurry ones that give a better sense of that metallic blue brilliance). 

I saw a vivid dragonfly in the prairie grasses last night, but it sped away when I tried to record it. Then  I saw the one that remained, just a few inches lower, nearly hidden in the grass, with a golden body and its wings a pale blue shimmer. And finally there is a photo of a dragonfly enjoying the warmth of our fence -- the slightly confusing shadows are due to two layers of fence boards.

Raindrops on hostas, columbines and strawberry leaves.

Evening sun after a day of rain encouraged a walk on campus, where we found a flock of cedar waxwings feasting on old fruit. And on the other side of campus, a festive display of redbud, some of it so eager for spring it came bursting out of the tree trunk.

Which brings to mind an old song, learned from a friend on a long car trip during college:
To ope' their trunks the trees are never seen
How then do they put on their robes of green?
​They leaf them out.

The trillium and this bright yellow flower (wood poppy?) were easy to see, as were new leaves in the sunlight. Some of the wildflowers were shyer and harder to find. Another woods-goer told us with delight of finding jack-in-the-pulpit for the first time. I've found them other places, but we never spotted hers. We did see other small flowers -- and some colorful fungi.

This week we went on an expedition to Edna Spurgeon Land Trust, near Topeka. The drive out took us through flat farm fields till we found our way into a woods with rolling hills and full of spring flowers. Trillium -- red, white, and shades of pink -- mayapples, ramp, and numerous other wildflowers carpeted the ground. 

On the third Sunday of Eastertide, the woods were in spring celebration mode -- green leaves dancing, trees festooned with fringes, white trout lilies opening in the sun's warmth, turtles basking, and a gladsome sunlit glade.

Last Sunday was beautiful and we were able to get out for a walk in the Larry Beachy Classified Forest on the other side of the millrace from us. The green haze is moving upwards and the wildflowers were opening up. I was hoping to get out again later in the week, but since then the week has been full of April showers and we have limited our outings to quick rounds on campus.

First week of Eastertide -- Several inches of snow piled up, bringing memories of this song:
       Ring out, bells of Norwich, and let the winter come and go,
       All shall be well again, I know.

      Love, like the yellow daffodil, is coming through the snow,
      Love, like the yellow daffodil, is Lord of all I know.

The song refers to Julian of Norwich, a 14th century mystic and anchoress who lived through three waves of the black plague, a collapsing economy, and the ongoing war between England and France.  Yet she was sustained by a deep certainty that God held all that is like a small hazelnut in the palm of her hand, that God created it, loves it and preserves it. Certainty and trust, alongside questions and doubts.

She wrote "And so our good Lord answered to all the questions and doubts I could raise, saying most comfortingly: I may make all things well, I can make all things well, I shall make all things well and I will make all things well; and you will see yourself that  every kind of thing will be well."

Not "nothing bad will ever happen" but "All will be well, and all manner of thing shall be well." Not a blithe "Don't worry, everything will be fine," but a hard-won, deeply felt trust that deep down, "All will be well." Love, like the yellow daffodil and the yellow forsythia, survives the snow. Good news for these difficult days.

And here in Goshen, snow gave way to spring wildflowers, velvety moss, rugged bark and new green leaves.

Added note: My sister-in-law tells me they heard this sung on Easter Sunday by a family from Hyattsville Mennonite, singing to the neighborhood from their porch. They closed with Bells of Norwich, but changed the last line from "Let the winter come and go" to "Let this virus finally go."
And if you'd like to hear a version arranged and performed by Sarah Turner and David Glick, here's a link
​https://soundcloud.com/user-540330314/bells-of-norwich/s-Y1hTkjknHvH?fbclid=IwAR1nNIZT4MLWdJObVtjz9NAZMPYaQKnPSkkM14FSXtKwg7l_Oab9KgO8EQE

Easter sunrise -- for the past seven years or so, Open Table Mennonite has celebrated an Easter sunrise service at Rieth Interpretive Center, gathering in silence before dawn, watching the sun rise, hearing John 21:4 -14, singing a song or two, and then enjoying a feast of smelt cooked over a charcoal fire, with bread, and hot drinks.

Because of the "shelter-at-home" orders in response to covid-19, this year we were invited to do our sunrise service individually, take photos, and share them online in a Zoom gathering later that morning. So John and I went out to our son's property in the morning twilight, and the four of us, appropriately six feet apart, listened silently to the morning bird chorus and waited for sunrise.

Hidden by clouds at dawn, the sun itself wasn't visible till an hour or so later. We read the ending of Mark's gospel, and the John story, and watched the light increasing imperceptibly, and listened to sandhill cranes calling in the distance. Later we drove around, leaving jam jars of daffodils on the doorsteps of Open Table participants, before joining them for our online fellowship time and exchange of photos.

For all the Easter hymns and festive celebrations we usually have, this Easter may have been more like that first Easter. Disciples locking themselves in an upper room, in fear and uncertainty, women going out to mourn the dead. Rumors of unexpected new life, of Jesus raised from the dead, going ahead into Galilee, coming to them as they sat at the table or walked down the road or fished off the shore. He was raised, but not with loud trumpet blasts and hosts of angels. In resurrection, he is still coming in unexpected ways. And we are reminded "The kingdom of heaven is in your midst. Stay awake. Watch for it."

We've been enjoying the purple blossoms of the Grandpa Ott morning glory vines on our trellis all summer. I had also put in a couple Heavenly Blue plants and the vines did okay but there were no blooms until the middle of September. Since then we've had several sky-blue blossoms every day -- and  a day or two after the Heavenly Blues, the moonflower vine started producing large white blossoms as well. 

At the end of this post there is a slide show -- a medley of three weeks of morning glories in sunshine, fog and rain. (If you receive this by email and are not able to see the slide show on your device, try going to the actual blog.)

By mid-September, most of the prairie plantings on campus have gone to seed. But there is one strip, mowed earlier in the summer to keep it short for the train, that is still full of coneflowers and other plants in full bloom. It's a great cafeteria for the butterflies. Monarchs, of course, but also many other combinations of brown, gold, amber, and orange. 

An afternoon on the Michigan City beach this past week, shared with sailboats, sandpipers, and seagulls. And lunch at a nearby park, where the monarchs were feasting on sedum and resting in a nearby maple tree. How many do you spot?

A monarch in chrysalis (and jar), a finch feeding its fledgling, a bee -- one of many, many pollinators on a drift of white flowering shrub-- and the daddy-long-legs that came strolling through as I tried to photograph the bee (can you see where it is hiding?). And a cicada shell and a cicada in person, so to speak. And two monarchs just after they emerged from chrysalis, followed by one showing off its wings. What a world!

Late summer in Indiana, and the evening air is buzzing with insect song. And the prairie plantings are full of wings -- butterflies and dragonflies and more. I only just now noticed the little grasshopper below the swallowtail in the photo above!

Back home again in Indiana, we're speeding through August. It's a colorful month. abuzz with bees, butterflies and dragonflies. And the sound of cicadas and crickets rasping at dusk.

One evening a herd of elk wandered through the back yard. And it was high season for roadside flowers.

My kids used to sing the Arrogant Worms song Rocks and Trees, in celebration of their Canadian heritage. And in Canmore we saw some of the rocks and trees and trees and rocks, and water. Also small wonders -- butterflies and wild flowers.

On the road in Alberta, from Edmonton to Canmore (just east of Banff) -- city towers in the distance, big sky, long prairie expanses, chartreuse canola fields, mountains across the meadows, sun and shadow on the Rockies.