May was a full month, beginning with a retreat at Lindenwood Retreat Center in Donaldson, IN, and moving on through yard and household projects in addition to the usual things. I took photos, but haven't had time or energy to post. So, over the next few days, we'll have a May retrospective.

Thanks to cooler weather, the blossoms of redbud and crabapple trees lasted longer than usual. Both were in view at our Great Lakes Mennonite Spiritual Directors retreat, which had the theme of Abundant Life in Liminal Spaces. The labyrinth was a recurring image of "liminal space". The group that walked the labyrinth for a spiritual practices session discovered that geese had been there before them, leaving "gifts" along the way. Initially frustrated by this, the group decided that actually this was a lot like life -- that often the thresholds of change and transition, the liminal spaces, have a lot of messiness about them. (How appropriate to be reminded the following Sunday, Pentecost, that one Celtic image for the Holy Spirit is wild geese.)

There were plenty of wild geese in the small lake, and a turtle sunning itself on our one beautiful sunny warm day, and an osprey soaring above its nest and perch in a nearby field.

The stores all think it is the season to be jolly and practice retail therapy. Outdoors the picture is more unexpected. These photos are all from Goshen in the past two weeks -- with frost on the leaves and crabapple blooms seen on the same day, a bright red Japanese maple leaf a few days later, snow on the crabapple tree this past Sunday, a yellow iris just a couple days before that. And in the last photo, these wild turkeys seem to have a good grasp on exactly what week this is, as they run for cover!

Dewdrops weren't the only thing I saw on my walk earlier this week. Ducks, monarch caterpillars, and dragonflies were out and about, enjoying the sunny morning as much as I was.

A couple of the ducks -- Mom and one duckling.

Near the Waverly Street bridge I found this milkweed plant, complete with a very hungry caterpillar.

And then the close-up view....

And on another nearby milkweed. . peek-a-boo!

And as I took photos of the caterpillar above from several angles, I discovered the dragonfly below, well camouflaged.

We took a walk along the race just before dusk the other evening. I checked the milkweed for any signs of monarch caterpillars and found this young chap, less that a half inch long. I've seen a couple monarch butterflies in recent days, which is more than I saw all last fall, and it's always fun to find a caterpillar.

A little further along we startled a heron, who slowly flapped his way down the canal ahead of us, finally coming to rest up on some dead branches -- unusual, since we generally see them in the water, near the bank.

He was still there shortly after when we came back past the snag, awkwardly climbing the vertical branch to get up to a higher level. He hopped and occasionally flapped for balance, and did his best to camouflage himself as a dead tree branch. (Can you see him in the 4th photo?)

The next morning I found another, larger monarch caterpillar on a milkweed growing in the middle of my raspberries, and three eggs on another leaf nearby. The last photo has one of the eggs and the two caterpillars together on our porch table, to show the size variation. The egg is off to the left and looks like a tiny yellow football balanced on end. We brought them all in to our screened-in porch so there will undoubtedly be more photos of monarchs in various stages.

Our spring may be a little later than usual this year, but it's following the same patterns. Our crabapple tree was covered with pink blossoms for about a week, while the delicate green miniature iris bloomed in the herb bed.

A robin built its nest in the yew beside the driveway, right at eye level, making it easy to keep an eye on the fledglings. A recent walk along the race gave glimpses of several families of mallards, with ducklings ready to turn on the turbo jets to keep up with mom. And the three or four mature rabbits who had been feasting in our yard at twilight seem to have vanished -- but at least two of their descendants have been enjoying the clover and the odd flower or two (but so far the fence has kept them out of the garden).

I was able to get down to the path along the millrace and through the woods by the dam during a brief period of sunshine yesterday. Glorious new green growth is opening everywhere -- interspersed with the greys and tans of last year's remnants. And the occasional bright red and yellow flash of a red-winged blackbird, and the echo of its konk-la-ree call. Springtime!

Finally we've made the transition to spring. it has warmed up enough that heading out for a walk is pleasant, rather than a major undertaking, and I've been gathering signs of spring.

Today I'm seeing ducks as they waddle their way through our neighborhood, checking out our backyard for nesting possibilities, and the neighbor's drive for other modes of transportation.

Notice the tracks in the snow on the bird bath. Just before the photo above, the cardinal hopped across the bird bath, stopping now and then with its head to one side, looking for all the world like he was thinking, "Wait, something is just not right here."

Snow and cold weather continues. Birds at the feeder are a bright spot in the day.  The flocks of house sparrows are commonplace, but still I am glad to see them finding shelter in the green branches of snow-capped yew bushes below my window on a snowy day, while the sight of cheery cardinal red or the black cap of a perky chickadee gives my spirits a lift.The spiral of terra cotta birds on our back porch don't need the birdfeeder, but they seem to be enjoying the warmth of early morning sunlight nonetheless.

On one of the warmer days this past week, we walked down to the dam and did the circle through the woods. John spotted this heron before I did, but I had fun finding the shapes and patterns below.

With snow on the ground and frigid temperatures outside, I am enjoying the play of light and life indoors -- an early blooming Christmas cactus with blossoms in flight, green and burgundy begonia leaves with light-filled veins, a swan-like gourd eye-ing the remnants of Thanksgiving decor, the light-edged leaves of succulents, and a Carolina wren that somehow found its way into our screened back porch where it found a congenial perch. I propped the door open for it when I left to run errands and by the time I got back, it had found the way out.

This month a friend and I have regularly been making the circle from my house down along the millrace to the dam pond and back through campus. We found a family of swans has established itself at the foot of the boat launch. They don't seem to be at all bothered when we sit for awhile on a nearby bench and watch them.

There are five young ones, two white and three brown. From what I've read the color has nothing to do with gender (despite my stereotypical expectations), and they will all be white when they mature.

Sometimes we found them sleeping, sometimes gliding swan-like through the water (fancy that!), sometimes lifting their wings slightly and sailing with the breeze. Some even managed to sleep while afloat. But mostly we found them preening, leaving a scattering of swan feathers all around. Some days a small fleet of swan feathers sailed away across the pond, thanks to a passing breeze, while the swans themselves stood and preened.

Fall is here, hard as it is to believe that today, with the temperature hitting a high of 97. It may feel summer-hot, but we've made the turn into fall. Everything seems to be going to seed, or doing its best to soak up all the sunlight in can. Autumn is in the air -- and so are the geese. And harvestman and daddy longlegs are both delightful names for the same creature, which is not actually a spider, despite appearances.

The same location for tide pools as in my last post, but these come from a morning low tide, with a fog bank above us. I picked up the shell below to see if it was another snail, and found a hermit crab ready to protect his (or her) home. I love the tiny barnacle trim -- makes me think of the book A House for Hermit Crab by Eric Carle.

A smattering of this week's sights -- the swan family out enjoying their lunch. Cygnets may make ugly ducklings, but they are fluffy-looking swanlings. And below are two elegant swans that I discovered in the prairie plantings.

The cygnets have hatched. A few evenings ago we saw them on the millrace, Mama sailing sedately in the lead, seven cygnets paddling hard to keep up, and Papa keeping a careful eye on them all from a rear position.

We walked along the bike path, following them till they settled back in the nest, Mama apparently covering them all with her protective wing. And a final image, from the next evening, of a different sort of flock sailing across the rays of the setting sun.

Wednesday morning, that is, when the sun was out (this morning brought welcome rain). The redbud are at a prime pink blossom stage, with their heart-shaped leaves just beginning to open at the tips of the branches. New leaves filtering sunlight provide glimpses of lacy green on the shore and reflected in the water.

And I got to enjoy an encounter with a brood of ducklings. They hovered at the edge of the millrace briefly, perhaps hoping for a handout. Then the mother sailed away, and the ducklings turned on their turbo-jets to catch up with her.

I took the scenic route home, to check the fringe of redbud on the edge of Witmer Woods -- beautiful both close up and at a distance.

With longer days and warmer weather, John and I are once again able to take after-supper walks. On Tuesday evening we headed over to the millrace, which was both peaceful and bustling -- the water was still and full of reflections, while the bike-path was busy with walkers, runners and bikers. And there was plenty of action down by the water as well . . .boys and geese, geese and swans, muskrat and greens.....

The Elkhart Truth editorial cartoon this morning showed an outlined paint-by-number April landscape of two glum-looking people walking their dog. The color key read: 1. Gray, 2. Gray, 3. Gray, 4. Gray, 5. Gray, 6. Gray.

April indeed. But April showers also bring April flowers. The daffodils and Siberian iris are bright spots of color, even when covered with raindrops. The bridal wreath spirea is a tangle of bare branches with tiny buds of green and a king's ransom of raindrop gems. And a pair of house-hunting ducks came wandering through the back yard, perfectly content with the weather.

The violets under my front step are blooming and fragrant, and there is a violet carpet under the bushes nearby. The mini-daffodils, barely four inches tall, have opened, and the taller daffodils are on the verge of it. Our forsythia hasn't quite burst out yet, nor the flowering quince, but they are both brimming with potential. And all along the canal yesterday, John and I spotted pairs of mallards, some scouting good nesting sites and others checking out the fast food menu, bright orange feet splashing.

Walking across campus this past sunny Sunday afternoon, John and I encountered a flock of about two dozen robins, feasting on the crabapples near the Rec-Fitness Building. They were all a-flutter, hopping around on the melting snow, keeping a safe distance from passersby, and constantly moving from ground to tree branch and then back down to join the flock on the ground.

I grew up thinking of robins as the traditional sign of spring, but I've learned that the robin's winter range extends from the Gulf coat into Michigan. We don't notice them as much in winter, unless we come across a flock like this, because they don't come to bird feeders. They prefer wintered-over fruit, like bitter crabapples that have mellowed with the freezing and thawing.

The summer robins from this area are most likely further south right now, while the ones we saw Sunday spent their summer further north. Who knows -- maybe this is the same flock that we saw feasting on mountain ash berries at the Glick cabin near Edmonton last September, getting ready for their flight south.

I had a serendipitous discovery yesterday. I've begun reading Nature as Spiritual Practice, by Steven Chase, a book I expect to refer to again here. In his preface, he refers to a phrase of Gerald May, "the power of the slowing," saying that it means if we give careful attention to nature, it has the ability to slow us down to its pace.

I was intrigued by the phrase, which resonates with what happens for me as I take photos and also as I work with them later. I googled it and discovered that it comes from May's book, The Wisdom of Wilderness. A quick online check revealed that neither the local library nor the nearby seminary had a copy. "Oh, well," I thought, and turned to getting ready for the morning's direction session.

Later in the day, a friend asked me to ride along on a short trip to Kalamazoo, suggesting we could visit the Friends of the Library bookstore while we waited for her violin bow to be re-haired. They have a room full of a wide selection of books. I began perusing the Religion shelves, and there it was -- May's Wisdom of Wilderness, on sale for a dollar!

So I've been sidetracked from the Chase book, reading instead May's vivid stories of his encounters with the Power of the Slowing, which he experienced as a vivid Presence, welcoming him, slowing him, and reconnecting him with all nature around him.

One of his paragraphs jumped out at me as fitting well with this past week.
    Nature, I think, knows nothing of concepts of time or of the present. Nature--our own and that of the world around us--lives in Presence instead of "in the present." Rather than moving through time, it simply exists in cycles and successions:sound and silence, light and darkness, birth and death, activity and stillness, courting and nesting, eating and sleeping. Everything is rhythms. Everything is seasons.  p 71

The rhythms and successions have been swirling this week -- from warm temperatures bringing along the snowdrops and, amazingly, a dandelion in the front yard, to yet another round of snowfall and the sight of birds at the feeder at Pathways Retreat this morning.

The dandelion is a cheerful golden sunburst, and yet I realize I greet the snowdrops with delight, and the dandelion instead with a sense of "What? A weed, already?" As I slow down and reflect, this does not seem right. Each is what it is, and the dandelion's yellow is a welcome burst of early color, to be received on its own humble terms. Perhaps the Power of the Slowing will slow me further, enough to welcome that gold sunburst, and to wonder what became of it in today's snow. It's too dark to check now -- perhaps tomorrow.

Creation is a song, a song that we can see,
    a sacred gift from God, let's join the harmony.

This chorus has been singing in my head all week. We sang it at church Sunday, # 24 in Sing the Journey, to the accompaniment of a soft, steady drum beat. It was written by Doug and Jude Krehbiehl, inspired by the writings of Lawrence Hart, a Cheyenne peace chief and Mennonite, and by Cheyenne Spiritual Songs.You can hear Jude sing the chorus and first verse here.

The verses celebrate many scenes from creation and I find they trigger a treasure trove of memories for me. I sing The rolling of the oceans, and I find myself standing on Goleta Beach watching the waves roll in, or floating in the warm waters of the second beach at Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio in Costa Rica. I sing the bubbling of a spring, and I am standing in the middle of the woods at Camp Friedenswald, watching the gentle simmer of clear spring water stir the fall leaves floating there. I sing the night sky filled with jewels and I remember a pre-dawn winter morning when I stepped outside to get the paper and the stars were strewn like jewels across black silk -- and then one star stirred to life and streaked across the sky. I sing a flock of beating wings, and I'm in a car with the family the week before Easter, traveling across Saskatchewan on our way to Edmonton, with the sky overhead a complex interweaving of rivers and rivers of birds migrating north, and the song A River of Birds, by Libana, appropriately playing on the tape recorder.

And here's a few photos to go with some of the other phrases:

And the last verse:
    Every glowing sunset, every outstretched leaf
        is witness to the glory of the One who sits as Chief.

Death disrupts life. A truism, perhaps, one that we all know in our heads and some of us have encountered more closely, grieving the unexpected loss of a loved one.

Sometimes death comes more gently. John's Uncle Lee died last week, and this weekend we set aside our usual schedule and traveled down to Ft Wayne to join the family gathered there. Lee was 87 and suffering in his later years from dementia, accelerated by the death of his wife nearly six years ago, in a car accident.

Family came from California and Virginia and various points in between, gathering to celebrate Lee's life and to say good bye. It was good to be with this mix of cousins, aunts, uncles and in-laws, catching up on each others' lives, and helping to "tuck in" Lee with a flower or a shovelful of dirt.

And as Lee's six year old grandson said, after being told that his grandpa was with grandma in heaven. "Now Grandpa remembers me."