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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I needed some color today. A bouquet from the grocery store helped. So did the late afternoon sunshine. And the surprising similarity between my Heron metal sculpture and an Alstroemeria bloom gave me something to smile about. 
Here's some color to store up for the gray winter days ahead -- yellow highlights spotted amidst the prairie plantings on campus this past week. 
Lavender
Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green. Or so the song goes. To me, lavender looks, well, lavender -- a light purple, on gray green stems. A very soothing combination of colors, and one that is thriving in my garden at the moment. Several bouquets are drying on my porch as well, filling the air with soothing scents. Sunflowers and daylilies cast bright golden notes, and play with sunshine and shadow. I'm taken with the mix of blooms and buds on my spikey purple plants, and with their fragrance -- lavender, sage, and mint in these photos. Mint and lavender are cool and elegant, but the sage is more fuzzy and amusing. 
Sunflower
Sage
Daylily
Laughing sage
Mint
My Christmas cactus is suddenly full of more blooms than it had in December. There are buds still to open and a froth of blossoms, each a swirl of gauzy pink petal scarfs, and sudden touches of magenta. With February 14 just around the corner, perhaps it secretly longs to be a Valentine cactus. There is something fitting about that thought -- if I remember correctly, it came to us as a gift from our son-in-law's parents, given on the weekend of Beth and Jesse's wedding. 
Winter days are short. Lately they have been alternating between being warm and dreary or sunny but way too cold to head out with a camera. I've been needing to look elsewhere for sparks of light. Just after Christmas -- about the time we put the decorations away -- I diagnosed a shortage of cheerful color in my life and prescribed a series of jigsaw puzzles. This provides the satisfaction of making order out of chaos, as well as a burst of color to satisfy my soul. 
Breathe deeply. The air is crisp and cool. Except for bird calls and an occasional small plane overhead, the only sound is the breeze stirring the golden poplar leaves. The mosquito hum of summer is gone. Drying leaves crackle underfoot. Mushrooms thrive and the rose hips are cherry red. Overhead is a symphony of blue sky, white clouds, golden leaves, white tree trunks, dark evergreens. Alberta woods in late September.... 
From the opening lines of Dewdrops on Spiderwebs, by Susan Classen: I am the breeze that nurtures all things green. I encourage blossoms to flourish with ripening fruits. I am the rain coming from the dew that causes the grasses to laugh with the joy of life. God speaks to Hildegard of Bingen, 11th century 
The other day my eye was caught by the sunlight streaming through the leaves of one of my geraniums. These shots fit well with one of the meditations in Classen's book that tells of a child just back from a school class field trip in the fall. "Look!" she exclaimed. "This leaf is orange. This one is orange and green. And look at this one," she added excitedly, "It's all green!" When a green leaf calls forth awe and wonder, then all life is budding with reasons to celebrate! p. 38 We'll soon be seeing orange and red leaves again, but in the meantime, let's celebrate all things green. 
And things blue -- though if your downloaded image of this dragonfly is big enough, you'll see the green as well. 
I've become enthralled by coneflowers this past month. The prairie plantings on campus are full of them. There is a certain amount of repetition, of course -- pink petals, strong center -- but there is also a great deal of variation, depending on the stage of the flower, the effects of passing insects, the angle of the sunlight or the effects of shadows. And the angle of the camera, of course. 
I'm fascinated by the pattern of the centers, and the gradual shift in shape and color. What shape is the one above? A star spiral, perhaps? And over time the centers gradually become flaming torches. 
A rose "candle" for Heidi. Today is her birthday -- and perhaps also the day of her birth into a new life. They have told us that the end of this life is imminent. Every time I check email, I wonder if there will be a message from the Assembly office. The rose with raindrops comes from the first set of photos I took, back in September, soon after hearing that Heidi had stage IV cancer, when the light caught by raindrops on my rose leaves somehow also caught the mix of sorrow and hope our congregation was experiencing. And below is a mix of the bright colors of early summer, for a rainbow in celebration of Heidi's birthday, and for the gift of beauty in the midst of sadness. 
Last week was a celebration of color, drawing on photos from my archives, and running through red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet before culminating in several rainbow colored photos. John suggested that white would have been another appropriate culmination. Since we haven't seen as much white as usual this time on year, here are some photos of white things for you. 
10/10/2010
12/12/2011
11/25/2011
11/30/2011
Petunia, November 3, front flower bed
A week of celebrating colors, and today we've come to violet. It's a little tricky to know where indigo shades over into violet, especially when I'm working with two screens and one shows the flower above as violet and the other screen shows it as deep blue. What does yours show as? 
African violet, October 20
This one, on the other hand, is definitely a violet. 
Morning glories, bike path south of college, October 12
Hummingbird at DeFries Calendar Garden, September 18 with unidentified violet flowers
Purple petunias, July 12
Sunset, January 6, 2012
July 12, DeFries Calendar Garden
"Hildegard of Bingen was a twelfth-century mystic, composer, and author of theology that knitted together nature and spirit, cosmos and soul. She described the Holy Spirit as the Greening Power of God. Just as plants are greened, so we are as well. As we grow up, our spark of life continually shows forth. If we ignore this spark, this greening power, we become thirsty and shriveled. And if we respond to the spark, we flower. Our task is to flower, to come into full blossom before our time comes to an end." Lauren Artress, Walking a Sacred Path, p 15 In this week of celebrating colors, we've come to green. When I read the above paragraph yesterday, I knew it would be on today's blog, along with these images of green-ness. May you know God's Greening Power today. 
Jesuit Retreat Center, Wernersville, PA October 25
Camp Friedenswald, Michigan, October 8
Swiss chard in our November garden
Katydid on our side porch door, October 12
Brussels sprout plant from our garden, October 21
Today we're celebrating orange, but I had to post this photo of my first snowdrop of the year, opening on this warm January day (54 degrees today). 
October 10
So here are some oranges, to brighten up a dreary winter day, even if it is a warm one. 
October 22
October 25
October seems to be the month for orange -- and one last one that begins to shade into yellow. 
I've been listening to a podcast of one of Krista Tippett's On Being broadcasts, an interview with Arthur Zajonc. He's a professor of physics at Amherst College, a long time meditator/contemplative, and was diagnosed with Parkinson's a year ago. He had some interesting observations on how the latter two interact, but the pieces I wanted to pick up here are some of his observations on light and color. He quotes Goethe, who in addition to being a poet and a standard name in German literature classes, was also a scientist who explained his interest in studying the nature of light through accurately observing color with this poetic line: Colors are the deeds of light; its deeds and sufferings: this considered we may expect from them some explanation respecting light itself. Zajonc adds that we learn about light and darkness -- that "through studying the action of light in darkness, and darkness in light, we come to sense the "deeds and suffering" that are color". I'm quoting from a page or two I found on the web, from his book Cacthing the Light: the entwined history of light and mind, which looks like an interesting one to explore further. He also talks about light and shadow -- that light is only visible when it falls on an object. We don't see light as such, just the effect when it lights up the objects around us. Seems like there could be some interesting connections to be thinking about as I take photos of light and shadow and color. Today's photos are some of the ways light and shadow were interacting around the house this afternoon. 
Those gray November skies have arrived, but there is still plenty of color around. A brief interval of sunshine mid-morning illuminated the goldmound spirea (seen here more or less at chipmunk eye level) and the burning bush in the front yard. 
And these leaves from the burning bush show where it gets its name, even after the clouds have covered up the sunshine. 
On a lighter note, you probably know someone with male-pattern baldness. Here's a recently discovered phenomenon -- maple tree-pattern baldness. (with a tip of the hat to Judy, who made the initial diagnosis.) 
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My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Categories
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