 After a series of gray, cloudy days, the sunshine on Wednesday came at a good time. I had some free time and headed over to Witmer Woods, near the dam. I visited these woods regularly last spring, watching the green emerge. It was well hidden this time and I found myself focusing on patterns and shapes instead.     
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 After the leaves fell, and the temperatures fell, and the snow fell. . . here we are in winter. Just a skiff of snow, but enough for abstract patterns on the sidewalk. And enough to provide a backdrop for the delicate patterns of this dried plant growing on the edge of the prairie plantings on campus.      This past week has been a hinge time, with the landscape shifting from the copper, gold and bronze of autumn to a dusting of white and dropping temperatures. Here's photos from a golden day before the fall, with the fireworks of milkweed seeds bursting from the pod, the patterns of branches and dried seedpods, the calligraphy of ivy, and a remaining touch of summer purple, side-by-side with a golden grass seedhead.      
More photos from Saturday's trip to the Calendar Garden -- seed pods, dried leaves, bare trees, and one surprise. Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder. from Charlotte's Web, E.B. White 
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. 
Wooly bear and friend
A few more photos from last weekend at Friedenswald, this time from the woods. So what is that wooly bear predicting about the length of the coming winter? (Presumably very little, since apparently the amount of brown is an indication of the caterpillar's age, so it says more about when the past winter ended then about the one coming up.) And then there were the patterns of seeds and the glory of leaves in the sunlight, and the curlycues of leaf and vine, and the reflections of light cast by rippling water on a streambed near the fen. 
Here's a mystery. Most of the tracks in our yard are easy to figure out -- the patterns of bird feet under the feeder, the rabbit crossing from here to there, the squirrel bounding from the maple to the feeder and back again, the cat that prowls the edges. But what is the story behind the photo above? Apparently one night a rabbit hopped out to the middle of the yard, danced crazily for a few moments and then lopped away to the protective cover of the privet. And then there's sunshine and shadow on snow, and the light-catching crystals of hoarfrost on dried plants. 
Tuesday was a typical northern Indiana, transition-into-winter day, one that could make you gloomy just looking out the window. Warm though, with a forecast for below-freezing temperatures the rest of the week, so I found time to go out with my camera. It took about half the walk, heading out from the house, to shed the writing project I had been working on. The scenery didn't help -- bare tree branches, gray skies, prairie plantings full of blackened, weedy stems. I didn't even bother pulling my camera out of my pocket. When I got to the southwest corner of campus, a couple little rusty-capped sparrows flew up from the grasses to take refuge in nearby bushes. They caught my wandering attention. I listened to them sing and started looking more closely at the weeds and grasses nearby. I found silver and gold, and evidence that the birds had been enjoying the banquet spread out before them. 
Two nights of hard frost earlier this week, with little wind, and the following day the leaves dropped, straight down, creating round carpets under each tree, at least until the wind picked up. A walk along the millrace was grays and browns, instead of last week's sun-filled golds, but there were still intriguing reflections to be seen. And with most of the leaves gone, there were other sights -- stem scars, grape vine knots, and black walnuts in odd places. 
It's the seedy season -- buckeyes and acorns and parachutes of seed-carrying fluff. All sorts of shapes and shades of brown and tan -- and one last morning glory blooming on our vine, when I thought it was all dried and gone to seed. No seeds in the last photo though, just Yertle the Turtle and friends. 
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. 
At long last, some days with sunshine and warmer temperatures, so yesterday I headed down to the Calendar Garden to see what early spring looked like there. It's an in-between time, with a lot of trimming and garden clean-up happening. The new is beginning to appear, like the hyacinth just starting to poke up through red-gold sedum. But there are still plenty of remnants -- leaves and river birch bark and dried hydrangea blossoms, lit by warm sunlight, stirring memories of last year's autumnal reds, golds and browns. And, unexpectedly, a flock of goldfish brightening the pond -- and nary a frog or pollywog in sight. 
A little sunshine works wonders. Saturday the sun shone on the huddled crocus from my last post, and this was the result -- Easter eggs. Now today they are covered with snow again, so I don't know if they will actually last until Easter, but they were a nice splash of color before the snow fell. I spent Saturday morning leading a retreat for Assembly and Assembly North, drawing together some of the themes of Lent -- being a beloved child of God, from Assembly's work with shame and healing, and Extravagant Living, Reckless Grace, the theme from Assembly North. I provided written and sensory resources for three areas: In a Dry and Weary Land; Coming to our Senses; and All-surrounding Grace. The retreatants had an hour and a half block to spend time alone with God, praying, using their senses, reflecting. One retreatant enthusiastically showed me his discoveries afterward. He had chosen to spend time with a dried fig leaf, gazing at it closely, drawing it and letting it speak to him about a dry and weary land. These dry fig leafs are definitely dessicated and crumpled, but they have their own sculptural beauty. He went on to put the stem of the leaf in a small pitcher of water, where it soaked up enough liquid to soften it just enough that he could gently spread it open. The sun was streaming in the window just beside him and he discovered that the dried leaf, seen in sunlight, had a jewel-like beauty. And when held at just the right angle in the sunlight, it was full of an inner fire. What a beautiful image of the transforming power of grace! 
The Brothers Grimm needed the help of a dwarf with a funny name to spin straw into gold, but around here, all we need is a good dose of sunshine and suddenly, behold, the old is given new life. 
On a recent walk across campus on a gray, wet day, John looked at the gray, wet prairie plantings, and shook his head at how dreary and dead it all looked. It does rather bring to mind the Ghost of Prairie Past these days, especially when, as in the photo below, there's a flurry of snowflakes in the air. 
A closer look foretells the Ghost of Prairie Yet to Come. I wonder how many seeds are held in all those seed clusters, of so many different shapes? There is a strong theme of ghostly gray and pale beige, and yet even on a gray day, glimpses of gold can be found. 
These past few weeks I've been fascinated by the variety of seed shapes and seed carriers I've found in the prairie plantings on campus. Perhaps that's why my attention was caught by Parker Palmer's seasonal metaphor in A Hidden Wholeness, his book about his work with circles of trust. Usually when I think of new beginnings and seeds, I think of spring. But Palmer begins with fall when he develops a seasonal cycle as a metaphor for what happens in the inner journey of discovery. "We often start our groups in the fall, a time when work begins again for many people, following a summer break--and nature begins her work again by dropping and scattering seeds. In this season of new beginnings, a circle of trust might inquire into the 'seed of true self.' What seed was planted when you or I arrived on earth with our identities intact? How can we recall and reclaim those birthright gifts and potentials?" p. 81 Here's a few photos of seeds about to be dropped and scattered, for you to muse on as you ponder your own seeds and new beginnings. 
I can hear the wind blowing outside my window, and they tell us rain and possibly snow are on the way, with the temperatures dropping from a high of 70 today to expected highs in the 40's this week. So a couple of us went down to the Calendar Garden this afternoon, seizing the chance to enjoy sunshine and warmth before winter arrives, and to see what we could see. We found familiar faces of other friends who had the same bright idea, and a not-so-familiar face in the corner of the greenhouse. I'm not sure I'd look so stoical if I had cactus growing in the top of my head. 
A Seussical sort of plant -- probably clematis.
Spencer and Mary Ellen playing peek-a-boo.
Gulls floated silently overhead, hardly stirring their wings as the wind blew them on by. In the center pond, I saw a few minnows, a tiny goldfish, and a copper dragonfly, but the only frogs out soaking up the sun were as stoical as the cactus-haired damsel, with a stony look on their faces. Still, the sky was blue, with wispy white clouds and the afternoon sunlight streamed across the gardens, highlighting succulents, colorful leaves, and dried plants, and we sat and enjoyed it all. 
We've been waking to below freezing temperatures this week, though the frost has done its best to sugarcoat it all. Early morning sunlight on frosted plants makes for a light -filled walk and lots of exclamations. 
The seasons keep on turning. We're entering late fall, with most but not all of the leaves down. Branches may be bare, but the grass is still green, a few flowers are still dancing in the prairie plantings, and the red leaves on the viburnum and Japanese maple are still hanging on. Plenty of plants have turned brown, though, setting seed or going dormant. On a gray November day it can get depressing, even though those seeds are a promise that spring will come again and many plants need that dormancy period, their sabbath rest. And when I walk past the prairie plantings in the early morning, or at dusk, a frolic of finches darts about, delighting in the feast of seeds spread out before them. They are a soft, warm brown, having set aside their golden summer coats for their traditional winter garb. Earth too is gradually shedding her vibrant summer dress, snuggling into the browns and grays of late fall, getting ready for winter. And on days like today, the sun and clouds take turns, highlighting the intriguing patterns of dried seedheads. 
 We had our first frost the night before last, so yesterday we woke to a frost covered yard. The rest of the day was clear and sunny, so mid-afternoon I wandered over to the prairie plantings on campus to see how things were doing. There is quite a mix of flowers gone to seed and flowers still opening blooms.  I was examining some seed heads when two grade school children from a nearby house waded through the plantings to see what I was doing. They were friendly and curious, so we talked about the prairie plants for awhile before the brother headed back to their swing set. His sister stayed and watched. I was trying to get a photo of a big brown grasshopper, but it kept leaping away. She tried to catch it for me and told me about finding little green grasshoppers in the field earlier. I told her that this one might be one of those -- that they get bigger and browner as they get older. She nodded and thought about the way things change color as they get older. "Like grandmas!" she said, looking at my white hair with a big smile. "Like grandmas," I agreed, though I'm not one yet. Grandmas and grasshoppers and all things grow and change. This past week we slipped from summer into autumn, and the trees are beginning to turn vibrant colors, and the smaller plants are turning brown. Or white, like grandmas. Either way, there is an abundance of seeds, so the cycle of growth and change will continue. To everything .....turn, turn, turn...... There is a season.....turn, turn, turn.... And a time to every purpose, under heaven.   The new and the old -- more purple coneflowers 
Thistledown is such a fun word. I just double-checked the names of the fairies in Midsummer Night's Dream, thinking that surely Shakespeare used it. But no -- Peaseblossom, Moth, Cobweb, Mustardseed, and of course Puck, but nary a Thistledown. I can just see her though, with a spiky purple cap and an intricate, airy white gown. And this thistledown along the millrace was catching the light a few days ago. A goldfinch landed on the one above, loosing a cascade of fluff, but flew off again immediately. I've just been reading that finches like to line their nests with the down. (I also read that finches don't like their feeders to be too close to other types of birdfeeders -- maybe this explains why the finch feeder hanging near the sunflower tube and the hummingbird feeder has not gotten much attention from finches this summer.) 
I biked down the millrace path this afternoon, to see what I could see. I found a profusion of plants at a profusion of life stages -- buds and full blossoms, green seed pods and dried seed heads ready to send seeds flying with the next strong breeze. 
A few weeks ago, when we drove into town after a couple of weeks away at family reunions and weddings, we found scorched, tawny lawns and parched fields. Weeks without rain and temperatures over 100 degrees had sent the area into serious drought. The past few weeks, we've been blessed with rain -- over five inches. It was too late for the corn crop, and the experts tell us we're still in drought conditions, but it is amazing what a little rain can do to resurrect lawns and plants. The grass has started growing again, and though our lawn is looking patchy and has some thriving crabgrass colonies, it is looking more green than tan. And the bee balm above, which was nothing but dried seed heads a week ago, has suddenly put out more petals, and is attracting hummingbirds. 
The ground cover in our front window bed, which had turned into a brown, dead mat that I thought we'd have to live with until next spring, not only put out new shoots, it has put them out with such vigor that the bed is looking golden-green again. I meant to take a photo a day or two ago when the new shoots were just starting, but I missed my chance. 
Some things won't recover. I think we've lost the globe arborvitae by our garage. Around town, I see plenty of bushes and trees that have died. And the experts warn us that others are at risk. We need to keep watering the trees and bushes to catch up, even if the rains continue.
It all provides some vivid images for verses like Jeremiah 17:7-8. Blessed are those who trust in the LORD, whose trust is the LORD. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit. Am I planted by water? Do I need to be watering my roots? Where are timely rains bringing new growth? Thoughts to ponder. 
More pictures from my time at the Hermitage. The labyrinth is looking a bit flattened by the winter, but the seasons cycle and it will soon be green. Two years ago I walked it in late spring, finding a multitude of wildflowers and grasses bordering the path. The seasons cycle and now is an in-between time, and the dried milkweed pods in the fields capture that well -- some bare husks, others still with seeds waiting to be carried by the wind, all making intriguing sculptural shapes. 
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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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