 For liturgical churches, purple is the color of Lent, the season we are now in, the forty days plus Sundays leading up to Easter. The word itself comes from the Old English word for spring, and is related to various Germanic languages meaning the lengthening of days. These crocus celebrate the purple and glow with the spring light.     
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 A few lady's slipper orchids from the collection at the Phipps Conservatory in Pittsburgh. Most of these make me chuckle -- I see goofy faces and a flock of odd-looking birds.      While reading another book, I came across this quote from Innocent Blood, by P.D. James, and remembered a winter day a few years ago when I took delight in the geraniums on my windowsill, with the help of my camera. She fixed her eyes on the geranium on the windowsill. Why had she never before realized how beautiful it was? She had seen geraniums as the gaudy expedient of municipal gardeners to be planted in park beds, massed on political platforms, a useful pot plant for the house, since it throve with so little attention. But this plant was a miracle of beauty. Each flowerlet was curled like a miniature rosebud on the end of its furred, tender stem. Imperceptibly but inevitably as her own breathing they were opening to the light. The petals were a clear, transparent pink, faintly stripped with yellow, and the fanlike leaves, how intricately veined they were, how varied in their greenness, each with its darker penumbra. Some words of William Blake fell into her mind, familiar but new. "Everything that lives is holy. Life delights in life." . . . Everything living was part of one great wholeness. To breathe was to take in delight.      Early fall -- September sunrise on the Three Sisters in Canmore, Alberta, flowers from the St. Louis Botanical Garden, and an Indiana leaf, catching the light.      More from 2015 -- summer months, with Virginia skies, Michigan beach stones, and Indiana flowers.      I've been going through my 2015 photos, planning on a retrospective of the year to brighten up this colder, often grayer season. I found that the pictures that caught my eye varied depending on the theme or title I had in mind. So we may have several retrospectives in the weeks ahead. Today is the first installment on the theme of Catching the Light, mostly taken during the first quarter of the year.      The interplay of light and shadow -- fascinating! I like that little round drop in the shadow of the big drop above, and the subtle play of light and shadow that allows us to see it. And then there's the pattern of light and shadow cast by the dewdrops below. And the patterns of light and shadow on flowers, and through flowers.       In the dim light of this foggy, foggy morning the morning glories glowed and the spider webs were outlined with dewdrops.        An early August visit to the DeFries calendar garden and nearby Baintertown wetlands. . . . I've been pondering the question "What is the value of a mosquito?" I could certainly do without the bumper crop we've had in the past few weeks, but a narrow focus on that seems a bit anthropocentric. I read recently that one side effect of the thriving crop of mosquitoes is a bumper crop of flourishing dragonflies, who feed on them. We saw plenty of feasting dragonflies hovering over the wetlands, and this one clinging to a seedpod. Elsewhere some seeds are wind-blown, others not yet formed by their flower, or gathered up and stored in glass.        Bergamot in shadow and in light, yellow coneflowers near and far, pink coneflowers with friend and on fire -- the wonders of a summer day.        For the past two weeks, when I wasn't on the Eastern Mennonite Seminary campus, enjoying a mini-sabbatical in connection with their Summer Institute of Spiritual Formation, I was usually out savoring the view from my cousin's Virginia garden, and delighting in her flowers. Whether a misty June morning or a fiery sunset, or close-up views of hydrangea, bougainvillea, hibiscus, or her many other flowers, there was always something to feast my eyes upon.       More sparks of light from early June. It seems odd to be posting about my Indiana garden while I am enjoying the beauties of a Virginia garden in full summer bloom, but its time will come. I'm working on a borrowed laptop here, so revisiting my Virginia photos won't happen until I'm home again. For now, I'm enjoying it in the moment -- the interaction of light and flowers, and of light,clouds, and mountains, and I look forward to a second reading of it all later. And in this moment, I am also enjoying the memories of spring at home -- bursts of sunshiny flowers, pink columbine, blueberries just starting to blush, bees buzzing, and the light/shadow patterns of ferns.       Traveling creates wonderful opportunities for seeing new sights, but it is also good to get home again and enjoy the flowers in my Indiana garden. Here's a few flowers and friends observed during May.       In addition to rocks and trees and water, the Japanese garden was full of rhododendrons -- I am fascinated by the shapes, the color variety, and the way they catch the light.        It may have been a quiet week in Lake Wobegone, but it was a lively one here in Goshen, my home town. My sister and I drove our parents here from North Carolina, moving them into their new home in Juniper Place. Garrison Keillor brought his radio show, Prairie Home Companion, to campus and the college chamber choir had a starring role, involving many young people who we know well. And full spring arrived, with more flowers opening every day and the trees putting on their robes of green. I've been rejoicing in light-filled daffodils and paper whites, glowing in the sunlight. Here are a few before they completely fade away.      The green tide is rising -- verdant green grass, gauzy green bushes, trees either still bare or decking themselves in fancy fringes and furbelows. The following poem, April Prayer, by Stuart Kestenbaum, struck me as fitting well with these April photos: Just before the green begins there is the hint of green a blush of color, and the red buds thicken the ends of the maple’s branches and everything is poised before the start of a new world, which is really the same world just moving forward from bud to flower to blossom to fruit to harvest to sweet sleep, and the roots await the next signal, every signal every call a miracle and the switchboard is lighting up and the operators are standing by in the pledge drive we’ve all been listening to: Go make the call.       It's spring -- the voice of the mourning dove is heard in the land. And also robins, redwing blackbirds, tree peepers, and the neighbor's lawn mower. And the trees are blooming, the daffodils glowing, and other spring flowers making their brief appearance on stage.       Sometimes April showers bring April flowers. And May flowers, of course -- the columbine whose leaves have just emerged won't bloom for a few weeks yet. But the early spring flowers are thriving, whether covered with raindrops or not. Daffodils, violets, scilla -- it's spring, at last. Some flowers even smile at the thought!      Wednesday I noticed that a clump of early dark purple crocus had sprung up in one of my flowerbeds. Yesterday morning they responded to the warmth and sunlight by spreading their petals wide, making crisp patterns that glowed even after clouds began covering the sun. Then the storm front came through and instead of Easter egg cups, we had furled umbrellas. They all closed up -- unless weighted down by a tiny rain puddle.        It may officially be spring, but March keeps waffling, and these early crocus valiantly keep trying to open. In the meantime, I'm caught by patterns of light and shadow indoors, and the break from winter that a small orchid and a few succulents can offer.      
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. 
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). 
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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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