 1 Peter 1: 23-24 You have been born anew, not of perishable but of imperishable seed, through the word of the living and enduring God. For All flesh is like grass and all its glory like the flower of grass. The grass withers and the flower fails. . . . But for a brief time, before the snow falls, the grasses of the prairie plantings on campus are full of glory, with a diversity of shape and seeds that intrigues me -- especially on a sunny day. Here are some photos of grasses from the past month as an antidote to a rainy November day. Plus one photo of a katydid nymph found in my garden last week -- note those long legs and longer antennae!      
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It's melting now, but earlier in the week we got snow -- nearly a foot of it, making patterns on the trellis and putting a cap on the bird feeders. Frost festooned the garage windows and the temperature fell below John's lower limit for biking to work. I took him in, since I needed the car later in the day, and the sun rose just as I dropped him off. It lit up a gauzy layer of infinitesimal snow crystals in the air, creating rainbows. Or would that be snowbows? I went over to campus to find an open spot for a photo and discovered a rainbow between me and the Music Center. I didn't go in to check for leprechauns -- there were diamond-tipped golden stems right in front of me. Later I went for a walk in the sunshine, enjoying the colors in the midst of all the white and the traces of those who had been out before me. 
Have mice taken up cross-country skiing? Or is this the trace of two friends out for a scamper?
From Rabindranath Tagore, an esteemed Bengali poet and musician: For many years, at great cost, I traveled through many countries, saw the high mountains, the oceans. The only things I did not see were the sparkling dewdrops in the grass just outside my door. I don't think he would have missed them this morning. Though it is true that l would have missed most of these if I hadn't headed out the door and had the time to notice what was around me as I walked. 
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. 
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. 
We celebrated Labor Day by cleaning out the garage, resulting in one trip to the recycling center, one pile to be put out with the trash later this week, another pile ready to be hauled to the Depot, and a somewhat tidier garage with room for all the bikes. We also took an early morning walk along the millrace, soon after sunrise, and enjoyed the light on the plants along the water's edge, and the close encounters with miniscule wildlife. (Even though we didn't find any monarch chrysalis hanging from a milkweed leaf.) 
This fellow was just a few inches to the right of the dragonfly, but we almost missed seeing him, he was so well camouflaged.
Fireworks for the 4th -- the only kind we'll see around here. We're in Colorado for a niece's wedding this weekend and between the drought and the fires Colorado is already fighting, there are burn and fireworks bans everywhere. We came to Colorado by a round-about route -- driving to Harrisonburg for a Weaver family reunion at Highland Retreat last weekend, spending a few days in Pittsburgh where our daughter lives, and then flying out to Denver. We'll be in Westcliffe for the wedding and then camp for a few days. I hear there are mountains around here, but so far the smoke haze has kept them obscure. Even so, there's sunlight on the fauna and flora, and I'm enjoying the variety. 
An avocet in the lake near where we are staying in Lakewood.
A day full of sunshine, and enough warmth to melt the water in the birdbath on the south of the house, filling it with light. Perhaps this sparrow is also collecting sparks of light. 
When I was a seminary student in the 90's, I regularly drove the back roads between Goshen and Elkhart, and loved watching the change of seasons. I had an errand in Elkhart this afternoon and took the old familiar route, under a sun-washed sky. The trees are mostly bare and brown now, and the fields are tawny with corn stubble, and dry grasses, catching the light. 
It was barely 5:30 when I got back to Goshen, but the sun was dropping quickly. I'd hoped to find more scenes with sun and dry grass on campus, but traffic was backed up waiting for a train, so I recorded the sun-dappled sky instead. 
I wandered campus this afternoon, searching for sparks of light. At first I thought I wasn’t going to find anything – a dry, overcast day doesn’t tend towards the same interplay of light and shadow, or of light on water, as a sunshiny day or a wet day. As I looked more closely, I enjoyed the interplay of two different sorts of moments of light: interactions with people, and the light in the plants. Usually when I walk on campus it is early morning, or early evening, and there aren’t many people around. Today students and profs were scurrying between classes, and I exchanged greetings with six or seven people I knew. One, seeing that I was prowling with my camera, directed me to this tree on the southeast corner of the Ad building which she described as “practically iridescent, even in this light.”  Another was checking the progress of the prairie plantings on campus. We stopped to chat about how well they are doing – even the section by the tracks that the train company had sprayed just after the college seeded that area. The black eyed susans, mulleins, cone flowers and grasses had already been catching my eye. Here’s a medley, along with a tree branch or two. The sun even came out towards the end of my stroll, bringing out the light of the plants. Early this morning I read Heidi's Caringbridge blog for the past two days, which held a mix of the hard times of radiation treatment and celebrating life in the moment. I headed out for my usual walk, carrying my camera, just as the sun was coming up.  Here it is again, that combination of light and dark that so often appear together when I become aware of a spark of light, that moment which in some way causes my heart to sing. As I walked on, it occurred to me that those moments often cluster in transition times. Early morning and late afternoon light create more interesting photos than the full light of day; the change of seasons brings new color; life’s transitions often make us more acutely aware of the gifts of the present. A fall leaf is beautiful, and bittersweet, and precious because it is both.  Returning home, I started noticing a scattering of diamond bright light sparking from the short green grass – morning sunlight hitting the dew on the grass blades. I didn’t bother pulling the camera out. I took delight in the light, but knew I didn’t have the photographic skills to capture it. I came in to read today’s email and found this Word for the Day from gratefulness.org, a quote from Bengali poet and Nobel winner for literature, Rabindranath Tagore: For many years, at great cost, I traveled through many countries, saw the high mountains, the oceans. The only things I did not see were the sparkling dewdrops in the grass just outside my door. I had to go back out and commemorate my grass diamonds, whether or not the photo did justice to it. If you look closely below, you’ll find dewdrops, but the flashes of fire are missing. You’ll have to go out and look for them in the dewdrops in the grass outside your own door. What other sparks of light will you find as you look around your everyday life?  One spark of light flew by too quickly for a photo today. I was standing in the parking lot outside of the farmer's market and looked up just in time to see a flash of late afternoon sunlight on the glossy black plumage of a crow flapping its way south. Oddly, I notice that it takes effort to notice the sparks of light after a few days of sunshine. With so much light streaming down, I start taking it for granted. I need to store up more sunlit images for the cloudy gray days that will be coming to northern Indiana all too soon. Here's the one photo I did take -- sun on the grasses beside the parking lot. 
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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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