 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.      
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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 
Back before our big snowstorm, the week between Christmas and New Year's, we had several warm days. On one such sunny day, we went down to check out winter in the Calendar Garden. 
A sun-soaked day on Whidbey Island, north of Seattle, hiking in Deception Pass State Park. 
It was a rainy weekend for the annual Assembly retreat at Camp Friedenswald, but a group of us were able to explore the woods with Carol Good-Elliott Saturday morning, before the showers started. We ambled along, stopping to examine the diversity of shapes on sassafras trees (oval, Michigan shaped, and two thumbed), the rich purple of squashed pokeweed berries, the golden eyes of a tiny spring peeper. Carol had us using all our senses, tasting anise-y sweet cicely, listening for woodpeckers and warblers, rubbing our fingers over the raised ridges of papery beech leaves,.and sniffing spicebush and sassafras leaves (which, according to the grade school children who visit Merrylea where Carol works, smell like Lucky Charms. We went with "lemony, " or to at least one person, "Lemon Pledge"). And even with a gray damp day, and lots of brown leaves around, there were plenty of colorful leaves to admire. 
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.... 
 Sparks of light of a different sort... After I posted about the Soil and Soul Retreat I attended at Maple Tree Meadows a few weeks ago, several friends expressed interest in learning more about what Karla Kauffman has in mind for the farm. So yesterday five of us spent the morning visiting with Karla, learning about this wounded farm and the healing place she hopes to create here. The Gleason family were early settlers in the area, and farmed this land for over 150 years. It's been through many configurations, including a state-of-the-art dairy operation decades ago, and years as a horse farm, known as Gleason Meadows. Eventually it was sold, and over time became more and more wounded. Karla bought 12 and a half acres of it four years ago and has been slowly working on renovating the old farm house and developing plans for the rest of the land. She dreams of hosting a small community of fellow healers, who would tend to the land, and provide a space where others could come for rest and renewal -- perhaps offering a sanctuary for rescue animals and a place where veterans and others suffering from post traumatic stress disorder could spend time working with soil and soul. But all this is down the road -- for now she would be happy to have a small group of people who could help her consider how to give the dream body and prioritize the tasks. In the meantime she is hosting once a month retreat days with the Soil and Soul theme from May through October, inviting women who serve in healing roles of many kinds (pastors, teachers, nurses, spiritual directors) to spend four hours in study, soil-work, soul-work, and fellowship. And we shared many sparks of light -- the laughter and sharing of dreams, the birds singing in the maple trees, and fellowship on a beautiful summer morning.  Some of the maple walnut scones Karla made for us, with maple syrup from her trees and walnuts from a nearby woods.  One of the mature sugar maples shading Karla's yard -- the source for the maple syrup in our scones and tea, and for the name "Maple Tree Meadows."  Some area of the farm are more wounded than others. Karla plans to restore one of the old barns and remove the other. Anyone in need of well-aged barn siding?  Karla already had two silos removed. She's looking for good ideas for what could be done with the remaining one. A friend suggested that perhaps it could serve as a wailing wall -- a place for those who need to weep and howl and rage. 
Trees grab our attention, but there were also many intriguing tiny scenes on the floor of the forest around our campsite in Colorado -- flowers, rocks, mosses, ferns, decaying logs serving as hosts to a myriad of small plants and animals. Here are a few. 
Looking back through my photos of Colorado trees, I can't help but think of Mary Oliver's poem, When I Am Among the Trees: When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness, I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile." The light flows from their branches. And they call again, "It's simple," they say, "and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine." (Thirst, 2006) 
With the drought here, and yet another day of 100 degree temperatures, it seems a prime time to post some pictures of the mountain stream near our campsites at Rocky Mountain Mennonite Camp. 
And for a more complete experience, here's a short video clip of the rushing waters.
The trees in Pennsylvania seemed to be a bit behind our early spring, so as we traveled out to Pittsburgh last weekend, we saw hills covered with mostly bare trees, and scattered among the gray, a few trees ablaze with color -- red, yellow, light green. I tend to forget that trees other than dogwoods and redbud also flower. While Beth and Jesse practiced with the choir before church last Sunday, John and I strolled through the park across the street, and I found trees at various stages of flowering and putting out new leaves. 
Which got me to wondering, "Where does the phrase 'turning over a new leaf' come from? Does it have anything to do with springtime?" Thanks to that font of wisdom, the internet, I discovered that the "leaf" is a page. You might turn over a new leaf in your ledger to start a new account, for example (back before you kept your records in a spreadsheet, of course). This gets expanded to mean "starting over" or "getting a fresh start" in a more general way. 
Nature may be turning a new leaf, starting yet again into the year's cycle of growth and new life. I'm needing to turn a new leaf in that more metaphorical sense. With the shift in seasons and yardwork, and the shift from Lenten practices to Eastertide, I'm feeling like I haven't found my prayer rhythm yet for this time of year. I'm not worrying about it too much, remembering a lovely story told about Father Thomas Keating, one of the teachers of centering prayer. He was teaching a group of nuns this way of praying, which involves silently centering yourself on God with the aid of a word that you return to any time you find your thoughts getting hooked into carrying you away from the prayer. One sister came up to him afterwards and said, "Father Keating, I am so bad at this type of prayer. I kept thinking of other things and had to come back to my prayer word a thousand times." Father Keating smiled and told her, "How delightful! A thousand opportunities to return to God!" I'll find the right rhythm for this season too, the right mixture of silent prayer and gardening prayer and photo/blogging prayer for this time of year. All in good time. 
Back home again in Indiana -- new hosta leaves from our front yard, with morning sunlight
Sunset on icy branches
For the past couple years I've had a picture/poem posted on my bulletin board, one John wrote and gave me for Epiphany 2009. It's a little hard to read there, with white print on a picture of evening sun on icy branches (the one above). For some reason I took it down the other day and re-read it.
He pulled together a number of threads from our experiences in 2008 -- if you check my 11-19 post, you can read my poem on the episode with the seagulls. We were both surprised to discover threads that had no source in 2008, but that resonate with strands of our lives today, including this blog (see section 4). Becoming -- by John Glick 1. A band of sun-fire Pierces dark December clouds Illuminating. One by one seagulls Enter the light, winging southward, Each bearing a prayer. On and on they come Transfixed I stand; thank God for Serendipity. 2. Flame's way focuses the mind; A candle, A campfire, A raging California hillside. On this day of the longest night, When a father wonders if he'll have a job next month, When a mother's doctor tells her she has cancer, When a family huddles in the cold because they could not pay the utility bill, We yearn for the light. We yearn for God's light, Like watchmen ache for the dawn. Flame of love also Focuses the mind, on A child, A friend, A community. 3. When deep comes darkness, Your love, O Lord, is a fire, Turning, transforming. You who walk with us Our hearts burn within; we Know When You break the bread. Ah, the flame within; First it kindles, then ignites Mind, body, soul. 4. Shadows are the evidence of light, Both the giver and the receiver, A shadow speaks the language of Shape, intensity and movement. Evening settles; Sipping tea my heart drinks in Trees a-fire with sun. They stretch their fingers Towards heaven, inviting "You too can be fire!" Used with permission. All rights reserved. 
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.) 
When I left for my walk this morning, the sky was just beginning to lighten in the east. A half moon floated overhead and the morning star shone in the west.  Fifteen minutes later, the sun was nearly up and the sky was cloud-free and incredibly luminescent.  And a half hour later, the sunlight was reaching the tops of trees and buildings. I was intrigued by this high-level repair work.  And back at home, the sun was just gilding the tops of our locust tree and the neighbor’s tulip poplar, with the moon overhead.
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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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