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
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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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