An Easter sky over a January landscape--hope from the midst of the freeze.
Winter's accents offer something new to savor: the opportunity to see one's breath made tangible, frozen in the air; a palette of white with subtle earth tones of almond, moss, dove grey, and glints of glacial blue; the stark artistry of bare branches against early twilight skies; the soft comfort of fleece and wool, contrasted by chilly noses and cheeks.
But most of us tire of the cold and the short days, the slushy roads and bulky layers of clothes. As with anything, though, winter ends. Entertain a bit of patience, awareness of the natural rhythm of things, and even common sense, and we know that the turning of the seasons will come. Contrary to appearances, the Earth has not stopped its revolution around the sun, its rotation on its axis, its perpetual movement that eventually brings us around again to the next phase.
In darker times, we are as Earth's seeds, who know to wait patiently until the sun's warm signal calls us upward again.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Sunday, February 3, 2008
shapes and colors
We grow, sometimes in ways and directions that are unexpected. And if we are truly listening to our hearts, we may have no control over the shapes our lives take, or the colors used in their palettes. Usually, I think, letting go of that control is the most difficult part.
Who could have told me I'd be photographing blooming flowers in December? Who can tell me what I may be doing five months from now, that I cannot see from here? Who can anticipate whether a tree will grow straight and tall, whether it will bend and twist and wind its way only crookedly toward heaven, or whether it will become the casualty of some especially fierce season? How many branches will it have, what shape will its leaves be, and will they turn in the fall? Will bees and birds pollinate its flowers, will it live for decades or be cut down for development?
I have always had more questions than answers. But I believe that for every question, an answer already exists. The passion of our lives--however poignant, joyful, tender, bereft, triumphant or lonely--lies in undertaking that answer's discovery.
Who could have told me I'd be photographing blooming flowers in December? Who can tell me what I may be doing five months from now, that I cannot see from here? Who can anticipate whether a tree will grow straight and tall, whether it will bend and twist and wind its way only crookedly toward heaven, or whether it will become the casualty of some especially fierce season? How many branches will it have, what shape will its leaves be, and will they turn in the fall? Will bees and birds pollinate its flowers, will it live for decades or be cut down for development?
I have always had more questions than answers. But I believe that for every question, an answer already exists. The passion of our lives--however poignant, joyful, tender, bereft, triumphant or lonely--lies in undertaking that answer's discovery.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
snow on rocks
It's January, and another layer of snow is falling. We've had more this winter so far than we have in many years. Always another layer...
I've enjoyed snowshoeing, and have discovered some of those wintermagic moments in the woods, the ones that make me feel a little sorry for people who live in Florida. The seasons each have their own character, their own purpose and gift, and their own beauty. Hushed under intimate coverings of white snow, every tree, every branch, every twig, every puckered red rosehip and dried snowberry becomes equal, and equally significant in the new landscape. Accumulating snowflakes define every detail with graceful precision, and cover the chaos of underbrush with quiet assertion. And we experience something utterly, fascinatingly different from what the world was a few months ago.
On the other hand, layer after layer of snow reminds me of other inundations, the onslaught of stimuli and demands each day brings. It's easy to become buried with mental lists, tasks and errands, election updates, and satellite tv. An influx of information and images waits its chance to pour into us everywhere we turn our heads. If we allow this on a continuous basis, we soon lose touch with our own still, calm sense of who we are and where we want to go, of presence with the activities we perform and of what really matters to us.
I for one wish to live mindfully--being steered by my own sense of authenticity and intuition, remembering what I came here for, and finding meaning in my life each day. When the crowding of the world's dreams and dramas presses on me like the avalanche it sometimes becomes, it's time for me to turn off all the channels, and allow the clear flowing stream of stillness to reorient me to myself. Whether in the midst of beauty or chaos, I would rather choose for myself than have the world choose for me.
I've enjoyed snowshoeing, and have discovered some of those wintermagic moments in the woods, the ones that make me feel a little sorry for people who live in Florida. The seasons each have their own character, their own purpose and gift, and their own beauty. Hushed under intimate coverings of white snow, every tree, every branch, every twig, every puckered red rosehip and dried snowberry becomes equal, and equally significant in the new landscape. Accumulating snowflakes define every detail with graceful precision, and cover the chaos of underbrush with quiet assertion. And we experience something utterly, fascinatingly different from what the world was a few months ago.
On the other hand, layer after layer of snow reminds me of other inundations, the onslaught of stimuli and demands each day brings. It's easy to become buried with mental lists, tasks and errands, election updates, and satellite tv. An influx of information and images waits its chance to pour into us everywhere we turn our heads. If we allow this on a continuous basis, we soon lose touch with our own still, calm sense of who we are and where we want to go, of presence with the activities we perform and of what really matters to us.
I for one wish to live mindfully--being steered by my own sense of authenticity and intuition, remembering what I came here for, and finding meaning in my life each day. When the crowding of the world's dreams and dramas presses on me like the avalanche it sometimes becomes, it's time for me to turn off all the channels, and allow the clear flowing stream of stillness to reorient me to myself. Whether in the midst of beauty or chaos, I would rather choose for myself than have the world choose for me.
Monday, November 5, 2007
autumn suntree
I walked during lunch today--along the dirt road across the railroad tracks, flanked by quiet homes on one side, pasture and mountains on the other. A sublime afternoon, with the late fall sun warming the remaining tansy leaves by the roadside, steeping their spicy fragrance into the air like a fine-brewed tea. In the tall aspen grove on the north side, tree trunks shone a dignified white, bright and unmoved by the fluttering loss of leaves. The two apple trees in the smaller pasture stood bare and slightly huddled with experience; the dry grasses rasped and rustled randomly in pale gold.
This is the type of day that is autumn's kind parting gift to us as we move into the colder, darker days of the year. Time is suspended for a few hours, and if we are still, we are able to notice the thousand small beauties released by summer's dying. Snowberries wait, white and ripe, on their bushes for whatever creature seeks them; chickadees flit and forage through the smaller trees; field mice scurry occasionally beneath the bent grass; and the landscape has matured from variations on green into an entire palette of straw gold, deep mustard, rust brown, honey, forest and crimson. The sky is bluer than in spring, as if it has aged and ripened along with earth's fruits. And the drier air wanders more freely, with a clarity not earned by summer's heat.
Treasure the small things in the season, whichever one you're in. We may repeat seasons, we may take them for granted, we may assume we know what they're about and not take the time to look again. But Now is what we have, and when we give it our attention, there is no telling what new joy we may discover there.
This is the type of day that is autumn's kind parting gift to us as we move into the colder, darker days of the year. Time is suspended for a few hours, and if we are still, we are able to notice the thousand small beauties released by summer's dying. Snowberries wait, white and ripe, on their bushes for whatever creature seeks them; chickadees flit and forage through the smaller trees; field mice scurry occasionally beneath the bent grass; and the landscape has matured from variations on green into an entire palette of straw gold, deep mustard, rust brown, honey, forest and crimson. The sky is bluer than in spring, as if it has aged and ripened along with earth's fruits. And the drier air wanders more freely, with a clarity not earned by summer's heat.
Treasure the small things in the season, whichever one you're in. We may repeat seasons, we may take them for granted, we may assume we know what they're about and not take the time to look again. But Now is what we have, and when we give it our attention, there is no telling what new joy we may discover there.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
late asters
A pocket of sun, a glint on cold water, the lull of September warmth and a glacial stream's clear notes. No wonder these purple asters want to hold on, are reluctant to give up to the inevitable.
I was that way myself a few weeks ago when the weather turned cold and dreary too suddenly, too soon. I was not ready for the change, wanted to hold on to sunshine, felt disoriented from my resistance to autumn. But the effects of resisting change are one of the few constants in life: it always makes it harder, no matter what.
Fortunately, the sun came back for a spell just long enough to let me align myself with the seasons' will. Sentimental and neurotic as it may sound, I actually needed closure with summer. But sentimental and neurotic were how I felt, and summer obliged.
But after all, maybe the asters weren't holding on. Often observations are tinged with projection, and I could see a hundred different stories in a single plant's life if I wanted to. The flowers are just being themselves, until it's time for them to be different. Maybe that's all there is for any of us to do. Just be ourselves.
I was that way myself a few weeks ago when the weather turned cold and dreary too suddenly, too soon. I was not ready for the change, wanted to hold on to sunshine, felt disoriented from my resistance to autumn. But the effects of resisting change are one of the few constants in life: it always makes it harder, no matter what.
Fortunately, the sun came back for a spell just long enough to let me align myself with the seasons' will. Sentimental and neurotic as it may sound, I actually needed closure with summer. But sentimental and neurotic were how I felt, and summer obliged.
But after all, maybe the asters weren't holding on. Often observations are tinged with projection, and I could see a hundred different stories in a single plant's life if I wanted to. The flowers are just being themselves, until it's time for them to be different. Maybe that's all there is for any of us to do. Just be ourselves.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
autumn path
Autumn has crept in on us with chilly tendrils and longer nights, morning cold in our nostrils and frost on the windshield. Although I've seen the occasional tenacious daisy or aster, or relentless yellow tansy, the flowers have surrendered to the greater strength in their roots for the next six months, and as the trees tuck themselves inward, they reward us with a last eye-feast of color, the inverse of spring.
However reluctantly, now we let go of our flower gardens and short sleeves, long outdoor evenings and the assumption of a sunny weekend. New gifts lie in store now, as we take stock of what to carry on into winter and what to pare away. We think toward holidays, having enough warm clothing, and playing in the snow. But our roots are important, too--the season's cycles are a way of recognizing that we have our own, although usually not so clearly defined. We are growing things, and our different seasons--of success, drudgery, elation, challenge, barely making it, and contentment--each serve their purpose toward our development, if we choose, in the greater, grander picture of our individual journeys.
However reluctantly, now we let go of our flower gardens and short sleeves, long outdoor evenings and the assumption of a sunny weekend. New gifts lie in store now, as we take stock of what to carry on into winter and what to pare away. We think toward holidays, having enough warm clothing, and playing in the snow. But our roots are important, too--the season's cycles are a way of recognizing that we have our own, although usually not so clearly defined. We are growing things, and our different seasons--of success, drudgery, elation, challenge, barely making it, and contentment--each serve their purpose toward our development, if we choose, in the greater, grander picture of our individual journeys.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
two medicine lake
Clarity, I've decided, is a condition which is always present; sometimes it's just that it's temporarily out of reach, beyond circumstances and mind clutter. When I can't get to a place like this crisp glacial lake, which I visited in Glacier Park, to restore my connection with it, I can look at the photo instead, and be reminded.
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