Posts Tagged ‘Spring’

NEW GROWTH ON BENT HICKORY

May 4, 2014

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On a recent walk…

I found myself struck still and charmed

by the “blooming” of a Hickory.

Bent low, struck low

some years ago

by a storm’s relentless blast,

she is still growing…

living past the blows dealt.

Now she blooms.

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I find myself in love

with this brave evidence of persistent life.

I walk past daily

and as the tree revives,

 I find myself revived

by spring’s hard rains…

by sun’s intense caresses.

Perhaps we are much tougher than we thought.

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OLIVIA: ESSENCE OF SPRING

April 6, 2014

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Olivia came to see me on a Saturday

and charmed me with her beauty…

She woke me from my weekend lethargy,

reminding me of life’s delights.

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“Inhale the spring, my nanny darling.

Taste the joys of being alive.

Surrender to vitality,

to promising abundance everywhere you look.”

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Promising abundance is Olivia

and through my camera I partake.

I absorb her speaking and her laughter…

and embrace each moment of thoughtful silence.

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Olivia illuminates my darkness…

brings living color to my world…

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And best of all,

Olivia brings love….

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A QUESTION OF SPRING

March 20, 2014

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My cat is alert

to the coming of spring;

she vibrates to every sight, sound, smell

of life’s return.

I, on the other hand,

am slow to believe.

I linger in the waning light

of  winter camellias.

White Camelia in The Waning Light

I bow my head…

subdue my trembling response

to snowdrops rising

from their bed of green.

My doubtful mind produces

shades of gray

yet, thankfully, cannot extinguish

the flowers’ light.

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When spring decides itself,

even reluctant eyes

must see eventually

the signs that force the earth to yield.

The beacons – be they small –

are everywhere

appearing on a dreary morning

to amaze the heart.

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The Approach of Spring

February 8, 2013

Leif in Red Hood (Black & White) (2)Last weekend a chill wind caused me to don my red c0at and put up the hood for my evening walk to the beach. A wintry feel to the air denied the obsvious signals telling me spring was near. The red-winged blackbirds at the top of the oaks were announcing it loudly from tree to tree, and the fluffy yellow warbler – buffeted by a strong wind off the water – was not deterred from singing of his arrival on the southern gulf coast.  I could see these birds with much more ease through the new lens in my eye than through the camera lens of my little Canon S-100. And fortunately. I had discovered other signs of the season shifting into renewal mode.

Fairy Moss (1024x768) (2)This soft green moss appeared suddenly on the still cold surface of the earth, prompting me to fall to my knees and stroke its softness with delight. As a child I called it fairy moss. Well… I still do. Even now, I imagine tiny feet skip-skipping over the verdant turf; trilling laughter rises as they celebrate spring’s arrival in a dance of joy.

Japanese Magnolia (The Eye of The Flower (768x1024) (2)I can also imagine them garbed in the fallen petals of the Japanese Magnolia, the luscious pinks, purples and whites a swirl of color against the fresh green of the moss.  I have visited trees in the yards of strangers to photograph the extraordinary grace of these flowers. Even without the color, the delicacy and poise of the blossoms on their stems entrances me.

Japanese Magnolia (Stark Loveliness) (1024x915) (2)I don’t really know where I am going with this…except that with my newly opened eyes I am entranced by all I see, am possibly newly opened in my mind as well to the manifestings of new life in the world I inhabit. I want – like Alice in onderland – to nibble a cookie, shrink to fairy-size, wear velvet petals and dance on the soft green moss. I want magic laughter to rise from my throat and mesh with the air that others may drink my joy. It seems almost possible when I take in the natural beauty of creation. When my fascination and delight turn into a photograph in which I can see again and possibly share the perfection of form that I have been fortunate enough to notice, I do want to leap for joy.

Young and Curious Pelican (776x1024) (2)And yes, I continue to visit and wonder at my attraction to the pelicans I wrote of recently. They seem to be absolutely one with the burgeoning awareness I am celebrating, this springing into newness. During my last visit I was getting rather caught up with my photographic dance, turning this way and that – perhaps striving a bit much to capture something special – when suddenly I was stilled, felt my gaze pulled down, and practically at my feet was this adorable creature. His look – so quizzical and direct – made me almost embarrassed at my compulsion, but I had to laugh. He (or she) was just so cute, and seemed to see as children can see what is true. He brought me back to myself, reminded me that it is all right here, Something special is right where we are…if only we will see.

Dancing Where I Am

March 25, 2011

I am no longer trying to get back across the bridge. I’ve decided to stay and embrace this in between place. What had seemed a precarious means to get from here to there, has become a state of mind that feels like home. I have always loved the in between place – danced from the in between place. Between the breaths I found the grace to let myself fall. Repeatedly, my body unbalanced and tipped off the edge. I gloried in the dance of imbalance. Recovery happened, but only long enough to prepare me for the next release of breath and weight.

Walks with the dogs have shortened as Music recovers, but a certain amount of fear seems beneficial. I shall call it a friend as I learn to dance again in this in between place. Spring is where I am: a transitional season which has always inspired the dancer to bloom.

A Fearful Spring

March 23, 2011

On Sunday morning I was innocent – glad to be stepping out into the Wisteria scented air. The fragrant clusters spilled themselves over the the trunks of trees, concealing as well as glorifying their hosts.  I breathed in their sweetness – was thankful  for the  beauty of my surroundings. It was a good day for a long walk with my happy dogs.

We walked out the long curvy drive to the main road. Traffic was minimal on this Sunday morning. We could brave the harbor bridge with a little less fear of  adrenoline-charged drivers. Music and Star are familiar with our bridge routine: stay close to the railing and no sudden veerings to sniff or do business. Focus is essential until we get up and over the bridge to the other side. Then we relax and tend to doggie agendas. We head with purpose for the nearest bushes. It is all a familiar ritual to them. Doggies – with their marvelous  sense of smell – find great variety in the same old route  and delight in sniffing and marking the same old bush. Music squatted determinedly while Star tugged optimistically in the direction we were walking. I began to pull a poop bag from the plastic holder attached to the leash. The monster came out of nowhere.

It was actually a Doberman out for an adventure, and we looked promising.  I tried for dominance – commanded the dog to go home. It was only someone’s beloved pet. It had a blue collar. But it also had a chewed ear, and it wasn’t listening. Music growled, as if to say: Back off, buster. Buster was five times Music’s size and took it as an invitation. He sprang. It happened so fast. Music was down and the jaws of the beast were clamped tightly around his neck. My commands turned to screams – became cries for help as I saw my dog as the victim of this  creature’s instinct to attack and kill. My fist made contact with the muscular back to no effect. I was a flailing animal myself.  Cars stopped: an elderly couple on their way home from church, concerned but helpless. Then a young man aimed a kick that caused the jaws to unlock and the dog to flee the scene.

I stood bewildered as my heart attempted to jump from my body. Music staggered to his brave little feet. He was limping a little and blood was beginning to stain the white fur around his neck. He was still attached to his leash but the the other leash hung from my hand, its collar empty. Star had wisely extracted herself from the danger. Now she came close  and we three huddled together as a different sort of fracas continued around us. The police had arrived and various curious and concerned individuals. My legs gave out and I sank to the sidewalk. Doggie bags formed a tangled blue snake around my feet.

The next thing I knew, I was being escorted back across the bridge by the most aggressively helpful woman I have ever met.  My chest hurt, my legs barely functioned, and my ears rang with the loud incessant voice of my helper. Music crept slowly beside me as Star forgot our bridge routine and sniffed the grass. Three days later, Music is almost recovered, but I still seem to be trying to make my way back across that bridge – back to the innocence of a perfect spring morning.

Trembling On The Brink

March 11, 2011

The approach of spring is tentative this year. The fierce cold nights of winter linger in the memory, and even the plants appear to be shy about trusting the sun’s smiling face. Redbuds are braver, flinging a purple shawl across their  naked branches. And the Japanese Magnolia has burst into beauty for a glorious moment before its petals fell. But Mardi Gras has come and gone with no Azaleas to convince us that the spring is truly here. Usually it rather overshadows the delicate appearance of the Dewberry blossoms.

I have noticed lately – as I have walked with Music and Star – that small clumps have pushed through the dry brown remnants of last year’s growth. I have seen the tight pink buds pop forth on the wine-colored vines. These seemed to hold themselves in protective readiness for quite some time before allowing the tender white petals to unfurl. Even then a pink flush hinted at a certain shyness about opening all the way. This morning I took my camera on our morning walk in hopes of capturing their fey-like prettiness as reassurance of spring’s advance. Even so I tremble as I share the fragile proof, try not to move beyond this moment to anticipate the dark sweet fruit to come.

Faith In The Blooming

April 17, 2010

Life is on hold, Wednesday’s pause drawn out by my body’s slowness to heal. The virus lingers, insuring an isolation  that I begin to struggle against, despite the grogginess induced by medications meant to ease my symptoms. Perhaps my breathing is less labored;  the coughing subdued except as night approaches and when I first rise in the morning. But I don’t feel well, and my patient acceptance of the “blessed pause” is wearing thin. So I turn to this blog, but with some trepidation. My head may nod, my eyelids droop – before I’m done.

I thought I might write of spring, for despite my limited participation, spring has definitely been happening.  When my illness had barely begun, the wisteria reached its peak, cascading opportunistically over everything. Purple clusters spilled from trees and draped themselves over azalea bushes just starting to bloom. Their unique fragrance overwhemed my congested airways, and as their petals dispersed, a delicate carpet was laid for my wandering feet. The azaleas finally came into their own,  large magenta  blossoms crowding out the slower buds. Overgrown bushes laden with lush, rich color were almost too much as my ailment progressed. Some senses impaired left other  senses  recoiling from stimulation. I have found myself almost relieved  to see the  passionate blooms replaced by soggy remnants of themselvess. This spring I have scarecly appreciated the feast, but today as I made my way with the little dogs, my eyes came to rest on a veritable sea of yellow Irises. Their green stalks have thrust themselves up through the mud of the wetlands  below my house. Now they stand like regal sentries displaying their elegant hats. I smile at their obvious pride  in their annual  accomplishment. But they give me hope, having risen from the murky depths where they lay dormant – patiently waiting for their time to bloom.

Sister In Bloom

March 12, 2010

Her hair seemed dusted with pollen as she opened the door – her wild gray curls outlined with yellow-gold. Her mouth was a crescent of joy on her sweet round face, and her eyes danced gleefully over a badly kept secret. She invited me in, then sneezed, then laughed and apologized. But my sister, Mary, had no reason to be sorry. Along the far wall leaned a series of oil paintings: outdoor scenes with tall pines and gilded grasses. Pink-violet roads and pathways curved away past glimmering  bayous. The stark blue sky gazed happily at a more appealing version of itself .  This sister artist bounced beside me as I took in more than beauty.  Here was evidence of  am interior willingness to bloom.