Opening to God on Retreat

We begin our day without words, unaccustomed to quiet.
Gathered together in the dining room, the clinking of utensils on plates and soft thuds of mugs set on tables is the music of our common life, missed when thoughts are spoken.
Sleepy eyes averted and tentative smiles are given in greeting.
Gratitude in spoken blessing and the unspoken, “Amens.”
Kindred spirits communing in the richness of breakfast silence.

I heard them before opening my eyes, mighty gales and downpours at first light.
Grey is the sky and river, dark the mountains and mist fills the valley,
 damp chill in the soggy, saturated air.
The towhee’s whistle and blue jay’s raucous cries punctuate the background murmur of ground crickets and rain falling on the land and my umbrella.
Reddening sumacs, yellow goldenrods and the tiny white asters dance in the wind, oaks and ashes waving their arms wildly in the wetness.
Rainy, windy autumn morning full of promise, pregnant with the possibilities of the unknown, gift of another day.

“What am I called to let go of, so I can fully live this present hour of my life?” she asked us.

Without umbrella, I was eagerly looking forward to seeing the pond, when the drops began again,
Slowly at first, tap, tap, tapping on the still-green leaves, as I turned back.
I came expecting the crimsons, oranges, yellows and purples of last year.
I looked forward to seeing migrating warblers and the frenzied chipmunks again,
but all I saw was a gathering of tiny gnats, zigzagging around in circles on the underside of yellow birch leaves.

I thought I might hear God speak out here…something profound, soul-searching, challenging.
Instead, I hear silence…abundant, enfolding, nurturing silence, except for the tapping of the rain on the trees.

Sacraments of the present moment.

Let There Be Beauty

I am borrowing the title of this post from Rebecca Reynolds, who wrote the words, and Ron Block who wrote the music on one of my favorite CD's, Walking Song. The words and tune go through my mind often, but this afternoon I lost them, for a while, anyway. All of a sudden the nation's and the world's pain became overwhelming and I was at a complete loss to know how to respond, both to other's pain and to my own. I felt paralyzed in the knowing. 

 I thought a bit about writing, but what could I possibly have to say that would change anyone's situation or lift anyone's spirits? The kinds of things I write about seemed superfluous, almost a luxury and a voice in the back of my mind condemned my best efforts, "Why would you think that writing about the natural world would do anyone any good, anyway?!" Why, indeed.

In what felt like desperate attempt to reconnect with who I am and the life I have been given to live, I grabbed my camera and went outside to document (and maybe prove to myself) that there is, indeed, still beauty to be found in the world. Perhaps some will consider this an escape, a way of dulling or turning away from the hurts that seem to surround us, right now. Perhaps it is, but I have found that, at the times when my own life felt like it was falling apart, that it was the outdoors and the beauty I found there that helped hold me together and gave me hope that things would not always remain as they were in the moment. This afternoon, I did the same.

And so, I offer these glimpses into the world around where I live, in hopes that they will bring comfort or smiles to any who need both. The beauty found here doesn't change circumstances, but it reminds me that God is at work, and that we are not forsaken. 

The first, above, is simply the house in which we live, filled with flowers on the porch and the playing of sunlight and shadows.

Zebra swallowtail and carpenter bee on Virginia mountain mint

A pot of humble purple coneflowers, waiting to go into the ground

Visitors in the backyard

A welcoming haven-winterberries for birds and white snakeroot for pollinators

Up close

White wood asters in the front yard

And flowers for a friend's going away , an expression of love and appreciation

And, in case you are wondering about the title, the refrain from their song....
"Let there be beauty for beauty is good, the made and the making and the bliss understood. 
 Let there be beauty for beauty is free. Go swim in the waters, go drink from the stream"

Trail Wood: Moments in September

First light, I step into the clear, cold, still September morning, quiet, but for the birds' restlessness...

Robins chipping, catbirds murmuring in the underbrush, blue jays calling in the distance and
red-bellied woodpeckers dining on woodbine. Grass drips with dew and pale sunlight touches the trees, leaves hovering between the deep green of summer and the colors of autumn, suspended in time.

Many of the meadow flowers have finished blooming, seed heads slowly drying. The fields belong to the goldenrods and grasses now, Indian grass and the bluestems, myriad shades of brown and gold, subtle, muted beauty... beauty of abundance found in seeds and sheltering stalks, already providing for the coming, leaner season.

Sleek, well-fed and rested, she stands, poised in silence, almost invisible in the meadow grasses. Catching sight of me, she startles and bounds effortlessly towards the woods, white tail flagging, beauty in motion, quickly gone.

It rises lazily, taking its time, lighting the treetops, bathing the meadows in white,

extinguishing stars in its brightness. Daylight, at midnight, stretches across the land.
True katydids call slowly in the chill, enunciating each syllable, "Ka-ty-did," "Ka-ty."
Tree crickets, mimicking spring's toad chorus, fill the fields with song, each trilling a different pitch.

Peace permeates the sanctuary tonight...nurturing, strengthening, enfolding...
Trail Wood beneath the harvest moon.

Transitions

He comes at evening, haltingly, tentatively, yet knowing the journey is worth the effort. Foraging is good beneath the feeders, but a turkey venturing into human territory must be wary. The hummingbirds are a study in contrast. Bold, daring, hardly hesitating in their approach, the ruby-throats are filling up at flowers and feeders before their own long journey south. Soon their little tummies will protrude and they will be gone.

It is seldom silent now. Snowy tree crickets, cone-head, bush and true katydids (plus others I do not know) fill the air with sound from dawn to dawn, different species singing at different times of day and night.  Of the birds, goldfinches are the most vocal. Recently fledged young beg incessantly, like the tinkling of tiny bells, from the sweet gum trees across the road. A few half-hearted calls from white-eyed vireos, Acadian flycatchers and eastern wood peewees punctuate the ever present residents' chorus. Chickadees chattering, titmice scolding, white-breasted nuthatches honking and cardinals chipping keep me company through the day.

Canada geese are feeding restlessly, leading their almost grown babies from field to field along the river. Soon the northern migrants will arrive, swelling the pressure on the recently harvested hay fields and farmers will begin estimating how many days of winter grazing will be lost.

Like moments of the water's stillness between the tide's going out and coming in, time feels like it has slowed down, almost to a stop during this transition time from late summer into autumn. Golden days invite me to rest into the rhythm of the earth, to witness the changes that provide for the life of the creatures around me, as they prepare for leaner days ahead.

Such a gift, to know something of the world around me, to be watchful and listening, attuned to the echoes of Creation...the gift of belonging.