Autumn's Invitation

Wildly tossed in morning gales, 
encircled by autumn-tinted woodlands,
Indian grasses cavort in the meadow remnant,
backlit, as though touched by frost,
pearly seedheads, bowing and waving as I pass by.

Tinkling of chilly ground crickets
and hungry goldfinches seeking seed,
Cawing of crows, scolding jays,
Hidden white-throats rustling in the leaf layer,
Wind whispering through sleepy trees.

Autumn's invitation to pause, to breathe,
to ponder, to exult in this one moment I am given, 
in gratitude.

In the Time of Goldfinches and Hummingbirds

"Where do you want to be?" she asked. The veterinarian, who has become my friend, was here to release my old, beloved, little dog from her pain and the discomfort of a large, inoperable, abdominal tumor. My mind slowly numbing, I clutched at the reality that would allow me to bear the next few minutes well, and we went to the front porch. How many times, in how many seasons, have Mollie and I sat on that porch, soaking in the life around us?

These last few days, the tinkling begging calls of goldfinch young and the combative whizzing of hummingbirds have been the audible indicators that summer is waning. Through the open windows, I hear the reminders from early morning until after sunset, so eager are they to take in the nourishment they need to forge ahead into the next stages of their lives. Though Mollie could no longer hear, she watched their comings and goings so closely that I half-feared for the fate of any hummingbirds who swooped down too fearlessly, in their quest to figure out what she was.

As the three of us sat quietly together, I was filled with gratitude for life itself.  For the life of Mollie, for the life of my friend, for the life of the wild ones that surrounded and comforted us, for my own life, and for the life of the Spirit who was so near and present with us. The ancient Christian Celts believed that when God created the world, He did not create it out of nothing, but created it out of Himself and, as a result, they, and I, believe that He has mysteriously left bits of Himself, in all that is. Bits of Himself that connected Mollie and I to each other, during those last moments. Bits that connect me to the wild creatures and to the sources of nourishment that support them. 

Though deeply saddened at Mollie's passing, I know that in loving her, and in caring for and delighting in so many lives in this world...those of people, of wild and domestic animals, of birds and insects, of trees and forbs, I have grown and I have been deepened, through no effort of my own, other than the loving. May it be so for you.

Walking in Wonder

Right here, at the beginning of these musings, I will admit that I wish that all of my moments were spent in wonder, in the noticing what is right in front of me. They are not, however, and sometimes, to be honest, wonder is the farthest thing from my mind. Nevertheless, its invitation is always present, always beckoning, always the means of dropping the cares that consume me, if only for a short while.

Take right now, for example...a gentle rain is falling and, out my window, I can hear every drop pattering on the layer of dried leaves I laid down last fall. Sometimes, as I sit near this window, I hear birds scrabbling through the leaves, looking for worms and insects. Sometimes, in the night, tiny creatures move quietly to and fro in the midst of their nocturnal business. Occasionally, something louder...a opossum or raccoon ambles by, doing I know not what, affording me the opportunity to stop what I am doing and edge closer to the window to better listen to their rustling.

A few days ago, while walking to the nearby wetlands, I happened to look down at just the right moment to witness a mother snapping turtle  laying her eggs in the sandy shoulder of the road. I kept a respectful distance, and she seemed to not notice me, so consumed was she by the task at hand. The next morning, I walked the same route, and found that her egg laying efforts would produce no young turtles this year. Her eggs had been dug up and consumed by a predator, possibly the opossum or raccoons that come through my yard. Each soft, white egg had been torn in half and the contents slurped out, leaving only the broken shells behind, scattered like dried magnolia petals along the road.

On that same walk was a dead tree whose top had broken off some time ago, and only the lowest part of the trunk remained, a common enough sight where I live. This tree trunk, however, was dotted with myriad small, white specimens of shelf fungus, thriving on what had once been alive and was no longer. 

Like the broken turtles eggs that nourished some other being, like last year's dry leaves that carpet the earth, the dead tree and the thriving fungus reminded me of the ways of this world, ways that I don't want to accept or embrace, sometimes. Loss can lead to life, if we let it. It can lead to a new way of being alive, a new way of seeing the world and ourselves, even a new experience of gratitude. Having known loss numerous times...who lives to be my age without its presence...I look back, indeed with wonder, at its softening effects on my heart and soul. Would I have been as pliable without noticing the ever-present examples of transformation that the natural world offers? I think not. These examples are there for all who look and who stop, in their busyness, to pay attention. They are there, for you. May you heed and be enriched by them, as you go about your own life this day.

Leftovers

I did not set out to make a bouquet with these flowers. They were supposed to be part of an arrangement that, as it turned out, not only didn't need them, but looked much better without them. These flowers became the leftovers.

I have been thinking about living in the present moment, lately...about appreciating the rain, even after several days of showers; about letting go of my frustration as I fight my way through snarly traffic to travel most anywhere north of here; about willingly accepting the aches and pains that are a given part of my chosen vocation. While it is easy to embrace the moment when all things are going well, how much more challenging when such is not the case. During those seasons, when life is not as I might wish, I am coming to realize that there is an invitation in accepting what is, and that surrender often offers riches that I have surely been slow to appreciate. 

If you keep a garden, you are likely intimately aware that its conditions change over time and, that at least sometimes, you actually have very little control of what occurs there. Some plants you try are just not happy where you put them. Some run vigorously where you would rather they not venture, the moment your back is turned. Some newcomers appear, seemingly out of nowhere, and other faithful members suddenly disappear altogether. Is this not one of the intriguing mysteries of gardening, if we but admit it? What we would miss if we were able to direct the players and keep a tight rein on the production...the unexpected mingling of colors and textures, the good health of plants that have positioned themselves into conditions best for them, the joy of a tiny, unexpected seedling of a favorite flower. 

I have found that life also has a way of offering deep rewards on the other side of what can seem like chaos. Seeds of trust, sometimes barely alive, germinate when I least expect them. Paths that I would never have chosen lead to places that begin to seem like home. Questions that seem to have no answer become less pressing. Sometimes, what seem like the leftovers of my life end up providing the greatest opportunities for growth and self-discovery. I am gradually learning that, through the meanderings and the twists and turns, beauty evolves, as surely as in a bouquet of leftover flowers.

Finding God

The light is slowly fading and dusk is soon is at hand as I sit on my front porch, listening to the end-of-day chorus of Carolina chickadees, titmice, cardinals, a Carolina wren, and a few remaining white throats. Perched in the tall trees surrounding the house, the Cope's grey tree frogs are noisily tuning up and soon I'll hear the bullfrogs in the nearby wetland, as well. The temperatures are cooling and it is time to sit and rest from the hot and sweaty, but immensely satisfying, earlier labor of planting tiny trees in the back section of the yard. All of them, flowering dogwood, red maple, black gum, red oak, and persimmon, began as seeds I collected and sowed in a propagation bed a couple of years ago, though I wasn't exactly sure what I would do with them once they germinated. 

As I sit in gratitude for the fragrances and songs of evening, I am pondering my work in the world, and in the local landscape in which I live...my life's work, really. Though, for these last few years, we have been so fortunate to live in a large swath of woodland, protected by federal scenic easements, I cannot help but embrace a sense of responsibility to this land and to the creatures who live here. Planting for insects, for pollinators of all kinds, for caterpillars who become the foundation of resident and migrant bird populations has become second nature. Planting native fruit and nut bearing tree and shrub species, though I may not live here long enough to see them bear, provides me the deep joy of knowing that the day will come when the local wildlife will benefit from my seeding experiment.

Recently, I was talking with my spiritual director (which is a topic for another day) and she asked me what I most want to do in life. And, without thinking, I blurted out, "I want to walk in the woods and plant things." And so, without really meaning to, I have come to live out my life's work one day at a time. And in living out that work, I have come to know God in the way that is most natural to me.  The ancient Celts believed that God did not create the world out of nothing, but that creation flowed out of Himself, thereby imparting a bit of God in all that is. I find a deep peace in recognizing not just His work, but that bit of Himself, in the woodlands around me, in the soil into which I put my hands, in the whispers of the wind and the frogs who will sing me to sleep tonight. 

May you, as you pay attention to what is around you, find Him too. 

Gratitude for the Fleeting

In the busyness of your life, of all of our lives, how long has it been since you stopped what you were doing, let go of what you were pondering, set aside your worries and fears and, even just for a moment, drank in the Spring? 

How long has it been since you walked outside your door with no other purpose than to breathe in the fragrances of new growth and moist earth? To listen to bird song, even if you don't know who is who? To notice the seemingly unlimited hues of green that change day by day, right now? To notice the miracle of tiny leaves that seem to grow larger overnight? To welcome this year's new generation of lightening bugs that are twinkling in the night, somewhere nearby?

If there were ever a time to practice noticing, it is now. I encourage you to spend some time outside with no other purpose than just to see what you can see. What might call to you? What might catch your attention and draw you into wonder? 

As I walk our roads lately, I have been reminded of how ephemeral is spring. Maple trees that were crowned with red flowers a few weeks ago are now covered with jaunty red seeds. Pawpaws, that a few days ago sported only their curious deep-purple flowers, are now sprouting tiny, shiny leaves, soon to be food for zebra swallowtail caterpillars. Sassafrases that were almost invisible among the other trees when bare, now boast tufts of fuzzy chartreuse flowers, similar to the green of newly unfurling beech leaves. Black cherries have surprisingly deep pink stipules, at the base of each leaf stalk, present only until the season progresses into summer.

This year, I am reminded that spring, like life itself, is not to be taken for granted. Do you remember that line in Sound of Music, "How can you hold a moonbeam in your hand?" Spring is like that. We can't keep it. We can't even slow it down and therein lies its invitation. It invites us into appreciation for the moment, into joy in the temporary and, into gratitude to the God who lives and moves among all Creation.

Regeneration

Is there any sound more welcome than the trilling of toads on this soft, damp, still-dark morning? Except, maybe, the peepers calling in the background, exuberant in the genesis of another spring, having survived the sudden freeze of last week….as did we all.

Or is it the cardinals’ spring whistle, beginning before first light, before all other birds, the solo that rises above the amphibian chorus, soon joined by the chickadees’ counter-melody, high-pitched, sweet notes sung before dawn?

Or, perhaps, the chattering of the red-wings’ congregation, at the feeders and in the bare trees surrounding the house, waiting, as they are for the signal that spurs them towards the marsh and this season’s new reproductive urges.

Tiny, winged, samara cover the red maples, splashes of crimson against the grey of the still-bare woodlands, having defied the recent killing freeze. We lost the magnolia blossoms to its chill, and the early-blooming fruit trees but, the maple flowers, and their pollen, somehow survived. Overhead, their seeds, as testimony to resilience, perhaps, now dance in the slightest breeze.

In the woodlands, I rejoice in the blooming toothwort and spring beauties. Shall I also welcome the subtle beauty of weeds in the grass and at the edges of my garden beds? Purple deadnettle and henbit, blue speedwell, and the white chickweed and hairy bittercress have vigorously sprung to life, laughing at the chagrin of gardeners who believe they own the plots they tend. What is the mysterious awakening mechanism that drives them, their seeds germinating in the dead of winter, plants that flourish in the cold, and now offer their nectar and pollen as one of the few available food sources for newly emerged and hungry bees? Who am I to deny their value?

Beneath what can seem like just another late-March day in the meandering procession towards the longed-for spring, today holds an invitation to gratitude and to wonder at each step of the new season's unfolding. It offers opportunity to step out of our "every day" lives and to sink into moments of noticing the life around us, and in so doing, perhaps, noticing the life within us, as well.

Something to Do While We're Waiting

Do you remember that old Mr. Roger's song about patience? He sang "Think of something to do while you're waiting. While you're waiting, think of something to do." That sentiment so describes my need right now. Most any gardener, or naturalist, for that matter, finds this time of year a lean one, and this year is even more difficult. We had that teasing taste of spring a week or two ago...enough to cause early fruit trees and magnolias to flower and spring peepers, wood frogs and American toads to awaken and commence their mating songs and activity...And then the bottom dropped out. The flowers froze and, this year, there will be no fruit on those trees or berries on the magnolias. What of the frogs and toads, and the eggs they laid when it was warm? Will there be new generations? Did the parents live through the sudden cold? And what became of the nectar and pollen of the red and silver maples that were flowering at the time of the freeze, first food of the season for bees?

We humans had warning of the coming freeze, and time to make preparations. In my case, that meant a mad dash to plant three new crabapple and two plum trees while I could. In time, the crabapples will form a protective thicket, with plenty of autumn and winter food for any birds that want it. Thanks to the squirrels, we may or may not ever harvest any plums for ourselves, but the leaves will be hosts to various butterfly and moth species who need that genus for reproduction.

In the midst of ice and snow, I realized it was time to start seeds for the spring that I still expect to come, at some point. I sorted through packages of cool season lettuces, kale, spinach and dill, warm season tomatoes, various peppers and lots of flowers, choosing as many as I could fit into my trays and enjoying the feel of dirt on my hands, once again. And thanks to a new propagation arrangement, I had a place to put them afterward, where I can watch those seeds grow into healthy and stocky young seedlings, ready to set out at the proper time. Like the dormant fruit trees, seeding promises hope for the future and stirs the weary imagination into remembering the colors, fragrances and tastes that are yet to come. 

The morning is sunny and the beginning of warmer days ahead and on my early walk, a multitude of robins were singing away, as if spring's temporary setback was just that...a temporary setback. I am watching downy and red-bellied woodpeckers at the suet, cardinals, red-winged blackbirds, chickadees, titmice, white-breasted nuthatches and goldfinches at the feeders and myriad blue jays, crows, white-throated sparrows and squirrels where I have scattered seed and corn, up the hill. I sometimes envy their lack of human ability to look ahead, to fret and worry over what is or is not going to happen, their ability to live fully in the moment, because they know no other way to live. 

And at the same time, I am grateful for promise and for imagination and for being able to plan ahead, after all. I am grateful to be able to sit indoors in the company of potted plants, to dream of flowers and butterflies and bees and to think about what else I can plant for them. I am glad to look forward to the woodcocks resuming their mating flights over the fields nearby, and to hope for the frogs to resume their choruses, when the time is right. While I intellectually know that winter will not last forever, this time of year I need these experiential reminders that it is so. Soon the blessings of new growth and warm breezes, of the fragrance of the earth's awakening and the buzzing of wings will, indeed, come again. May it be soon.

Beneath the Surface

I find late winter, whether it be uncharacteristically warm or unbearably frigid, challenging. My internal store of reminders about the land’s need for cold and rest is about used up. My aesthetic appreciation for the naked woodland’s structure is wearing thin, as is my earlier delight in the myriad grey and brown birds of the season. Amid the drabness of titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, white-throats, song sparrows, mourning doves, and juncos, the astonishing color of blue-jays and male cardinals and bluebirds, seem a thoughtless mistake…or, perhaps, a bit of grace.

And so, in response to the challenge, out I go, a needy seeker longing for late winter’s assurance that spring will come, despite what my senses might initially lead me to believe. I am not disappointed for, as John Muir wrote, “In every walk with Nature, one receives far more than he seeks.” In my case, even with the ground frozen and high winds roaring overhead, I fill a page with observations, writing with chilled, almost immobile fingers, by the end of my excursion.

Working from just beyond the back door, and out into the yard I find plant shoots determinedly emerging, not far out of the ground it is true, but up and ready to spring into exuberant new growth once temperatures are reliably warm enough. Garden phlox, black and brown-eyed Susans, short-toothed mountain mint, smooth beardtongue and arrow-leaf aster are all sprouting an inch or two of green through the previous season’s still-in-place stalks. Short new blades of Pennsylvania sedge peak through last years dried ones, and moss grows abundantly in and through the grass. Tucked under last autumn’s dried leaves, the green foliage of spring blooming Jacob’s ladder, foam flower, golden ragwort, and creeping phlox promise the bright blues, pinks and yellows that I am so missing on this winter day.

Wildlife that remains through the winter is active as well, though finding its evidence sometimes requires more diligent searching. Beetles and borers tunnel just under the bark of dead or fallen trees, in turn drawing in a variety of woodpeckers, who are happy to find and feast upon them. Soft ridges and ripples undulating through the yard are the work of moles, invisibly expanding their feeding tunnels in search of worms and ground dwelling insects, active just below the frost line. Inconspicuous holes in dried mullein stalks are evidence of downy woodpeckers and chickadees, who probe for insect eggs and larvae as part of their winter diet. Goldfinches forage on spiny seed balls high up in sweet gum trees and ground-feeding juncos eat from sycamore seeds that have drifted softly, like snowflakes, down into the grass, often overlooked by human eyes. Here and there, I find small caches of corn, stashed in the grass, by whom, I do not know. Crows perhaps? Maybe squirrels? Possibly blue jays…Winter riddles.

It is at this feeling-empty time of year that I most need to push myself outside and into noticing. I don’t need to leave my yard if I don’t feel like it, for the busyness of winter life is everywhere. Searching is a bit like pilgrimage, a journey made to some sacred place, for it is in the seeking that I find evidences of Life, and of God, just beneath the surface.

February's Invitation

Stillness at sunrise, winter's quiet breath,
rosy horizon and blanketing snow.
Winterberry brightening the season's grayness as

quince and magnolia buds burgeon bravely in the cold

Silence interrupted by the day's beginning...
conversational crows straggling in from their across-the-river roost.
Titmice' single note calls and a red-shouldered's cry,
woodpeckers drilling in the distance and goldfinch's

soft squeak on sycamore balls.

The world roils.
But here, sweet gums against the sky.
Peace...
Shall I not take it?

Ruin or Restoration?

If you have ever created a garden from the ground up, these thoughts will be familiar. If you have ever worked to bring a cut-over patch of woodland back to health, or labored over a newly planted meadow you already know the dedicated labor and watchfulness required. Living in the social upheaval of our times, and wondering how to bring good out of what seems like chaos, I offer these observations of effective regeneration in the natural world, hoping that principles found there can provide guidance for the human social order, as well.

A few years ago, I was charged with creating a half-acre children's garden from a sloped pasture that had been grazed for as long as anyone could remember. In October, a friend and his tractor plowed three, 100 X 30 ft long beds, the first pass to break up the sod, and a second some weeks later to weaken what grass remained in the clods, hoping that winter cold and drying would finish killing it off. Afterwards, we invited visiting students into the garden, to work the soil with shovels and hoes, pulling out still-living weeds and a large quantity of rocks and, by spring, we were ready to plant and heavily mulch the sections of the garden that were to be in use. In the ensuing years, sections of the garden that were not needed for crops became spots where students learned to use gardening tools, thereby keeping weeds at bay. As the garden caretaker, I was there most every day, keeping an eye on the condition of the planted beds - weeding and watering as needed, picking insect pests off of plants, and doing all that I could to keep what we had created in good order. Over time,however, that job became more taxing, as new weed seeds were introduced from the manure and compost that was brought into the garden, and as pests discovered the bonanza of food to be had there. I continually needed to assess my strategies and make adjustments, as conditions dictated.

A couple of years ago, after moving to the house where we now live, I laid down groundcloth and mulch to kill off some sod in our back yard, wanting to create raised beds for propagating native plants. After some months the sod had died off and, expecting to have a blank canvas in which to cultivate the species I planted, I sowed the seeds in late fall, carefully labeled each row, and promptly turned my back on the beds, knowing that those seeds would not germinate until the following spring. In other words, I got lazy. To my chagrin, if not complete surprise, by early spring the beds had been overrun with chickweed and hairy bittercress, cool season weeds that germinate during the winter, and ground ivy, a pernicious trailing perennial that regrows from the tiniest pieces of root or stem. Had I been more watchful, had I mulched between the rows of sown seeds, and I been prepared to remove weeds as they became obvious, I would now have a more productive propagation garden. 

A generation or two ago, when woodlands were cut or single trees happened to fall, the newly opened area eventually filled in with the same native tree and shrub species that were already in place. The native seed bank present in the soil allowed for a new crop of trees and shrubs to germinate and begin their journey towards becoming a mature forest.  New seedlings would jockey with each other, vying for space and sunlight, until some would win out and grow on into the canopy, while others, better suited to living in the shade, became the understory and shrub layer.  Such is not the case in many parts of the eastern United States, any longer. Because of the arrival of exotic species that overrun and choke out native ones, forest regeneration is fraught with setbacks and frustrations. As an example, three Decembers ago, our next door neighbor, in defiance of a Park Service scenic easement, clear cut a portion of the woods that obscured his view of the river. Giant yellow poplars and various oak species came crashing down, and were eventually cut into logs, left to lay on the ground. Now, amid and between the logs, Oriental bittersweet, Japanese honeysuckle and English ivy have taken advantage of the light, growing vigorously, each ready to strangle newly emerging tree seedlings. Now, ground that that was once was shaded, is covered with opportunistic Japanese stilt grass, which exudes a substance from its roots that inhibits the seed germination of other species, thereby limiting growth of a healthy herbaceous ground layer.  

In contrast, I know woodland owners who carefully steward their properties, removing invasive vines, working to keep stiltgrass under control and thinning out vigorous native tree species that threaten to overrun slower growing ones on their way to creating an arboreal monoculture. In these landowners' desire to recreate the healthy forests of long ago, they must contend, not only with overly aggressive vines and herbaceous weeds, but also with damaging populations of deer and new tree diseases and insect pests that threaten wide swaths of existing woodlands. These stewards know the need to be vigilant, to provide protection from forces that would negate their best efforts, to nurture both the newly growing and already established forest populations that hold promise.

How might these botanical examples speak to the social needs of our nation, at the moment? I am not a sociologist, but a few seem self-evident. When starting from scratch, or working to rebuild what is damaged, a few precautions will help to grant long term success. If we know what to expect, we can develop plans for countering counter-productive assaults. If we have well-developed goals in mind, we can proactively take steps to steps to limit the damaging forces that might try and destroy what we attempt to create. If we are students of whatever the situation we are trying to rectify, we can learn how to nurture the components that are the most necessary to the health of the whole we are attempting to build. 

As important as those tactics might be, we each need to look to and ask ourselves... What damaging attitudes do I harbor that might overrun my efforts to work with others?  What aggressive threads of self-interest might be lurking beneath my awareness, threatening to choke out the progress I hope to make? What are my natural gifts and sensitivities, those that I can joyfully employ in the bettering of the world in which I live and work? Restoration of any kind is long and arduous work but, when approached with wisdom and determination, the results are satisfying and life giving.  May we all find our place in this seemingly new world in which we live, and contribute our best selves for its highest well-being.

Juxtaposition

Some thoughts from a few years ago, applicable today.

The seasonal, penetrating cold has returned and, as I looked out on the yard recently, I was surprised to see two bluebirds dropping into the winterberry bushes, foraging on the berries. I see them on my walks and know that they stay the winter, living on the various berries they find and what insects they can glean from the fields but I have not seem them visit my yard in January up till now. Just behind them was a red-bellied woodpecker eating from the suet cake and peanut feeder and I was struck by the contrasts in the two bird species... one larger and one smaller, one rather drab and one vibrant blue, one eating from a man-made food source and one from what the bushes naturally provide. Both were welcomed with what sustenance my yard could offer and both stayed a while and then moved on, leaving only memories behind.

The words “In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone” are from of one of my favorite Christmas carols, though the images portrayed hit closer to home during these couple of months after Christmas. The earth is hard and frozen right now and it takes all the imagination I can muster to believe that anything will ever spring from it again. And yet even as I look out on the barren landscape I am working on a program about gardening with native plants that includes numerous photographs of gardens ablaze with color. Many of the slides are of my own yard and I am again surprised at what the earth holds beneath its now-unyielding surface. Today snow is in the forecast and to those not botanically minded its coming might seem to forestall the promise of spring's re-blooming. To gardeners, however, snow is welcomed as an insulating blanket, protecting the life that lies in waiting until the time is right to emerge once again.

I sometimes think about seasons of grief and anguish in the same way. The times that seem so hopeless and forlorn can hide away in their depths the seeds of new vision and renewed purpose. Though those seeds seem deeply buried, when the time becomes right and conditions become favorable they stretch out and grow into something unexpectedly glorious if we give them a chance. I was reminded of this contrast during a recent discussion about the relationship between grief and bitterness... an inverse relationship, I should add. I have become convinced that the more genuinely and the more deeply we allow ourselves to grieve our losses and our pain, the more likely we are to come through them with hearts still soft and spirits free from bitterness. It is into such hearts that peace returns and wholeness is restored. If we allow Him, God will come to us in our grief as we admit that we have no control over events or hurts that so affect our lives. Bitterness, on the other hand, pushes God away. It is our vain attempt to deny how seriously we have been wounded and in its determination to protect us from being in such a fearful position ever again, it poisons and imprisons us.

The choice of how we respond to pain is ours alone to make. And in the choosing, unbeknownst to us, we turn towards life in its fullness or a slow erosion of the spirit. Grieving causes us to be confronted with just how vulnerable we really are in this world and yet, in a mysterious juxtaposition, it can bring the freedom to become who we have been created to be. Grieving, and its companion Forgiveness, are the only remedy to a life of bitterness and hardness of heart. Together they create the fertile soil that nourishes our soul and the beauty that lies within us, waiting to be reborn.

In the Company of Beeches

Beneath the canopy of giants, young and older beeches fill the understory along the trail that runs to the river.
Everywhere, warm tans soften the gray of this raw and rainy winter day, persistent dry leaves whispering in the wind, 

fallen ones cushioning the raindrops that patter against the forest floor.

Great craggy white oaks soar skyward, golden-crowned kinglets and nuthatches searching the loose bark for hidden grubs and overwintering insects.

Mosses skirt the yellow poplars' flanged bases, creeping like fuzzy green stockings along the massive trees' long and winding toes.

Above, red-headed woodpeckers work the dead trees and yellow-bellied sapsuckers the live ones.

Food for all, near at hand, free for the finding.

Below, throngs of white-throats forage in the duff layer beneath the shrubs, disguised in the dry leaves, darting to and fro, like so many winged mice, too intent on their quest to notice me.

Oh, to be a member of this quiet, enfolding community, surrounded by unpretentious beauty in all seasons...roots entwined, branches interlaced, mysterious communication beneath the earth-one species to another, no awareness of the human folly beyond its borders.

Like the imaginary dwellings of my childhood, secret spaces beneath sweeping branches, hidden from the rest of the world, the sanctuary to which I turn when in turmoil...

Peace in the company of beeches.

Hope

Rainy, soggy January interlude before the coming freeze,
not what I would call a beautiful day.
But, here I am alive, with faculties to search out beauty
and the bit of green I need to make it until spring.
With chilled hands, cold water running down my back,
I part the leaves to find the treasures.
Foamflower, Jacob's ladder and Virginia waterfleaf,
vibrant against the browns,
winter no match for their tenacity. 

It doesn't look like much, a dried-up flower stalk from a small, last-season planted oak-leaf hydrangea,
reminder of what was and what will be.
Memory stirs imagination to recall the late-summer brightness in the shady shadows of my front yard.
Last to put out new leaves in spring, 
reminder that beneath all appearances,
we hope not in vain.

A few tiny, almost insignificant, catkins,
first of this hazelnut's young life.
Enough to pollinate the even
more obscure female flowers as they open,
a few months from now?
No matter, for growth happens at its
own pace, in its own time. Sometimes faltering, 
sometimes subject to forces beyond its control,
always moving toward the promise of fecundity,
sending its offspring out into the world.