Category: Nature

To Every Season

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
(Ecclesiastes 3:1, Pete Seeger 1950’s)

And all because the earth tilts a bit.

The truth as I know it is that while the turn of seasons is inevitable, nature has a contractual clause written in not-so fine print that says “subject to change”. Anticipated patterns can end in the unexpected. Visitors plan their trips to our ancient Pisgah Mountains and the Blue Ridge Parkway months ahead of fall’s scheduled arrival, hoping to catch the peak of a season landscaped in magnificent color. The season is sure to arrive, but nature’s rendering of color and the fullness of the leaf-bearing trees is dependent on rain, temperature, and winds.

This year the predictions of fall’s dramatic presentation have been cautious because of nature’s variables. When the fall calendar indicated the peak season should be arriving, the trees held back their spectacular showing. The ash and chestnut leaves began creating ground cover before the first cooling temperatures, while the red-toothed maples, and dogwoods, the divas of this fall’s fashion show, slowly began to provide the first peeks. Many of the yellows and gold held out for All Saints Day. I delight in whatever dabs of colors appear on nature’s canvas, while simultaneously pondering the reality that this grand presentation precedes nature being stripped to bare bones, creatures burrowing deeper, and birds migrating.

Today winds are pushing heavy gray clouds onto our mountains. Soon enough the clouds bring rain, the rain brings chill. Some bold leaves are holding tight, while plenty of limb-mates are letting go. I catch a view of a mighty oak in its orange blazer proclaiming “it’s not my turn”. When the sun’s performance is hidden behind this curtain, my thoughts take a turn towards the slow and reflective and I feel my world titling towards the moody. Befriending the day means looking for the unseen, unexpected revelation. Between yesterday and today the trees have been shaken and my horizon opens. I can now view the mountain ridges on three sides and give praise for the vision that will sustain me when this season departs. How About That!

fall mountains

 

A Harrowing Spider’s Tale

In my Western NC Mountain community, the signs of fall include Halloween settings – pots of golden yellow and orange chrysanthemums, bales of hay with a variety of pumpkins displayed; carved jack-o-lanterns, scarecrows, as well as signs of ghostly tales with giant black spiders draped on webs strung between shrubs and trees. My relationship with spiders can generally be summarized in the following personal statements: if I have seen one spider, I have seen them all (even if there are 35,000 identified species); there is not one good spider in the arachnid realm (even though left alone a single spider can remove all annoying insects in a house); it is reasonable to swat all spiders on sight (though this can be a sticky endeavor). Of course it is unreasonable to judge every spider by the fright of a black widow or brown recluse. I have no love for either and almost an irrational fear. Just one news blurb in the year 1973 about the disastrous results of one brown recluse hiding in the bottom of someone’s boot and I never take for granted my boots are uninhabited.

Therefore it is all the more surprising that I decided to allow an American house spider clinging to my kitchen window to take up residence in late spring. She remained beyond reach but close enough for careful observation. I wanted to see how she went about her days. Her web was hardly a web at all, rather a disarray of apparently useful silken threads – handy for hanging out and catching a casual insect visitor by surprise. When I opened the shade in the morning, I would discover such unsuspecting insects, often drawn to the kitchen light at night, rather precisely mummified at the spider’s pleasure. Other than watching for prey, this resident spider rarely cleaned house, though her poor eyesight with a distance vision of no more than three or four inches, may be a reasonable excuse. What you don’t see can’t bother you. I on the other hand could see all – except where the daddy spider came into the picture, I suppose only under cover of midnight. The facts are that spiders are completely solitary creature, living and feeding on their own. When ready for mating the male has to search out the rare sexually mature ready female and reach her before his competitors – competition is fierce. On five occasions from early summer to early fall my female created plump birthing sacs. Watching the translucent ballpoint pen sized spiderlings come to life was one of the more interesting observations. On each occasion activity around the sac took place over several days – and then one morning all would disappear. I did wonder where 100-400 arachnids – depending on survival rate – found their own residences.

Mid-way in the summer a second female spider took up residence at the opposite side of the screen and began a parallel life style – messy housekeeper focused on keeping the larder amply supplied with plenty enough insects to go around, periodically leaving a sac full of eggs. Now a possible 200-800 spiderlings found their way into the light of day on my kitchen screen. Though researchers say that the American house spider lives for about a year after reaching maturity, my astute granddaughter says there are about five eggs sacs in a season. Perhaps that is why five egg sacs later, just as October approached I was deep cleaning my own lair and noticed no sac activity, just two female spiders curled into a somewhat fetal position. Now my screen with its messy webs was ready for cleaning. One swipe and the oldest of the female spiders awakened from her stupor and dashed to the ledge. I thought she was deceased of natural causes and was as startled as she was. As it t turned out, I was caught in the act of evicting her. The second spider, however, showed no signs of life. With a quick calculation I surmised that five egg sacs plus four more from female # two could lead to an insurrection. However my spider tale does not end in speculation.

In preparation for fall, I took down webs and put out pumpkins, scare crows and mums. Early this week a new species of arachnid moved in without invitation and no sense of propriety– the back deck orb spider, the kind my daddy called writing spiders. We sighted the sudden appearance of an enormous web from roof line to railing just after sunset, a large visitor with long brown and green striped legs and a cross on its back, sitting bright and center ready for a night watch. Fascinated with its size, appearance, and web, we decided to leave the stunning spider in place for a good night’s catch. The following morning the creature seemed harmless enough to leave for 24 hours of observation and fact finding. How else can I overcome stereotyping a natural world rich with diversity or generalizing a threat from one spider to every spider? Early the next morning when I opened the back deck door to let our dog Kate out for a run, her fluffy coat and tail were suddenly dragging silken threads and I was eye to eye with the big mama spider scrambling for safety. I needed to plan a removal tactic, quick. With a stick in hand I pulled the web down from the gutter and the spider disappeared in a flash. Twenty-four hours later I pushed the door open and the spider appeared in my face within a breath’s reach, strung between door and siding, way too close for comfort. Using my heightened survivalist instinct, I swatted with a newspaper, and the spider and web instantly disappeared- until I felt its legs stretching out on my neck, right near the jugular. I have never practiced karate, but my actions were swift, hand chop from my neck to ground and one good stomp. Sorry, but it is true, I felt my life threaten, having read that the bite of an orb spider when it senses danger can be mean. Well so can mine.  Halloween at my house will go sans any sign of webs or spiders. I leave you with my one and only spider study and will henceforth leave all further spider observations to the eyes of the arachnologists.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parasteatoda_tepidariorum

How Spiders Work   https://animals.howstuffworks.com/arachnids/spider8.htm

24167-3

 

When the Waters Recede

Millions of colliding cloud particles shape a single raindrop. In a storm billions of raindrops fall in any square mile.  A persistent steady rain becomes a flood. A hurricane carries about 250 million tons of swirling water, creating a deluge that washes away the work and hopes of human hands, the flowers in the fields, the creatures foraging for a meal, every contaminant buried in soil.

We cannot justly rail against nature or beat back the waters. We can only hope and weigh the risks. Less the waters overwhelm us, we search for higher ground and turn to care for what is right at hand – a baby’s cry, a child’s hunger, and elder’s chill, a need for silence, a shoulder to share the burden, a welcomed embrace.  Never soon enough, the waters level their way back to their source, an ocean vast enough to absorb its tributaries. We take in the destruction with single drops of tears then a deluge of grief, while pulling out bits and pieces of lives left in the rubble.  Mystery and paradox abound in the sorrow, as we turn to water to begin to erase the layers of sludge. A single hand can barely move the shovel in the wake of such destruction, but we become a human force of nature, rebuilding dreams and possibilities together.

https://water.usgs.gov/edu

pouring rain

A Picture of Paschal Mystery

A quarter of a century has passed since a wise woman counseled me. “Pay attention to what happens in nature, as it often speaks to what is happening in your life.” A large white pine framed the house I cherished and its limbs embraced the lives of the family I loved. One sleepless, troubled night, I watched the tree silently topple, completely uprooted in the winds of a storm. That was the year of my great loss. I have spent decades observing nature, unfolding the revelation of signs and seasons, reading the messages that water, rocks, birds, flowers, mountain paths leave in place. From the time of my childhood, I have looked for signs of hope, strength, comfort, faith, and belonging, spending hours searching for a four leaf clover, or standing on the porch looking for a rainbow after the storm.  I have picked wildflowers for my mother as a sign of love, combed the shoreline at low tide for a sand dollar – the Holy Ghost shell – lying unbroken in the wet sand.

Several years ago as I climbed to the top of Stone Mountain, everything around me was alive with change. I used my camera to capture images that spoke of the great mysteries of life. Pictures often evoked wonder and creative imagination in my high school theology classes. At the center of my own faith pondering was the mystery of suffering, death, and resurrection. I had been trying to make sense of this experience since the death of my husband when I was too young and our four children too innocent to face such a devastating loss. That early spring morning on the side of the trail in layers of browned leaves, I saw the trunk of a tree, felled by a storm, a small limb creating a cross and the flower of a tulip magnolia lying in its center. Small green leafed plants had just begun to emerge. There in my path nature created an image of life’s paschal mystery, the ongoing reality of suffering, death, and resurrection. I snapped the picture and placed it into a folder of nature’s portrayals, filed but not forgotten.

This year I completed a spiritual memoir exploring my experience of discovering great love, profound loss, and new life, all the while making meaning of this mystery of suffering, death, and resurrection. Rebirthing Faith: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Resurrection can be purchased on Amazon Books. For those who experience your own search for truth and goodness in the face of suffering, I hope my story will provide a mirror for reflection. For those who continue to seek answers to the mysteries of living, I hope you too find meaning in nature’s ongoing revelation.

IMG_0211

Stories in the Clouds

July slips off the page and August is spinning. Recent heavy rains pressed stalwart purple cone flowers and yellow-eyed daisies to the ground. Stems no longer have the oomph to pick themselves up. Flower heads are quickly turning to seed, ready for a bird’s feast. Yellow and gold mums begin to appear in sun lit garden spots. Walnuts in heavy green husks fall from trees and the squirrels are running in circles. A waning summer saturates my senses.

On deliciously slow afternoons I ease onto my front porch rocker, a cup of mint, jasmine, or lady earl grey with lavender tea in hand, ready to watch the clouds write stories in the sky. On the blue story board, narratives unfold in subtle puffs, the main character always a giant of a figure – the Michelin man, a prehistoric flying fish, a fiery dragon with three hind legs, or a massive amoeba swallowing every creature in its path. The hero in the story can transform its powers with a passing breeze. The Michelin man sprouts wings; with a single wave the fish becomes a fleet of sea horses. Remember Poppin Fresh, the Pillsbury dough boy? He rides in on a magic carpet, warning of an impending storm. A clueless puppy flying on all fours plays nearby. My cloud stories have a Hallmark ending, every one playing nice with everyone else by the time it is over. Wait long enough or hardly any time at all, the scenery changes and another story begins. Nature promises an endless narrative.

cloud stories

Three Seasons for a Start

Another Winter’s hibernation, accepting
the weight of fallowed ground,
hallowed time of preparation, stirring
stews of possibilities; listening
for changes that could not come
fast enough; absence of light,
too much grey from the start.

~~~~~~~~~

Welcomed Sun springs on unsuspecting
days, delights drowsy waterlogged senses
with new greens, easter whites, lilies
lining the landscape with resurrection,
eager robins sitting curbside during
rainstorms waiting for earthworms
washed from freshly mulched lairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Summer storms its way in, drowning out
picnics and mountain hikes till lazy days
push up white clover fields; daisies
and cone flowers welcome butterflies,
crepe myrtle bloom with radiance; fireflies
spin like sparklers in the top of tall oaks,
faithful moon makes a showing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing still on a turning planet –
such an astonishing grand scheme.

crepe myrtle hathat

 

 

Springtime Animation

Spring appears at foot level in these high hills, welcoming the observant hiker. The starred chickweed at the lowest levels was the first to catch my eye; white and purple trillium, the delicate purples of wild geraniums, showy orchid, dwarf iris, trillium, I discovered the umbrella leaves of the may apple (not a tree though); the perfect white flower of bloodroot was at every section of the switchbacks; several leafy plants included the Virginia Pennywort, which is a rarity, and the Canadian waterleaf. One of our newest finds was bear corn (also called squaw root). After a winter of hibernation the bears are constipated, and they are eager to chew on bear corn, their spring laxative!

Spring has edged her way in, sprinkled with generous layers of snow and chilling the winds of change. Teased by an occasional unseasonably warm sun day, the earliest of azalea buds were among those caught by surprise. I daily reminded myself to keep watching; I wanted to see how nature unfolds in slow motion. I caught the neighbor’s aging maple gracing my window view with just the hint of red tipped buds; an incremental opening, delicate fan of new leaves – and now in a blink that tree is full, shutting out much of the mountain horizon. How I know that feeling – changes made in the blink of an eye. The rhododendron blooming bold and pink outside the guest room window draws the robins’ attention, and the robins’ draw the cats, Simone and Sinclair perched on the bedside table. They too keep eager watch. The lilac blooms and irises make a standing ovation. Another spring claims its space in my ever turning universe. The maple and I, we share another glorious season, a few more creaks in our limbs, as we bow to the welcomed applause.

spring stream side

Listening for the Sound

My granddaughter awakens in me a sensibility to the wonders of nature. When she was very young, she called me to stop on an afternoon walk in the neighborhood while she pulled up some stalks of timothy grass – to feed the sheep we might encounter around the corner. Our 1960’s neighborhood was tree lined with manicured lawns and a nearby greenway. We indeed encountered the occasional deer or fox; I have not yet seen the Easter lambs she wanted to feed. Yet just the wonder of it all, the anticipation, opens my heart.

She’s older now, nearly a teen, sharing with me what she learns in school. Speaking of a chorus class, she remarked that her teacher asked the question “What is your favorite sound?” Her answer, “Hi, Sam,” produced confusing stares among classmates. “And why?” “When I open the door to my mom’s house, I call “Hi, Sam”, and I hear the two cats, Sam and Dean, and two dogs, Malcolm and Hannah, running to greet me. I know I am home.”

I told her I wanted to write that question in my journal and think for awhile. What is my favorite sound? The rush of water, the splash of waves, the songbird, the humming in my heart when things are going right, coffee percolating in the early morning, the greeting of a friend or stranger that says I am not alone, the heartbeat of a drum, singing bowl, the sound of silence as the sun sets on the day?

An unavoidable cacophony of sounds creates the backdrop of any day – the flow of traffic, screech of tires, sirens, horns, hums of generators, clicking of keys. Without an intentional awareness, nature’s soothing intonations can be dismissed. Listen. Waves undulating all around with messages intended to alert, comfort, create anticipation, start a conversation or make a joy noise. What is your favorite sound?

sounds drum

What’s Your Winter Story?

A break in winter’s indisposition,
my boots back on the trail, slow
steady climb to Rattlesnake Lodge.
Satisfaction ripples through my body,
easing the stress of everyday worry.

I pause and lean into the warmth
of ancient boulders surrounded
by a forest of silent  sentinels –

unbending hardwoods, scattered
stands of pines, snarled branches
of mountain laurel, rhododendron green,
snapped limbs,  ample reminders
of the power of wind, plight of rock falls,
telling marks of splintered bark
what’s your winter story?

Dormant stillness belies determination;
even the resting roots are reaching for
nourishment before spring buds open.

winter trees

Reminders of a Heart’s Delight

 

Today
I watched love rise over the mountain,
sing from the branches of the aging maple,
course its way from mountain top to ocean.
I saw love sprouting in tights buds
and daffodil promises.
Tomorrow
love will bloom on the hillside,
rain from the heavens with a gentle touch,
green winter’s lawn with clover leaves of three.
I wake and walk in circles of love,
cherished words, human embrace,
memories shared, heart-to
heart.

daffodil heart