Iris and Beech

Irises abound at my new house. Eggplant purple, various combinations of purple and white, and pale blue irises have emerged over the past two weeks. Some of the stems topple under their own weight and then I cut them and bring them in the house or to work, where I get to admire them all day on my desk. The latest beauty to emerge is this yellow iris. 

Last night it was a bud. This morning it glowed in the sun. By the time I returned in late afternoon, it had fallen amidst the verbenas. 

I finally hiked to the natural area where you are supposed to have a permit (shh) to see the stand of old beeches. I walked carefully through periodic patches of poison ivy to the secret beeches. I found this one, half of which has a rotten heart yet still bears fresh green leaves. I lay under it for awhile, happy, and watched the water of Reedy Creek flow. 

Of Daffodils, a Concrete Bench, Courage and Grace

Early daffodils, most likely "Ice Follies"

In the last week or so, the early daffodils have been blooming. Daffodils look rather fragile, with their delicate nodding petals and soft spears of green leaves. But one week in January, I discovered a secret. 

Note part of concrete bench at top right.

My husband and I moved the concrete bench (see top right in the photo above). This bench is so heavy that both of us can barely lift the top for a few seconds, so we moved it in stages. Lift top slab. Lean against tree. Move one concrete pedestal. Move other concrete pedestal.

To my astonishment, under the second pedestal, yellow growing tips of daffodil leaves were poking through the soil.

Daffodils that were under the bench.  

Weeks later, I keep returning to reflect on the life force of these daffodils, at the energy with which they grew up through the earth. They could not feel the sun's warmth or see the light as they grew, but instinctively, blindly, courageously the plants grew, cell by cell. Their desire to be in the sun, to become the flowers they were meant to be, overcame the weight of a concrete bench.

I seek the courage of these daffodils, the energy, the love and the trust with which they grew despite heavy odds against them. How wonderful in this case to be the witness - and the accidental agent - of a small miracle. I think now of God's grace as the removal of an unmovable bench. My job is to keep growing without fear. 

A Gift of Robins

The days are getting longer and the morning's birdsong louder. I am returning to myself after months of clouded overwork. Today I saw the most beautiful sight I've seen for quite some time. Dozens of robins flew in and out of the hollies just outside the window, eating berries, perching on bare branches and drinking from the birdbath. I took photos, then put aside the camera and watched for a long time.

I've been praying for the grace of inner silence, to stop the endless videotape of thoughts about what happened yesterday and speculations about what's going to happen tomorrow. The robins, shimmering in the hollies as they fluttered their wings to balance while reaching for berries and flew from branch to branch, brought that silence.

As I continued to contemplate the robins, a bird with a black mask and yellow-tipped tail appeared out of nowhere. A cedar waxwing! I haven't seen one since childhood in Michigan, I think. The red markings on the wings match the holly berries. 

At work at the church this fall and early winter, I became lost in administration and words. Paper words, electronic words. For months, I failed even to fill the feeder outside my office window. I also failed to feed myself, with time in nature and the garden, time in stillness and observation of the life around me. But the days are getting longer,  and I am returning to the feast. 

A Day's Beginning and End

A mystery hibiscus along the driveway has leapt into bloom. It called me back into the house to get my camera and take photos before leaving for work. The blooms are as big as my hand. The red is spectacular - deep and clear and happy.

At the end of the day, a wicked thunderstorm moved through, assaulting the earth with wind and rain. I was trapped at the exit of the gym for 15 minutes with a small crowd, watching the angry torrents and thinking of extreme weather, global warming and apocalypse. 

By the time I reached home, a magical yellow light infused the sky. Hummingbirds flew at the level of treetops in the golden light.

Grace.

Pine Tree Praise

Father Brian Pierce spent years working with the Lenca Indians in the mountains of Western Honduras. One year he participated in a ritual in which the Indians, carrying pine boughs, processed through the mountains singing. They arrived at a church decked with pine boughs.

Father Brian, filled with curiosity, asked the shaman about the significance of the pine boughs. The shaman's eyes became wide and he said, "You mean you don't know?"

"If you listen long enough at the foot of a pine tree, you'll hear the pine tree singing to God."

Goldfinch on Coneflower

How many birds dance on the head of a coneflower? 

Only one that I've seen - the American goldfinch.

The male goldfinch, dressed in his brightest summer yellow, goes to some trouble to get the coneflower seeds.  He clings to the stem, digging deep into the head with his beak, while the stem sways with his weight.

The goldfinch moves from side to side of the flower, intently focused on getting to the seeds, and digging, digging with his beak. Perhaps this is why coneflowers look so ragged this time of year?

The goldfinch then moves to the patch where beebalm and coneflowers intermingle.  I admit that the seedheads are not attractive to a conventional gardener. But they provide food for birds - and also are sources of seedlings (free plants!). This is a reason I don't deadhead until early spring.

After much swaying on the stem and contorting his head, the goldfinch looks at the photographer.

Not to be outdone, the ruby-throated hummingbird shows up to feed on potted impatiens.

Some days I have waited for hours with the camera for birds to appear in a particular spot. Today, I expected to have no time to watch nature because I am crashing on a deadline for my thesis proposal. But I happened to be walking by the window, saw the goldfinch outside, and one thing led to another. 

A small grace. 

Tree of Life

Note: This post is featured in Festival of Trees #62, hosted by Kate Natick of Beyond the Brambles. 

I wish words could express, or a photo convey, the charm of fireflies glowing in the rain. The magic of watching fireflies dissipates as soon as I pick up the camera and try to track them through the viewfinder.  But perhaps it's best that many of nature's mysteries elude capture. It reminds us that we are not the center of everything, that wild things dance to music we do not hear.

Sometimes, if my heart is open, I hear the whispers of trees. The trees that speak to me are usually old, twisted, scarred or growing in unfavorable places. One young sycamore tree captured my heart last winter, and every few weeks I pay it a visit. It grows, appropriately, on New Hope Creek. I loved it before I ever saw it clothed in leaves, because it grows in solid rock in the middle of the stream.

The young sycamore tree speaks to me of resilience, of the will to live that thrusts its roots through rock to reach the water. It speaks of grace, of life that overflows in the most surprising places. It speaks of creativity, of abundance, of the love of a creator who wants life to flourish everywhere.