Welcoming Change

February in Indiana was long and cold and very white. After a relatively balmy January, a parade of winter storms marched across the country, and the Arctic wind blew long and hard over the waters of Lake Michigan. The temperature plummeted as the snow piled higher and higher. I shivered and shoveled my way through the month with the consolation that at least I didn't live in Boston...

And then all of the sudden it was March. Within the span of one warm week the snow disappeared into the ground. Although the initial color change was welcome, the muted shades of mud brown and dried leaf eventually blurred together. 

During this in-between season, I was enrolled in an online photography course called "Everyday Magic", which forced me to stretch my mind beyond the damp, dull surface of my surroundings. I was pleasantly surprised to see beauty in places I never expected to find it...

Sometime during the month of April, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the grass in the yard turned from khaki to emerald... 

...and succulent pastel colored shoots began to emerge from the jet black dirt.

New leaves unfurled along bare brown branches...

...as droplets of rain coalesced in their folds like tiny precious jewels.

Fair weather clouds drifted across the bright blue sky...

...while a burst of stunning colors and shapes decorated the ground below.

The cold, blank canvas of February seems like a distant memory to me now, replaced by this technicolor landscape I dreamed about and longed for only two months ago. But just yesterday I noticed the daffodil petals in the front yard are already wilted and fading, a reminder that everything changes. At the end of the long winter during that time of in-between, if I weary of snow white, mud brown and faded leaf, may these colorful memories give me faith in that eventual first glimpse of a new spring.

Through Space and Time

Driving across this vast and beautiful country is like watching the ever shifting canvas of a landscape painting brought to life. 

The low-angled autumn sun strikes the slopes and plains with a luminous glow, intensifying the colors of the changing leaves and dried vegetation. 

A diversity of geologic forms and textures undulate into and out of view as they tell their stories of creation and destruction. 

Drifting clouds decorate the wide blue sky with shades of gray, occasionally obscuring the bright white bulb of the sun.

Mirrored in the lakes and rivers are impressions of a deep blue watery world where trees and mountains ripple in the wind.

The hand of humankind is evident across the blacktopped roads and gently curving wooden snow fences, on the faces of history carved into stone, by the blanket of crops and scattering of cattle, and in the buildings and towns that rise above the horizon.

Each of us at the intersection of past, present and future, moving through space and time, counting down the hours and the miles as we marvel at the miracle of it all.

Lambs Canyon, near Park City, Utah

Along I80 passing through Rock Springs, Wyoming

Late afternoon outside Casper, Wyoming

The Black Hills of South Dakota

Mt. Rushmore

Custer State Park

Sylvan Lake

Rapid City, South Dakota

Where the Great Plains and the Badlands meet

Badlands National Park

Near Alden, Minnesota

Naperville, Illinois

On the Verge

The transition from summer into fall out West has become one of my favorite times of year. After months of heat and dryness under the glare of the California sun, subtle changes begin to occur. Right around the same time the sunflowers and bumper crop of tomatoes start showing up at the farmer's market, the nights get noticeably cooler. A lightweight blanket on the bed starts to seem like a good idea. Windows open up earlier in the evening and stay open longer in the morning. And then one day it happens...

I walk out my apartment door at noon, bracing myself for the blast of heat waiting on the other side. And instead I'm greeted by the pleasant feeling of fresh air with a hint of ocean humidity. The breeze even has a little bit of a cool edge to it. Moments like this feel amazing, especially when they come as a surprise.

This is the time of year that teaches us how to savor. We can't help but enjoy completely everything the world has to offer. Thickly sliced tomatoes layered with basil and fresh mozzarella, ears of sweet corn dripping with butter, ripe peaches and juicy watermelon. Bouquets of cheerful early fall sunflowers, vivid zinnias and stunning dinnerplate dahlias, which all seem so much more colorful and hardy than their early summer relatives. They grew through the heat and will stand until the frost, helping to celebrate the harvest time that precedes the long, cold winter. 

We can also savor those last days of Indian summer, because we know they won't last. Soon the vegetables will all be picked, some of them canned or frozen to eat throughout the coming winter. Soon the trees will start to change their colors and the first cold rain of fall will soak the ground. And eventually, the snow will return.

But not today. Today the sun feels warm and the bright faces of the sunflowers shift as they watch its glow trek across the blue sky. There are peppers waiting to be picked, cucumbers to pickle and a seemingly endless supply of squash to share. And in the evening when the sun goes down and there's a chill in the air, it might be the perfect night for a fire in the backyard. On the verge of fall, it's possible to enjoy the best of both worlds - cherishing the end of one, while welcoming the newness of the next, reminding us yet again that the only constant in life is change. 

Come Rain or Shine

We've been famously short on moisture here in California recently, with 2013 now having the distinction of being the driest year on record. According to tree ring comparisons, climatologists say it may also have been the driest year in five centuries. But no amount of statistical analysis can make a dent in the rainfall deficit.

The drought makes for compelling headlines to accompany shocking images of vastly shrunken water reservoirs and dire predictions of produce price spikes and shortages. Farmers are planting 200,000 less acres this season and in an effort to prevent disease and insect infestation, tens of thousands of mature drought-stressed almond trees are being ripped out of the ground. But while these stories generate sympathy and discussion, they too cannot produce any rain. No amount of knowledge, research or prediction will - all we can do is wait.

On the clear days, I sit outside on the deck in shirtsleeves soaking up the midday sun with a chilled glass of wine and a salad. The weather is perfect for tackling yard work - warm with just a hint of breeze. We rake up dried leaves and cut down dead limbs, hauling everything to a burn pile at the back of the property. I mow the lush green lower part of the yard, where what little rain we've had tends to settle. The scent of narcissus and daffodils rise up around me as I wage my never-ending war against the weed sprouts in the flower beds.

On the infrequent rainy days, I huddle up on the couch under a fleece blanket in my warmest pajamas with a bowl of hot chili. Low gray clouds hide the mountain peaks out the living room window as droplets pelt the skylight above my head. I catch up on my reading while the cat naps in my lap and when the rain really starts coming down I pause to admire the sheer white curtains of moisture drifting across a backdrop of dark tree trunks in the neighbor’s yard. The fire in the wood stove burns all day long as I feed it pieces of the oak trees we cut down last spring.

They say we will not get enough rain the rest of this season to make up for the past few months of sun. Towns around the state need to ration water and so people should expect fewer showers, parched gardens and dirtier cars. No one dares to talk about wildfire season yet. Instead we talk about forecasts and miracles, hoping each new inch that falls will take us closer to that mythical yearly average.

In spite of all the worries and fears, I find myself appreciating more these days. The hot sun on the back of my neck in the middle of winter. The daffodils that sprouted and bloomed despite the lack of moisture. But most especially, those glorious days when the clouds gather and darken overhead, releasing their precious moisture. I breathe in the smell of damp earth as I walk around the yard with my camera, trying to capture the ephemeral beauty of the fallen rain.

Everything Changes

“When you open yourself to the continually changing, impermanent, dynamic nature of your own being and of reality, you increase your capacity to love and care about other people and your capacity to not be afraid."
-- Pema Chödrön

You've probably heard the saying "the only constant is change", but how many of us let that truth really sink in? So much of the fear, anger and pain manifested in this world comes from not fully accepting this reality. I'm not saying that it's an easy thing to do, or that people who don't accept it are wrong or bad. But as with any fundamental truth of human existence, when we argue with it we will lose - every time. How frequently and for how long are the only variables.

I'm beginning to think that acceptance is the key. Not to happiness exactly, nor to never feeling fear, anger or pain again. It's the key that opens the door to whatever comes next. When I accept my reality for what it is without all the blame and judgement (aimed at others, at God, but also especially at myself) I gain the ability to see more clearly the path that is in front of me. We cannot navigate freely into the future by constantly looking through the lens of the past. What has happened cannot be undone and what is to come is wholly unknown, and therefore directly influenced by each choice we make from this moment to the next and beyond.

"The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.” 

-- Howard Zinn

Change, acceptance, choices - three forces that will dance in lockstep with each of us throughout our entire life. This concept can seem overwhelming at times, even daunting. Especially when the change is particularly jarring and choices appear to be undesirable or nonexistent. This again is where acceptance comes in. I've had to get over the idea of equating acceptance with liking or condoning the situation. I used to think that if I didn't resist that which offended me, I would just give up or give in. But what I missed in all of this was that by resisting, my perception of the whole situation was blurred and so any solutions or alternatives I might try to apply were incomplete. In order to accept my present circumstances, I've had to cultivate a lot compassion and patience, particularly for myself. I am, as they say, my own harshest critic.

With patience, compassion and an absence of judgement, the world is a much kinder place than I once perceived it to be. I realize that I may not get to where I thought I was going, but everything changes and when I accept that fact, I see choices open up to me that I did not notice before. When I begin to feel fear and apprehension, I will meet those thoughts with compassion and wait patiently for them to dissolve. Slowly, slowly, I am returning to myself and I find that by doing that, I am better able to embrace the gifts I have been given and then share them with the world.

"Dissolution is needed for new growth to happen. One cycle cannot exist without the other."

-- Eckhart Tolle

One September Day

Autumn arrived on the afternoon breeze.

I heard it approach as it threaded
Through the tops of the dusky gray pines
Lacing between their densely needled boughs
With the lilting ebb and flow of a hushed roar.

It softly touched my cheek before slipping
Down the length of my bare arms
Taking with it any trace of accumulated heat and dust
As a coolness spread across my skin.

The scent of the sea was carried in its gusts which swept
From the coast and across a wide valley to these hills
Conjuring memories of damp salt tinged days
Along the cloudy shores of Monterey.

I watched it glide through the weary oaks who sighed
As they released their pale summer scorched leaves
Lofting them into the reinvigorated air
To celebrate the moment the world changed.

Life in Bloom

August is a brittle, dusty month in the California foothills. All the wildflowers have long since gone to seed and the once lush green stands of grass now glow with golden yellow light, their stems rustling in the hot afternoon breeze. During the monsoon season when thick, billowy cumulonimbus clouds pile high on the mountain tops, only a few storms will stray down to lower elevations. More often than not, they bring with them wind and lightning, but precious little rain. Even the native trees and shrubs take on an ashen pallor, stalling their growth to divert all their efforts into simply surviving.

Earlier in the summer, a multitude of long thin leaves sprouted in patches along the lower parking area in our yard. I was charmed by the presence of such vibrant life bursting out from the layers of last year’s sharp, crisp oak leaves. As the weeks passed, the leaves turned leathery and yellow, eventually curling into wisps of plant fiber. I lamented the fact that the plants never had a chance to bloom, but was not willing to haul buckets of water down the driveway multiple times a week.

Imagine my surprise when almost a month later, out of the arid August ground began to emerge fleshy slender stalks topped by thick pink buds. It turns out the Belladonna amaryllis, a native of South Africa, requires a period of dry dormancy between leaf growth and flower production. Within days the pale green tips peeled open and clusters of trumpeting flowers erupted forth, wafting their sweet scent around the barren yard. They stood tall and proud, defying logic and daring me to utter one more complaint about the heat or the lack of moisture at this time of year.

And so recently I’ve remained silent, as well as a little more observant. I notice that the nights are cooler and the morning sunlight comes a bit later. I remember that there is a season to everything and the trick to living is not fighting against, but adapting to these changing rhythms. With patience and resilience, one never knows what miracles might emerge.

Patient Hopeful Waiting

About a month ago we crossed over the invisible line that separates darkness from light. While the very next day brings on average less than 60 seconds of additional sunshine, it is the beginning of an accumulation that will accelerate as the winter wanes and a subtle reminder of the springtime soon to come. Generations ago this moment was marked with great ceremony and reverence because of its significance for survival. The return of light meant the eventual return of migrating animals and the passing danger of frost, so that crops could be planted. It was a hopeful sign during a time of pensive waiting.

Nowadays, this moment on the calendar passes by mostly unnoticed, but for those who strongly desire daylight and warmth a little internal sigh of relief occurs at this small token of hope. Ever so slowly and in fits and starts, the signs of spring will begin to emerge. Vivid green shoots will poke through the decaying leaves. Perhaps you’ll walk by that same flowerbed you pass every day, only this time you’ll spot a patch of paradoxical crocuses. Isn't it amazing how something so fragile in appearance can be the harbinger of spring? Tiny nubs will emerge along the skeletal branches of trees, eventually swelling into buds and then fully fledged leaves. You might notice a particular bird you don’t recall seeing since last fall. Pretty soon the melting, flittering, greening landscape of springtime will be unmistakably all around.

But there are also days when it will feel so very far away. A cold front passes through bringing with it blustery winds that steal warmth from soil and skin. That last gasp of winter snow that briefly drains the world of its color. Weary of sweaters and sock and stew we cringe and sigh, but as the axial tilt of the Earth increasingly favors its northern half, the hopeful sun will continue little by little to rise earlier and set later. I find great comfort in the constancy of that pattern in the early days of spring and then again in summer when the reverse happens, and I’m reminded to cherish the unbearably hot days a little more so that I might mentally store up some of that warmth for the winter yet to come.