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.

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.

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.

Mindful, by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made out of grass?

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.  

Seeing the World in a New Light

I am obsessed with light. It started in college when I took an art appreciation class and learned about the Impressionist movement. The idea that a painter could paint not an object or scene, but rather the reflections of light, created a whole new way of seeing. Static objects within the landscape became dynamic as my awareness of sun-shifted shadows and highlights intensified their textures and colors. Sunlight unlocks the door to an infinitely more beautiful world.

Around this same time period I began pursuing photography as a hobby, learning to consider light as I composed my shots. I’m not a very technical photographer, partly because I don’t have the patience to learn about and practice the exacting art of manual focus and light control, but digital photography has allowed me to experiment and develop my creativity. To compensate for the restrictions of a point and shoot camera, I began playing with sunlight by filtering or blocking it with objects in the shot to control any resulting lense flares. I remember the first time I raised my camera up to the petals of a back-lit flower to take an extreme close-up while on a hike in the Tetons. The resulting photo gave me a miraculous new appreciation for the natural world.

As we meet our own needs for hunger and thirst throughout the day, it’s easy to forget that the plants and trees around us are constantly taking in nourishment as well. We gardeners know it more than most, especially out west, but even then how often do we really take the time to appreciate the systems that give life to the plant? I’m not a biologist by training, so it took me completely by surprise that night when I got home from hiking and looked at my photo on the computer. The sunlight had highlighted an intricate tracing of veins across the surface of that deep purple larkspur petal, and refracted to reveal a sparkling translucence that literally took my breath away. There are few things more beautiful in this world than a flower bathed in sunlight...

Ever since that day, I’ve been obsessed with documenting the delicate inner workings of leaves and flowers through my photographs. One of my favorite places to be is under a deciduous tree at midday when the sunlight is streaming down, illuminating the canopy of leaves above me. There is a quality to that vivid saturation of colorful light, which makes me feel intensely alive and keenly aware of the life pulsating around me. My body and the tree, we both absorb this invisible bombardment of photons and turn it into physical nourishment. We both move fluid through our veins as a means of surviving and thriving. We breathe in symbiotic partnership, each sustaining the other. In this moment I am reminded that it's not so much a matter of reconnecting with nature as it is simply removing the layers that insulate us from each other. The connection itself is impossible to sever...

  

This luminous way of seeing requires only a simple shift of perspective for wondrous details to instantly emerge. All you have to do is let your eyes be guided by the light...