Unintended Beauty

I love taking pictures of architecture almost as much as I do the natural world. But rather than admiring the front of a building, I often find my eyes being drawn to the side streets and back alleyways. Over the years I've accumulated a collection of photos that capture my fascination with these spaces. 

True beauty exists independent of our human intentions. With the perfect combination of line, color, texture and light a functional space can become a work of art... 

Even more interesting to me are the spaces between buildings. These gaps offer visual breathing space and a slice of blue sky that hints at the infinite expanse beyond the densely packed city streets. 

I enjoy stepping a few feet into the space between two buildings on a hot summer day to feel the coolness of their shady walls and taking a break from the icy wind in the middle of winter. Without any visible present day reminders, I sometimes feel like I've been transported back in time.

Places of unintentional beauty fill me with a sense of gratitude and humility. They transcend our ideas of what should be considered worthy of appreciation. When we look for them, we find they exist all around us, especially in the most unexpected of places.

Where do you find unintended beauty?

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.

Coming Full Circle

After spending the first twenty-five years of my life in Indiana, I headed west after graduating from college and never looked back. Since that time I've moved from Southern California to Wyoming to New Mexico and then to Central and Northern California, living in three different towns along the base of the Sierra Nevada. Each place offered me the opportunity to see beautiful sights, have amazing new experiences and meet an array of wonderful people. To say that my flat, seemingly commonplace homeland paled in comparison was a complete understatement.

Up until very recently, I could imagine no scenario in which I would a) willingly move back to my hometown or b) find Indiana as appealing as the West. And yet, here I sit in my parents' guest bedroom in Mishawaka, Indiana, marveling at the decision I've recently made. I completely surprised myself two months ago by deciding to move back to the place where I grew up and with each passing week I find that Indiana has more to offer me than I ever could have imagined. Never underestimate the power of perspective to completely alter your life - even the parts you thought were set in stone.

It all started on a cold day back in early November. My dad asked me if I wanted to go on a hike at a local state park and I took him up on the offer. As we drove through the gates of the park, I began to have flashbacks from my childhood - riding bikes down the paved trail to the general store for ice cream cones, walking the well trodden path from the campground to beach on a humid summer afternoon and hiking in the forests throughout the park.

The peak of fall color had passed, but as we hiked along the trail, I was caught off guard by the beauty of the hardwood trees. Their lithe trunks lifted high above me casting a net of branches across the pale blue sky. The crunch of ankle deep leaves filled the air. It was sunny, but a cold breeze occasionally passed through the treetops, sending a cascade of withered leaves down to the ground. I was charmed by the whole experience and found myself falling in love with a place I had dismissed as painfully ordinary so long ago.

A week or two later, I began attending services at a local Unitarian Universalist church. I had discovered this denomination while living in New Mexico and everywhere I went afterward, I knew that if I found a UU congregation I would be surrounded by people who also valued acceptance, tolerance and the responsible search for truth and meaning. I quickly felt a sense of community and discovered an opportunity to fulfill my goal of teaching workshops related to my new coaching career.

As family medical issues began to surface, I realized that rather than spending just a few months in the area, I might be living here for an undetermined amount of time. To my surprise, I was delighted by the idea! I discovered a myriad of places to rent cross-country skis and began dreaming of day trips all along the shores of Lake Michigan in the summer. I thought about fireflies and fresh vegetables. Apple picking in the fall. The sandstone grottos of Turkey Run State Park, where my great-great-grandfather's covered bridge spans the width of Sugar Creek.

And then it occurred to me that this place I had dismissed so long ago has always been this filled with wonder and beauty. I just wasn't ready to see it. I needed to get past the surface of things, the grand canyons and the rugged mountain peaks, to realize that each place is what you make of it. You'll see what you expect to find and experience what you seek. If you want to be swept up in the remote, epic beauty of a vast landscape, Indiana may not be the place for you. But when you recognize that vast and remote are also a state of mind, you can immerse yourself in that world any time you choose.

My parents have moved three times in my life, each within the same subdivision. The tracts of houses have expanded into the surrounding forests and cornfields with each new addition. Just down the street from their house, the pavement comes to an abrupt end and over a hillock of discarded soil lies a wide dirt road that cuts through one of the remaining stands of trees. They aren't large or even all that beautiful. But they're there. And when I pass beyond that boundary from the subdivision into those trees, I enter a vast and remote stretch of undeveloped land. I can feel my heart open and my lungs expand in the same way they did when I first saw the Grand Canyon or climbed a peak in the Tetons. What we see with the eyes, we judge. What we see with the heart, we feel. I know that no matter where I live, if I look with my heart, I'll feel at home.

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. 

Fear of the Unknown

Up before sunrise and out the door. The drive to Hale’iwa is uneventful and quick. Arriving at the marina I see the boat at the edge of the dock with its huge cubic cage of silver bars glinting in the early morning sunlight. All accounted for, we jump on board and head out into the bay.

Calm winds make for a smooth cruise and when we anchor at the site a few miles off shore, the surface of the water is equally tranquil. I’m relieved. My first fear was sea sickness. Quickly followed by worries about the water being too cold. And only after dwelling on those first two items for a while would I allow myself to acknowledge the fact that I was about to go snorkeling in a cage surrounded by sharks.

The first group is called and they head to the side of the boat to climb into the cage. No one makes a sound as they slip into the water. My second worry is allayed a bit. The captain says the underwater visibility is very bright with a distance of over 100 feet. He says the sunlight penetrating below the surface of the water casts an electric blue glow. Could this be a twinge of excitement I’m beginning to feel?

Suddenly, the gray shape of a shark slides alongside the boat. Followed by another. And then another.  Then a pair of shark-like forms glide by. How many could there be? The situation in the cage floating a few dozen feet away from the boat seems very calm. No one even makes a splash. The only sound I hear is the gentle lapping of waves along the sides of the boat and the excited chatter of the other passengers as we all speculate about what it will be like to see these nebulous gray forms take their true shape when our heads slip under water.

Finally the time comes. I lower the mask over my eyes and fit the snorkel piece into my mouth. I step down onto the first rung of the cage ladder and feel the warm water surround my ankles. How is it possible that this is the same ocean that chills the sunny shores of coastal California? Submerged up to my neck, I turn around to face the bars of the cage and sink beneath the surface of the water.

And there they are in all their smooth and elegant glory. Slicing through that electric blue water. Cold, steely eyes meet mine as a shark passes within inches of my face. I catch my breath while I watch it slip by and notice the long, thin scars on its back. Another shark has a notch taken out of its fin. I admire the aerodynamic shape of its snout and the subtle gill slits along its side. They are beautiful creatures.

Sharks weave and circle all around the cage. I twist and turn to try and count them, but keep losing track at ten. Too many to count and too enthralled to care, I continue to take in the view. Smaller silvery fish emerge against the watery background. I’m reminded of the vastness of this submerged world and all its secrets that humankind will never know.

Twenty minutes seem to pass by in the span of a few heartbeats and then suddenly it’s time to leave. Out of the water and wrapped in a towel on the deck of the boat, I feel noticeably changed. I faced my fears and was rewarded with one of the most awe inspiring experiences of my life. How unexpected and how humbling. To know that fear can transform into tranquil beauty as effortlessly as a shark gliding through the deep blue ocean.

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.