For the past two weeks, when I wasn't on the Eastern Mennonite Seminary campus, enjoying a mini-sabbatical in connection with their Summer Institute of Spiritual Formation, I was usually out savoring the view from my cousin's Virginia garden, and delighting in her flowers. Whether a misty June morning or a fiery sunset, or close-up views of hydrangea, bougainvillea, hibiscus, or her many other flowers, there was always something to feast my eyes upon.
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More sparks of light from early June. It seems odd to be posting about my Indiana garden while I am enjoying the beauties of a Virginia garden in full summer bloom, but its time will come. I'm working on a borrowed laptop here, so revisiting my Virginia photos won't happen until I'm home again.
For now, I'm enjoying it in the moment -- the interaction of light and flowers, and of light,clouds, and mountains, and I look forward to a second reading of it all later. And in this moment, I am also enjoying the memories of spring at home -- bursts of sunshiny flowers, pink columbine, blueberries just starting to blush, bees buzzing, and the light/shadow patterns of ferns. Traveling creates wonderful opportunities for seeing new sights, but it is also good to get home again and enjoy the flowers in my Indiana garden. Here's a few flowers and friends observed during May.
In addition to rocks and trees and water, the Japanese garden was full of rhododendrons -- I am fascinated by the shapes, the color variety, and the way they catch the light.
It may have been a quiet week in Lake Wobegone, but it was a lively one here in Goshen, my home town. My sister and I drove our parents here from North Carolina, moving them into their new home in Juniper Place. Garrison Keillor brought his radio show, Prairie Home Companion, to campus and the college chamber choir had a starring role, involving many young people who we know well. And full spring arrived, with more flowers opening every day and the trees putting on their robes of green.
I've been rejoicing in light-filled daffodils and paper whites, glowing in the sunlight. Here are a few before they completely fade away. The green tide is rising -- verdant green grass, gauzy green bushes, trees either still bare or decking themselves in fancy fringes and furbelows.
The following poem, April Prayer, by Stuart Kestenbaum, struck me as fitting well with these April photos: Just before the green begins there is the hint of green a blush of color, and the red buds thicken the ends of the maple’s branches and everything is poised before the start of a new world, which is really the same world just moving forward from bud to flower to blossom to fruit to harvest to sweet sleep, and the roots await the next signal, every signal every call a miracle and the switchboard is lighting up and the operators are standing by in the pledge drive we’ve all been listening to: Go make the call. It's spring -- the voice of the mourning dove is heard in the land. And also robins, redwing blackbirds, tree peepers, and the neighbor's lawn mower. And the trees are blooming, the daffodils glowing, and other spring flowers making their brief appearance on stage.
Sometimes April showers bring April flowers. And May flowers, of course -- the columbine whose leaves have just emerged won't bloom for a few weeks yet. But the early spring flowers are thriving, whether covered with raindrops or not. Daffodils, violets, scilla -- it's spring, at last. Some flowers even smile at the thought!
Wednesday I noticed that a clump of early dark purple crocus had sprung up in one of my flowerbeds. Yesterday morning they responded to the warmth and sunlight by spreading their petals wide, making crisp patterns that glowed even after clouds began covering the sun.
Then the storm front came through and instead of Easter egg cups, we had furled umbrellas. They all closed up -- unless weighted down by a tiny rain puddle. It may officially be spring, but March keeps waffling, and these early crocus valiantly keep trying to open. In the meantime, I'm caught by patterns of light and shadow indoors, and the break from winter that a small orchid and a few succulents can offer.
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My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Archives
August 2020
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