Leaf

Rain Dappled Hearts

Thursday Poem - Another Spring

The seasons revolve and the years change
With no assistance or supervision.
The moon, without taking thought,
Moves in its cycle, full, crescent, and full.

The white moon enters the heart of the river;
The air is drugged with azalea blossoms;
Deep in the night a pine cone falls;
Our campfire dies out in the empty mountains.

The sharp stars flicker in the tremulous branches;
The lake is black, bottomless in the crystalline night;
High in the sky the Northern Crown
Is cut in half by the dim summit of a snow peak.

O heart, heart, so singularly
Intransigent and corruptible,
Here we lie entranced by the starlit water,
And moments that should each last forever

Slide unconsciously by us like water.

Kenneth Rexroth,
from One Hundred Poems from the Chinese

Wordless Wednesday - Captivity

Goldenrod Spider (Misumena vatia)
and Orchard Mason Bee (Osmia lignaria)
on Bloodroot Blossom

Lady Slipper

Greater Yellow Lady Slipper
(Cypripedium pubescens)

The wild orchid colony has probably been resident in our woodland for close to a century, and its lush blooming at the end of May is something I wait for breathlessly every year. I could find my way to the orchid grove barefoot and blind and on my hands and knees.

For all the delicate perfection of the pink and white Showy Lady Slipper (Cypripedium reginae) blooming around the time of the Summer Solstice in June, this is the magnificent wild orchid that makes my heart sing and dance and go skipping through the glade - carefully of course, lest I disturb the orchids in their own nodding rites of celebration.

Emergence

Dragonfly: Common Baskettail (Male)
(Epitheca cynosura)

At some time after sunset on Saturday evening, the adolescent dragonflies of Lanark began to emerge from their watery childhood homes. Under the cover of velvet darkness, the nymphs climbed hopefully out of their streams and ponds and affixed themselves carefully to nearby saplings and twigs. Clinging to their new perches as though to lifelines, they breathed in the cool night air, and their spontaneous transformation into iridescent winged jewels of the summer highlands began.

The nymphs breathed in and out slowly (and mindfully) in their chosen places, and as they did so, their larval skins began to split under the pressure of their resonant breathing, newly fledged dragonflies climbing out of the old life forms into the clear night air like pale and fragile wraiths. For a while, the new adults (or tenerals) continued to cling to their chosen twigs and breathe deeply with their wings folded meditatively along their backs, their legs hardening slowly and their new wings becoming glossy and iridescent. Then, toward the end of the transformation, their wings unfolded and moved outward into the classic extended dragonfly posture which we know so well, and which distinguishes them from their exquisite damselfly kin.

At sunrise or a little later, the newborn dragonflies arose from their twigs and branches in glistening clouds and launched themselves skyward on their maiden flight. I wish I had been there - it is an event to be treasured and one to be remembered forever, this daybreak uprising which always seems to me like a song of praise or a doxology right from the heart, a ballad of unfettered freedom, transcendent joy and grace.

Most of the dragonflies filling the air over the Two Hundred Acre Wood yesterday were newly hatched clubtails of various sorts, and they did not pause in their airborne spirals long enough to be identified or photographed. This obliging creature, a male Common Baskettail, perched for just a moment among the wind-tossed brilliant green chokecherry leaves. Whatever the name, no dragonfly could ever be called common in my book.

There are miracles beyond counting in the Old Wild Mother's bag, and I often think She reserves her finest wonders for springtime and early summer. Here's to you Mama!

Note: It is always tempting to go into a complete description of a dragonfly's life cycle, but others have done it far better than I ever could, and they are certainly more qualified to do so than an elderly female with insatiable curiosity, notebook and camera. For a remarkable look at this dazzling creature, read: A Dazzle of Dragonflies by Forrest Lee Mitchell and James Lasswell. It's all there - prehistory, biology, life cycles, natural history, watching and collecting, creating dragonfly gardens and photography.

Yellow Morels

Yellow Morels

Morchella esculenta)

Our friend in Lanark gave a little whoop when we wandered over a hill on the Two Hundred Acre Wood yesterday and found a whole colony of yellow morels growing at the foot of the oak trees there. He is something of a gourmet cook and knew that the morels would form the basis of a lovely meal, to be accompanied by fiddleheads, wild rice and the first tender asparagus of the season.

Us? We simply like finding them, and we didn't have the heart to say that morels were coming home with us, and not him. There are sure to be others here and there.

Unfolding

Friday Ramble - Wild Grace

The word for this week is grace, and it is one which pops up frequently in English language usage - perhaps more frequently in Romance languages such as French, Italian and Spanish. It comes to us from the Latin gratia, thence from gratus meaning pleasing or thankful. We use grace as a name for a beloved female child, in our deepest and most heartfelt prayers and meditations, to describe someone who is pleasing to the eye, or who is poetry in their motion.

Wendell Berry wrote of the indwelling balance, harmony and grandeur of the natural order as being "the grace of the world", and grace is present in every perfect word Mary Oliver writes. One of my favorite authors of urban fantasy, Charles de Lint, once described the great mystery at the heart of existence as simply "the Grace". No other word can ever begin to delineate the wonder of the perfect round world in which we breathe and dwell and wander all our days — the fertile ground underneath our feet, the water, rocks and trees around us, the radiant moon and oceans of dancing stars above us on a fine summer night, the company of good companions on this, our earthly journey.

I cannot claim to be graceful in my movements, lurching and fumbling along life's trail with an expression thoughtful, astonished and dazzled by turns. There is no poetry in motion here, and hiking boots, runners, sandals and "wellies" are more my style than ballet slippers — it would be deceitful to lay claim to any graceful movement whatsoever. Nevertheless, there is grace in this old life, and it is boundless grace of the most elemental and natural kind — the wild grace dwelling at the heart of life of which so many poets and authors have written eloquently.

Without saying the word aloud or even thinking it, what I am seeking in my slow rambles around the beaver pond or deep in the woods is a whisper, a mere hint of the world's indwelling grace, a fleeting glimpse into the perfect untroubled heart of things. Grace resides in new leaves, wild waters and old trees, in the stately movement of herons, the iridescent flash of bluebirds' plumage, the sundown songs of loons. When I encounter such grace, I breathe deeply and easily, and no matter what the troubles the earlier hours of the day have held, they vanish.

Wordless Wednesday - Fragrant

Cypress Spurge

(Euphorbia cyparissias)

Unfolding

Ostrich (or Fiddlehead) Fern

(Matteuccia struthiopteris)

Canticle for the Columbines

It will be a few days until all the columbines on the Two Hundred Acre Wood are in bloom, but this solitary specimen several feet up a granite crag in one of the ravines leads the way as always. Its perch is a sunny one in a south facing crevasse, and out of the wind for the most part.

Earlier this year, I found new communities of Miterwort, Jack-in-the-pulpit and Soloman's Seal springing up nearby. Feathery clumps of Dutchman's Breeches sway on the huge weathered glacial dropstones here and there, and for a few days this month, the whole floor of the ravine was carpeted with hepaticas and violets. There are riches in the place in any season, as far as the eye can see, and I so wish I could describe them all properly.

Wild columbines have always been a great love of mine, and they are, in fact, responsible for our stewardship of these wild untrammeled acres. Many years ago, we parked by the side of the road to read a map, and seeing the tattered handmade "for sale" sign on an old fence post, we climbed the steep trail into the woods to see what was there.

It was a gorgeous May morning, and the fully leafed out maples were dancing arches over our heads, their branches filled with caroling and cavorting grosbeaks. Himself was reconnoitering tree species over the next hill when I encountered a large clump of columbines blooming right on the trail and knew that I was home at last. We have never regretted that morning, and after all these years, the sight of a blooming columbine still leaves me breathless.

Here is where I was meant to be, and this is my wild liturgy, however poorly sung.

Green Mansion

Buds, Wild Columbine
(Aquilegia canadensis)

For so many months out of the calendar year, one traverses the highlands and dreams of other times and seasons. In winter with its endless undulating snow dunes and bare trees, I dream of springtime, summer and autumn, and sometimes in the depths of winter, it seems that springtime will never get here at all.

When the snows begin to melt in late March, the landscape is gray and a dry desiccated brown for several weeks, the still bare trees stark and foreboding and twiggy against the cloudy sky, the woodland ankle deep in leaf fall, tumbled branches and withered grasses. The returning light is fierce and unforgiving, the shadows falling across the trail as sharp as the finest examples of the bladesmith's craft.

Then one fine morning in May's middling pages, one rounds the corner heading toward the gate, and the world before her is green, a thousand shades of vibrant green: apple, aquamarine, beryl, chartreuse, emerald, fir, forest, grass, jade, kelly, lime, malachite, moss, olive, pea-green, peacock, pine, sage, sap, sea, spinach, spruce, verdigris, viridian, willow. Here we are again, living in a dense northern rainforest or jungle, and even our reflections in the Clyde River are green.

Suddenly there are grosbeaks in the overstory singing their hearts out, bluebirds flashing their brilliant blues through the old apple trees, hawks circling in the clear air and proclaiming their satisfaction with the world. If grace and gladness and wildness and life have a color, it is surely green, and a fine thing it is to be walking in the world on such a day.

Nesting

After a few days of flying in and around the house and spending several hours in the crabapple tree considering the matter, a house finch has chosen to make her nest in the oak wreath on the front door of the little blue house in the village. As a result of her decision, there is a sign posted on the front door - guests, cards, letters, parcels and junk mail are being diverted to other portals, and we are keeping an eagle eye on the doings at our threshold to ensure that the finch is not disturbed by curious passers by or predators.

Everything seems to have ground to a halt here as we watch over the nest (from a distance, of course) and make sure that bird feeders close by are well filled to accommodate the little bird mother on the rare occasions when she pops her head out of the wreath and forages for food.

Since she is small, it is difficult to see the finch when she is hunkered down on her cosy nest amid the oak branches. I may be able to take a photo or three later, when she is more settled. At the moment, our feathered guest is a tad skittish and flies into the crabapple tree whenever we come around the corner of the house.

The Flower Moon of May

Watching the moon
at midnight,
solitary, mid-sky,
I knew myself completely,
no part left out.
Izumi Shikibu

Dare I confess it? This moonscape was actually a waning moonscape, and I was not sure I should post anything here at all - I didn't actually witness the full moon this month. We were beset by heavy clouds, wind and rain on full moon night, and there was (alas) no lunar magnificence to be seen for a day or two. In the end, it simply did not feel right to allow May's full moon to go unmarked, whether I had seen it or no, and so here it is, several days late. The verse by Izumi Shikibu is one of my favorites ever.

Spring evenings are vibrant, velvety and chock full of possibility. When the air finally cleared and the clouds rolled away for the most part, how bright the just-past-full moon was and how perfectly serene in her rising through the wispy clouds and over the wind tossed trees. There was spring in her step, and she seemed to be dancing aloft, celebrating the grace and grandeur of life and without a care in the world.

We also know this fifth moon of the calendar year as the: Alewife Moon, Anagantios Moon, Beltane Moon, Blossom Moon, Bottlebrush Moon, Bright Moon, Budding Moon, Corn Planting Moon, Death Moon, Dragon Moon, Dyad Moon, Fawns Moon , Field Maker Moon, Fifth Moon, Fish Moon, Flowering Moon, Fright Moon, Frog Moon, Frogs Return Moon, Geese Go North Moon, Geese Moon, Grass Moon, Hare Moon, Heavy Snow Moon, Hoeing Corn Moon, Idle Moon, Iris Moon, Joy Moon, Leaf Tender Moon, Leaves Appear Moon, Lily of the Valley Moon, Little Corn Moon, Little-finger Moon, Magnolia Moon, Merry Moon, Milk Moon, Moon of Big Leaf, Moon of the Strawberry, Moon of the Camas Harvest, Moon of Waiting, Moon To Plant, Moon When Corn is Planted, Moon When Ponies Shed Their Fur, Moon When the Buffalo Plant is in Flower, Moon When the Leaves Are Green, Moon When the Little Flowers Die, Moon When the Horses Get Fat, Moon When Women Weed Corn, Mulberry Moon, Mulberry Ripening Moon, New Waters Moon, Old Woman Moon, Panther Moon, Penawen Moon, Peony Moon, Planting Moon, Putting Seeds in the Hole Moon, Seeds Moon, Seeds Ripen Moon, Sprout Kale Moon, Staying Home Moon, Storing Moon, Strawberry Moon, Suckers Dried Moon Summer Moon, Thrice Milk Moon, Moon When the Ponies Shed Their Shaggy Hair Moon, Wind Tossed Moon, Winnemon Moon.

Wordless Wednesday - Crabapple Flowering

A Wild Gift

Jack-in-the-Pulpit
(also called Bog Onion, Brown Dragon, Indian Turnip)
(Arisaema triphyllum)

April and May are intervals replete with fabulous firsts in the woodland: Bloodroot, Dutchman's Breeches, Spring Beauty, Hepatica, various violets and trilliums tucked into sunny slopes and rock formations, songbirds warbling above the creek, loons flying overhead and calling greetings as they pass. Later there will be hillsides of columbines, fields filled with nodding daisies and waving plumes of clover, orchid spiced bogs and lake shallows graced by generations of stately herons.

The grandeur and largesse are almost too much to take in at times, and I have to remind myself to check my expectations at the door as I head out for the woods and watery places with camera in hand - the trick is go out with open eyes and alert senses, truly present in the wild moment and not looking for anything at all, but wholly receptive to what the Old Wild Mother and the day hold out as gifts and teachings.

A few days ago, the gift was a tiny Jack-in-the-Pulpit down by the creek, its delicate stalk as slender and silky as embroidery thread. There are abundant wild leeks and toothworts on the bank and cress growing right in the water, but never before had there been a Jack growing in that particular spot, and I was delighted. If I had just been stomping along and not paying attention, I might have walked on it, and that would have been sad.

Rainy White and Perfect

White Empress

Great White Trillium

(Trillium grandiflorum)

Last week, the red empress (Trillium erectum) graced the Two Hundred Acre Wood with her august presence , and on this rainy Mother's Day weekend, it is the white empress who nods gently from her groves in the woodland. She is quieter and less vibrantly hued than her earlier appearing sister, but no less magnificent and regal for all that.

Whorled and graciously curved and beaded with rain, this is the archetypal trillium of the north woods, and my own idea of the perfect flower for Mother's Day.

How are we "doing up" this day? I like to turn it on its ear, and approach it from a different direction, first thanking my mother and Mama Gaia for putting me here, then thanking all my own children, human and furry, feathered and leafed and petaled, for the gift of being my children. It's really a day for all of us.

Red

Wordless Wednesday - Trinity

Mother

Sessile Bellwort or Wild Oats
(Uvularia sessilifolia)

Oh what a thing, a northern spring! We went off to the woods in Lanark yesterday as planned, laden down with camera, tripod, lenses, water bottles, insect repellent and cookies for Spencer. Although the trees have not yet leafed fully here, and there was little shade, the day was a treat, sunlight and blue skies, filled with breezes and nascent vegetation bursting forth everywhere. There were (however) great voracious clouds of blackflies, and that made our wandering an exercise for the stout of heart, the foolish and the determined.

I could hear the first returning Rose-breasted Grosbeak singing somewhere just beyond the hill, and a curious Hermit Thrush paused just for a moment on a stump nearby, tilting its head and giving me a puzzled look before flying off.

After telling Lorianne DiSabato at Hoarded Ordinaries this past week that it would be weeks until Sessile Bellwort (or Wild Oats) flowered here, I found a single large clump blooming in the brilliant sunshine along the trail into the deep woods and plopped myself down in the dead leaves to take a few photos. A moment later, along came Spencer who decided my earthbound posture was an occasion for snuggles. Wagging his tail furiously, he climbed into my lap and stayed there, talking, slurping me enthusiastically all over and biting my nose - the clump of Wild Oats suffered somewhat in the process, and it is a good thing that there is a healthy bellwort community on the Two Hundred Acre Wood.

On the way home, we rescued the first of the season's mother snapping turtles from her position in the middle of the road outside the hamlet of Watson's Corners and moved her back into the swamp, making use of the sturdy turtle stick we keep in the back of the Passat for such occasions. Mama did not appreciate our efforts and she let us know it, quivering with rage, lunging, snapping, hissing and biting several large chunks out of our stick. She was a most impressive vision in her dance of indignation, and it was my first look into the maw of an irate snapper.

Last of the Golden Hats

Trout Lily or Dogtooth Violet
(Erythronium americanum)

These are probably the last of the blooming trout lilies for this year. The artfully mottled leaves carpeted the woodland this weekend (along with the last of the hepaticas and claytonias), but there were few specimens still in bloom. I reclined in the leaves and fragrant forest litter and took a few photos of this one. It was one of those irresistible opportunities - the wind had faded away to a whisper for just a moment, the light was perfect, and I adore the shapes.

The black flies in the woods in Lanark were voracious yesterday, and our pottering was for only an hour or two. Strange as it may seem, we are off to the woods again this morning, this time in search of trilliums.

Leafing Out

One asks it every single year.....

Has there ever before been a sky as blue as this one is? Have there ever been clouds as fluffy and white and towering above our heads? Have there ever been trees as exuberant in their lacy green foliage bursting forth?

A sunny day in May is a wondrous thing.

Beltane (May Day)

One can barely see it at such a photo size, but elegantly draped along the stem and white flowers of the second image of Dutchman's Breeches were the first strands of spider silk found this year on the Two Hundred Acre Wood out in the Lanark Highlands.

The feathery gray-green foliage and nodding white flowers like upside-down pantaloons were delightful all by themselves, and the dancing filaments of spider silk held my attention for some time too with their gossamer shimmer and floating windborne motion. There were lovely clumps of Dicentra cucullaria blooming several feet up a nearby vertical rock face, and I considered (briefly) either climbing up or dangling from the top, but decided to shoot from where I was standing.

The image is perfect for a northern Beltane (or May Day) methinks, and it needs little or no description from this doddering photographer and occasional wordsmith.

A very happy Beltane (or May Day) to each and every one of you...