Wordless Wednesday - Glorious

Lucile's glory-of-the-snow (Scilla luciliae)

Little Blue

On an overcast morning in late April, I am bending over a cluster of blooming Siberian squill (Scilla siberica) in a corner of the garden, training my camera on them and trying not to go base over apex (ass over tea kettle) among the emerging daylilies nearby. It's the same old game as in countless other seasons. While trying to stay upright and capture images, I am also trying to be attentive to spring's wonders in all their natural wabi sabi grace, their suchness. It's a Zen thing.

Then there is the matter of patience. I must wait for the wind to pause in its madcap dance before clicking my shutter. Sometimes the exercises turn out, but more often I am rewarded by blurring, flickering and dancing coins of bokeh.

Spring is a time of brightness and radiant becoming. This is the seventh springtime without my soulmate, and it was his favorite season of the year - he loved the tiny wildflowers lifting their heads in the woods and fields and fens now. The ache of losing that beautiful man never goes away. On our morning rambles, Beau and I think of him as tucked in one of our pockets and enjoying the unfolding splendor of the great wide world with us. We send him our love, every single day.

Friday Rambles - Little Blue

Weary of deep snow and icy cold, I am a little tired of the color blue at times too, no matter how intensely blue the sky or snow drifts or spruce trees or the cast iron crane out on the deck. Its migratory kin have been gone for months, but our splendid metal bird is frozen in place, and it is well and truly stuck until springtime rolls around again. I like looking at it.

There are some lovely words for blue in the English language: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, lapis lazuli, royal, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine, to name just a few. I recite them like a litany under my breath as I look out at our sleeping garden with mug in hand or break a trail into the woods.

Just when I decide that I am all wintered out and will not sketch another icicle or frame another photo of such things, another eloquent winter composition presents itself to the eye. Something curved or fragile or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs rapt and focused attention. Glossy bubbles dance in the icicles above a frozen creek in the Lanark highlands. Snow crystals adorn the evergreens over my head and make them blaze like diamonds. As Beau and I wander along, faded and tattered oak leaves flutter down to lie on the trail at our feet. Pine and spruce cones cast vivid blue shadows in pools of early morning sunlight. Is there anything on the planet as fine as the scent of snowy blue spruce boughs in late January? Look closely, and every needle is wearing stars.

Small and perfect, complete within itself, each entity conveys an elemental serenity and equilibrium, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and just plain old being here. Beau looks up at me, grinning and wagging his tail, and for a minute or two, my sadness takes a step backward. These scraps of time on the edge of the woods will have to be enough. They are, and they are more than enough.

There are worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without. Every one is a wonder to behold and remember with my eyes and patient recording lens. Surely, I can do this for a little while longer.

Let There Be Blue

That dazzling blue . . . Sky, clouds, fields and trees, are rendered in exquisite shades of blue, and when the sun touches them, they sparkle like a dragon's hoard. A dragon's hoard composed only of blue stones that is: topaz, sapphire, tourmaline, turquoise, tanzanite, labradorite and lapis lazuli, amethyst too. The sheer "blueness" of this snowy day in January's middling pages is a marvel.

When I come here, I let the wind and the light and the stillness enfold me, and I just breathe in and out for a while. This is the place of my belonging, magical in every season, but particularly so in winter. An old friend, it quiets a weary, aching heart.

Friday Ramble - Little Blue

Weary of deep snow and icy cold, we (Beau and I) are a little tired of the color blue at times too, no matter how intensely blue the sky, shadows, snowdrifts,spruce trees or the cast iron crane standing out on the deck. Its migratory kin have been gone for months now, but our splendid metal bird is frozen in place, and it is well and truly stuck out there until springtime rolls around again. We like seeing it when we pull the draperies open in the morning.

There are some lovely words for blue in the English language: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, lapis lazuli, royal, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine, to name just a few. I recite them like a litany under my breath as I look out at our sleeping garden with mug in hand or break a trail into the woods.

Just when one is all wintered out and decides not to sketch another icicle or frame another photo of such things, another eloquent winter composition presents itself to the eye. Something curved or fragile or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs rapt and focused attention. Glossy bubbles dance in the icicles above a frozen creek in the Lanark highlands. Snow crystals adorn the evergreens overhead and make them blaze like diamonds. As Beau and I wander along, the last faded and tattered oak leaves from last autumn flutter down to lie on the trail at our feet. Pine and spruce cones cast vivid blue shadows in pools of early morning sunlight. Is there anything on the planet as fine as the scent of snowy spruce boughs in late January? Look closely, and every needle is wearing stars.

Small and perfect, complete within itself, each entity conveys an elemental serenity and equilibrium, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and just plain old being here. Beau looks up at me, grinning and wagging his tail, and for a minute or two, my doldrums take a step backward. These scraps of time on the edge of the woods will have to be enough, and they are. They are more than enough.

There are worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without. Each and every one is a wonder to behold, to remember with my eyes and patient recording lens. Surely, I can do this for a little while longer.

On the Edge

Friday Ramble - Little Blue

Weary of deep snow and icy cold, I am even a little tired of the color blue at times, no matter how intensely blue the sky, snowdrifts, spruce trees, icicles or the cast iron crane in the garden. The bird's migratory kin have been gone for months, but it is frozen in place, well and truly stuck until springtime rolls around. The figurine has been engulfed by recent deep snows, and now only the tip of its beak can be seen.

There are some lovely words for blue in the English language: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, lapis lazuli, royal, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine, to name just a few. I recite them like a litany under my breath as I look out at our sleeping garden with mug in hand or break a trail into the woods.

Just when I am feeling all wintered out and not inclined to capture another photo, another breathtaking composition presents itself to my wandering eyes. Something amazing shows up unannounced (out of the blue?) and pleads for rapt and focused attention. Glossy bubbles dance in the icicles above my frozen creek in the Lanark highlands. On morning walks, ice crystals adorn the evergreens along the trail and they sparkle like diamonds. I peer out the kitchen window, and the snow on the roof of the garden shed is so bright it dazzles the eyes. OK Mama, I get the message.

As we (Beau and I) lurch along, faded and tattered oak leaves flutter down to lie on the trail at our feet. Pine and spruce cones cast vivid blue shadows in pools of early morning sunlight. Is there anything on the planet as fine as the scent of snowy blue spruce boughs in February? Look closely, and every needle is wearing stars.

Small and perfect, complete within themselves, such encounters convey equilibrium, lower the blood pressure and slow one's breathing, return eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and just plain old being here. Hallelujah, the world is full of wonder again. No wait, the world is always full of wonder. It's just that I forget sometimes.

There are worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without. Every one is a wonder to behold, to commit to memory, to love with one's eyes and patient recording lens. Surely, we can do this for a little while longer.

Let There Be Light

The feeling could be the simple (but indescribable) pleasure that comes of looking at wide expanses of snow punctuated by rocks, trees and hills, nary a building in sight. It could be Zen notions of emptiness and impermanence (anicca), stirred up by the song the north wind sings as it scours the hills, sculpting random waves and abstract shapes as it passes. It could be an unexpressed desire for longing for order and containment, the vague and inchoate yearning for the realms that always seem to beckon beyond summits and slopes and snowy evergreens. It could be the deep, inky shadows that lie over and around everything.

In winter, the eastern Ontario highlands reveal themselves to an intrepid wanderer as they do at no other time during the year. One can trace the rocky bones with her eyes, feel the earth's peaceful sleep and share its slow dreams, sometimes even glimpse the shape of the springtime to come (although spring seems far away on such a day as this). There is music in the wind, and there are astonishing swaths of color in the snow and shadows. Who knew that blue came in so many entrancing shades?

Whatever the feeling is, it leaves me breathless, every single time.

Wordless Wednesday - Coming Up Chicory

Singing the Blues in March

Beau and I are weary of deep snow, ice and bitter cold, and at times, we are even a little tired of the color blue. Blue was fine in January, but it has overstayed its tenure, and we long for a little springtime green in the landscape.

It is at times like these that something small or curved or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs our rapt and focused attention, glossy bubbles in the creek, ice crystals frosting the evergreens over our heads, the shape of a frozen beech leaf on the trail at our feet, pine cones casting vivid shadows in pools of early morning sunlight.

It always seems to happen. Just when we decide enough is enough, another alluring winter tableau presents itself to the eye. Small and perfect, complete within itself, it conveys an elemental peace and balance, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and assent.

There are worlds great and small everywhere we wander. There are worlds within and worlds without, and every one is a wonder to behold and remember and love with our eyes. Surely, we can do this for a little while longer.

Friday Ramble - A Little Blue

Weary of winter and sequestering, I am even a little tired of the color blue at times, no matter how intensely blue the sky is or snowdrifts or spruce trees or the cast iron crane out in the garden. Its migratory kin have been gone for months, but our splendid metal bird is frozen in place, and it is well and truly stuck in place until springtime rolls around again. I simply like looking at it.

There are some lovely words for blue in the English language: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, lapis lazuli, royal, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine, to name just a few. I recite them like a litany under my breath as I look out at our sleeping garden with mug in hand or break a trail into the woods.

Just when I decide that I am all wintered out and will not sketch another icicle or frame another photo of such things, another eloquent winter composition presents itself to the eye. Something curved or fragile or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs rapt and focused attention. Glossy bubbles dance in the icicles above a frozen creek in the Lanark highlands. Snow crystals spark on the evergreens over my head and make them blaze like diamonds. As I lurch along, faded and tattered oak leaves flutter down to lie on the trail at my feet. Pine and spruce cones cast vivid blue shadows in pools of early morning sunlight.  Is there anything on the planet as fine as the scent of snowy blue spruce boughs in January? Look closely, and every needle is wearing stars.

Small and perfect, complete within itself, each entity conveys an elemental peace and equilibrium, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns my eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and just plain old being here. For a minute or two, my pain recedes and balance returns. It is a miracle that I am standing here at all, and these fleeting moments in the garden, the park or on the edge of the woods have to be enough. They are enough, and they are more than enough.

Worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without, and every one is a wonder to behold and remember and love with my eyes and patient recording lens. Surely, I can do this for a little while longer.

Friday Ramble - Little Blue

Weary of deep snow and icy cold, I am even a little tired of the color blue at times, no matter how intensely blue the sky is or snowdrifts or spruce trees or the cast iron crane out on the deck. Its migratory kin have been gone for months, but our splendid metal bird is frozen in place, and it is well and truly stuck in place until springtime rolls around again. I like looking at it.

There are some lovely words for blue in the English language: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, lapis lazuli, royal, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine, to name just a few. I recite them like a litany under my breath as I look out at our sleeping garden with mug in hand or break a trail into the woods.

Just when I decide that I am all wintered out and will not sketch another icicle or frame another photo of such things, another eloquent winter composition presents itself to the eye. Something curved or fragile or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs rapt and focused attention. Glossy bubbles dance in the icicles above a frozen creek in the Lanark highlands. Snow crystals adorn the evergreens over my head and make them blaze like diamonds. As I lurch along, faded and tattered oak leaves flutter down to lie on the trail at my feet. Pine and spruce cones cast vivid blue shadows in pools of early morning sunlight.  Is there anything on the planet as fine as the scent of snowy blue spruce boughs in February? Look closely, and every needle is wearing stars.

Small and perfect, complete within itself, each entity conveys an elemental peace and equilibrium, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns my eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and just plain old being here. For a minute or two, my pain recedes and balance returns. It is a miracle that I am standing here at all, and these fleeting moments on the edge of the woods have to be enough. They are enough, and they are more than enough.

Worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without, and every one is a wonder to behold and remember and love with my eyes and patient recording lens. Surely, I can do this for a little while longer.

In the Great Blue Bowl of Morning

She awakens to skies that would make an impressionist painter feel like dancing, to Canada geese singing in unison as they fly up from the river and out into farm fields to feed. This year's progeny sing loudest up there in the great blue bowl of morning. Their pleasure in being alive and aloft mirrors her own as she watches them with a mug of tea, eyes shielded from the rising sun with a sleepy hand.

Below the sweeping strokes of vibrant color painted across the eastern sky are trees, hydro poles, rooflines and village streets, trucks and cars in rumbling motion, early runners in the park, commuters with lunch  bags and briefcases headed downtown to another day at their desks.

On their early walk, she and Beau pause together by a neighbor's fish pond to watch the white and scarlet koi finning their way around in circles, and they notice that the first fallen maple leaves of the season have already drifted into the pool, making eddies and swirls and perfect round spirals on the surface. No need to panic, it's not an early autumn, just the dry heat of August setting the leaf people free to ramble.

If only (she muses to herself) she could actually paint a sky as magnificent as this.  She can't, and the camera will have to do, but what her lens "sees" is absolutely sumptuous, and she is content with the morning's opus.  Sky blue, rose, gold, violet and scarlet lodge in her wandering thoughts, and on the way home, she considers borrowing a potter's wheel, throwing a whole bunch of clay bowls and glazing them in perfect sunrise colors. Emaho!

Snow Day

Friday Ramble - Little Blue

She is weary of deep snow and icy cold, and sometimes, she is even a little tired of the color blue, no matter how intensely blue the sky is or snowdrifts or spruce trees or the cast iron crane out on the deck. Its migratory kin have been gone for months, but our splendid metal bird is frozen in place, and it is well and truly stuck until springtime rolls around again. I like looking at it.

There are some lovely words for blue in the English language: azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, lapis lazuli, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine. She recites them like a litany under her breath as she looks out at her sleeping garden with mug in hand or breaks a trail into the woods.

Just when she decides that she is all wintered out and will not sketch another icicle or snap another photo of such things, another eloquent winter tableau presents itself to the eye. Something curved or fragile or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs rapt and focused attention.  Glossy bubbles dance in the icicles above a frozen creek in the Lanark highlands. Snow crystals adorn the evergreens over her head and turn them into jeweled wonders. As she walks, faded and tattered oak leaves flutter down to lie on the trail at her feet. Pine and spruce cones cast vivid blue shadows in pools of early morning sunlight.  Is there anything on the planet as fine as the scent of blue spruce boughs in February?

Small and perfect, complete within itself, each tableau conveys an elemental peace and balance, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns her eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and assent. For a minute or two, pain subsides and balance returns. It is a miracle that she is standing here at all, and her fleeting interval on the edge of the woods has to be enough. It is enough, and it is much more than enough.

Worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without, and every one is a wonder to behold and remember and love with her eyes. Surely, she can do this for a little while longer.