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 Ramble - Patience

As I started off on the Friday ramble this week, the word that came to mind was patience, although I have already written a ramble on that word.

This week's offering has its roots in the Middle English pacient, the Middle French patient and the Latin word pati, all meaning to undergo something, to get through, or put up with something and do it with grace and dignity - no whining, screaming or going completely off one's nut. It's a fine old word, but it's not a word for wimps and sissies. True patience is fierce stuff, and it is anything but limp, indecisive or docile. Sometimes, it requires serious attitude, bags of forbearance and not a little cussing.

By now, the north should be carpeted in wildflowers, but a storm this week brought subzero temperatures, snow and bitterly cold winds, and the white stuff is staying around, at least for now. There will be no blooming in the woodland for a week or two, and there are times when I think springtime will never come.

What is one to do??? I pick up my camera, sometimes my notebook and pen, brew a pot of tea, pummel bread, stir up fiery curries, go walkabout with Beau, curl up in my favorite chair with a good book. I just breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out.

For some reason, the exquisite keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti and the Bach preludes tuck everything back into place, and so does anything by Antonio Vivaldi. In recent weeks I have also been listening to the creations of Corelli, Gabrieli and Purcell. When my spirits need a lift, I always seem to go for baroque.

Snow or no snow, we wrap up and head out, look at the sun rising or setting somewhere, watch frozen cattails rattling their bones along the shore of the river. We listen to the wind in the bare trees, lean against fences and watch last autumn's desiccated leaves whirl through the air like confetti. We cling to the fragile hope that the snow will disappear and springtime will show up any day now.

This morning's image is a bloodroot bloom from last year's wanderings around this time. In early spring, they are the first wildflowers emerge from the earth and dead leaves of my favorite place, and they glow like little suns in the woods. Colonies of sanguinaria canadensis always leave me breathless when I encounter them, and I am looking forward to seeing them again. Until then, I cultivate patience and remember.

Friday Ramble - Patience

This week's offering has its roots in the Middle English pacient, the Middle French patient and the Latin word pati, all having to do with getting through or putting up with something and doing it with grace and dignity - no whining, screaming or going completely off one's nut. It's a fine old word for someone who aspires to authenticity and enlightenment, but it's not a word for wimps and sissies. True patience is anything but limp, indecisive or docile. At times, it requires bags of forbearance and not a little cussing.

By now, winter snows should have disappeared from the Lanark highlands, and the Two Hundred Acre Wood should be carpeted with northern wildflowers. Alas, recent storms brought subzero temperatures, snow and bitterly cold winds. There will be no wildflowers for several weeks, and there are times when I think springtime will never come.

What is one to do??? I pick up a camera or notebook, brew a pot of tea, pummel bread, stir up a fire-breathing curry, go walkabout with Beau, curl up in my favorite chair with a good book. I just breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out.

When it comes to music, the elegant keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti (Mikhail Pletnev), the Bach preludes (Glenn Gould) and cello suites (Yo-yo Ma) tuck everything back into place, and so do Mozart's Eine kleine Nachtmusik (A Little Night Music) and Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). Anything by Antonio Vivaldi (The Four Seasons) works wonders, and Respighi does it for me every time.

We watch the sun rising every morning, the moon conversing with the stars at night. When weather permits, we shiver on the bank of our favorite river and listen to frozen cattails rattling their bones in the wind - the same wind blusters though the bare trees nearby. We lean on the old rail fence and watch last year's leaves whirl through the air like confetti. We cling to the fragile hope that springtime will show up any day now.

Patience is a wild and fierce emotion, and being patient with one's own self is the hardest thing of all. I may get there one of these lifetimes, but I have a very long way to go.

Friday Ramble - Patience

As I started off on the Friday ramble this week, the word that came to mind was patience, although I have already written about that word.

This week's offering has its roots in the Middle English pacient, the Middle French patient and the Latin word pati, all meaning to undergo something, to suffer through, get through, or put up with something and do it with grace and dignity - no whining, screaming or going completely off one's nut. It's a fine old word for someone who aspires to authenticity or enlightenment, but it's not a word for wimps and sissies, and true patience is anything but limp, indecisive or docile. Sometimes, it requires bags of forbearance and not a little cussing.

By now, the snow should be vanishing from the Lanark highlands, and there should be budding wildflowers in the woods. Alas, recent storms brought subzero temperatures, deep snow and bitterly cold winds. There will be no wildflowers in our forest for several weeks, and there are times when I wonder if springtime will ever come.

What is one to do??? I pick up my camera or paint brush, brew a pot of tea, pummel bread, stir up a fiery curry, go walkabout with Beau, curl up in my favorite chair with a good book. I just breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out.

For some reason, the elegant keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti and the Bach preludes (Glenn Gould) tuck everything back into place, and so does listening to Mozart's Eine kleine Nachtmusik or Die Zauberflöte. Grieg's Holberg Suite works wonders too, and in recent weeks I have also been listening to Sibelius.
 
Beau and I dream about the sun rising and setting in the highlands, about frozen cattails rattling their bones along the shore of our favorite lake. We remember listening to the wind in the bare trees, leaning against the old rail fence and watching last autumn's desiccated leaves whirl through the air like confetti. We cling to the fragile hope that springtime will show up any day now.

I am learning that patience is a wild and fierce emotion, and that being patient with one's own self is the hardest thing of all.  Spirit Rock's Jack Kornfield says, “If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.”  I may get there one of these lifetimes, but I have a very long way to go.

This morning's image is a bloodroot capture from some time ago. In early spring, the blooms emerge from the earth and dead leaves of my favorite place in the world, and they glow like little suns in the woods. Colonies of sanguinaria canadensis are absolute perfection, and they leave me breathless when I encounter them. They were my late soulmate's favorite flower, and we loved looking at them together. This will be my second spring without him, and I miss him so much.