The Jester's Cap and Bells

The delightfully complex shape of columbines always reminds me of a harlequin's chapeau or a medieval court jester's cap. The architecture is splendid stuff, and there is a blithely capering choreography to the columbine's dancing "to and fro" movement on gracefully arching and swaying stems. With sunlight shining through them, the petals and sepals of the flower seem to be made of stained glass.

Their dwelling places are like woodland cathedrals, and the stained glass analogy is apt. The ceilings are up in the sky somewhere, and the nave's soaring green arches disappear into the clouds. The clerestories, ribbed vaults and flying buttresses would make any architect proud, and the leafy chapels seem to go on and on forever.

I am reading John Crowley's fabulous Little, Big for the nth time, and a sentence about the forest at the heart of the book comes to mind: “The further in you go, the bigger it gets.” If you have never read Crowley's novel, make a beeline for your nearest book shop or library and grab a copy. It is one of the most delightful pieces of fiction ever written, and perfect summer reading too.

Columbines often seem to be wearing at least one spider web, along with bits of fluff from nearby cottonwood trees and slender filaments of milkweed silk. I am always astonished and captivated by what my macro lens "sees" and records in its sylvan ramblings. At times, its loving eye seems to linger and caress everything it encounters, and that is particularly so when columbines are in bloom.

As I drifted through the woods on the weekend clicking ecstatically, the first dragonflies of the season whirred around my head and spiraled off into the sunlit trees in search of prey. There were clouds of black flies and mosquitoes, and the little dragons of the air were dining very well indeed.

Another summer of  wildflowers, dragonflies, butterflies and bumbles... There are almost too many wonders for one old hen to take in.

Thursday Poem - May

May, and among the miles of leafing,
blossoms storm out of the darkness—
windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees

dive into them and I too, to gather

their spiritual honey. Mute and meek,

yet theirs is the deepest certainty that

this existence too—this sense of

well-being, the flourishing of the

physical body—rides near the hub

of the miracle that everything 
is a part of, is as good as a poem

or a prayer, can also make luminous

any dark place on earth.

Mary Oliver

Thank you to my friend Frances at Beautiful Strangers for reacquainting me with Mary's exquisite poem.

Thursday Poem - When I Am Wise

When I am wise in the speech of grass,

I forget the sound of words

and walk into the bottomland

and lie with my head on the ground

and listen to what grass tells me

about small places for wind to sing,

about the labor of insects,

about shadows dank with spice,

and the friendliness of weeds.

When I am wise in the dance of grass,

I forget the name and run

into the rippling bottomland

and lean against the silence which flows

out of the crumpled mountains

and rises through slick blades, pods,

wheat stems, and curly shoots,

and is carried by wind for miles

from my outstretched hands.

Mary Gray from Wild Song: Poems of the Natural World

And there in the woods...

Spotted Jewelweed or Touch-Me-Not

(Impatiens capensis)

There is a whole thicket of these colorful critters flowering along the creek in the woods, and we (Beau and I) were happy to find them last weekend.

Jewelweed is a wild North American herbal with known medicinal benefits, one used by indigenous cultures for centuries. Infusions made with the leaves are used to treat measles and fevers, poultices with the bruised stems for the pain and itching of skin ailments like poison ivy, poison oak and poison sumac. The plant contains compounds which neutralize uroshiol, the chemical which causes contact dermatitis, and it is a splendid addition to one's wild medicine chest.

Jewelweed is also an important nectar source for hummingbirds, and they are usually about when it is in bloom. When hummers reach into the bell-shaped blooms with their long beaks and brush up against nearby seed pods, the pods explode, propelling the contents several feet into the air, hence another name, Touch-Me-Not. 

Although an annual, jewelweed is persistent and prolific. For years, I cultivated it in my garden, and thanks to the exploding seed pods, it showed up everywhere - keeping it in check was quite an undertaking. For all that, I have just harvested seeds from the thicket in the woods and am thinking about having another go. It is cheerful stuff, and I like the freckled faces on the blooms. In addition to being a "tried and true" wild medicinal, jewelweed also provides nourishment for hummers, bees and other insects, and that makes it a clear winner in my book.

Little Wonders in the Woods

On a fine morning in late August, a weathered cedar stump by the trail into the deep woods wears a carpet of haircap moss (Polytrichum commune). The delicate wonders emerging from the thatch are dancing sporophytes, fragile strands topped by seed capsules wearing raindrops and filaments of spider silk. Just beyond the photo, a crab spider waits for a fly to put in an appearance, one fraught with peril.

How often does one wander along a trail and not notice such wonders? I suspect the answer is, most of the time, for this old hen anyway.

My moss colony was a miniature jeweled world, complete within itself, its glistening raindrops holding the whole sunlit forest in their depths, upside down of course. For the life of me, I can't come up with the right words to describe it. A tiny cosmos, teeming with life. Its own history. Its own traditions. Its own stories. Astonishing. Breathtaking. Radiant. Perfect.

Wordless Wednesday - Wild Bouquet

Thursday Poem - The Other Kingdoms

Consider the other kingdoms, The
trees, for example, with their mellow-sounding
titles: oak, aspen, willow.
Or the snow, for which peoples of the north
have dozens of words to describe its
different arrivals. Or the creatures, with their
thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze. Their
infallible sense of what their lives
are meant to be. Thus the world
grows rich, grows wild, and you too,
grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too
were born to be.

Mary Oliver

The Jester's Cap and Bells

Columbine (Aquilegia canadensis)

Thursday Poem - Aunt Leaf

Needing one, I invented her—

the great-great-aunt dark as hickory

called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud

or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.

Dear aunt, I'd call into the leaves,

and she'd rise up, like an old log in a pool,

and whisper in a language only the two of us knew

the word that meant follow,

and we'd travel

cheerful as birds

out of the dusty town and into the trees

where she would change us both into something quicker—

two foxes with black feet,

two snakes green as ribbons,

two shimmering fish—and all day we'd travel.

At day's end she'd leave me back at my own door

with the rest of my family,

who were kind, but solid as wood

and rarely wandered. While she,

old twist of feathers and birch bark,

would walk in circles wide as rain and then

float back

scattering the rags of twilight

on fluttering moth wings;

or she'd slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;

or she'd hang in the milky moonlight

burning like a medallion,

this bone dream, this friend I had to have,

this old woman made out of leaves.

Mary Oliver (from Twelve Moons)

The Jester's Cap 'n' Bells

Columbine (Aquilegia canadensis)

Wordless Wednesday - Written in the Trees

Sunday, Saying Yes to the world

What a wild ride this is. Spinning at six thousand miles per hour on a minuscule ball in a field of stars that stretches into millions of galaxies. Seriously, this is WILD.

Ralph Benmergui, from I Thought He Was Dead
(With thanks to Kate at Stubblejumpers Café)

And there in the woods...

Spotted Jewelweed or Touch-Me-Not

(Impatiens capensis)

There is a whole thicket of these colorful critters flowering along the creek in the woods, and we (Beau and I) were happy to find them in bloom this past weekend.

Jewelweed is a wild North American herbal with known medicinal benefits, and it has been widely used by indigenous groups for centuries. They used infusions made with the leaves to treat measles and fevers, poultices of bruised stems for the pain and itching of skin ailments like poison ivy, poison oak and poison sumac. Jewelweed contains compounds which neutralize uroshiol, the chemical causing contact dermatitis. The plant is a fine, effective and illustrious addition to one's wild medicine chest.

Jewelweed is also an important nectar source for hummingbirds, and they are usually about when it is in bloom. When the hummers reach into the bell-shaped blooms with their long beaks and brush up against nearby seed pods, the drupes explode, propelling their freight some distance into the air, hence the common name, Touch-Me-Not.

Although an annual, jewelweed is persistent and prolific. For years, I cultivated it in my garden, and because of its exploding seed pods, the plant came up everywhere. Keeping it in check was quite an undertaking. Having said that, I have just harvested seeds from the thicket in the woods and am about to give the species another try. It is cheerful stuff, and I like the freckled faces on the flowers when the plants are in bloom. In addition to being a "tried and true" wild medicinal, jewelweed also provides nourishment for hummers, bees and other insects, and that makes it a clear winner in my book.

Thursday Poem - When I am Wise

When I am wise in the speech of grass,
I forget the sound of words
and walk into the bottomland
and lie with my head on the ground
and listen to what grass tells me
about small places for wind to sing,
about the labor of insects,
about shadows dank with spice,
and the friendliness of weeds.

When I am wise in the dance of grass,
I forget the name and run
into the rippling bottomland
and lean against the silence which flows
out of the crumpled mountains
and rises through slick blades, pods,
wheat stems, and curly shoots,
and is carried by wind for miles
from my outstretched hands.

Mary Gray from Wild Song: Poems of the Natural World

Thursday Poem - Aunt Leaf

Needing one, I invented her—
the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.

Dear aunt, I'd call into the leaves,
and she'd rise up, like an old log in a pool,
and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
the word that meant follow,

and we'd travel
cheerful as birds
out of the dusty town and into the trees
where she would change us both into something quicker—
two foxes with black feet,
two snakes green as ribbons,
two shimmering fish—and all day we'd travel.

At day's end she'd leave me back at my own door
with the rest of my family,
who were kind, but solid as wood
and rarely wandered. While she,
old twist of feathers and birch bark,
would walk in circles wide as rain and then
float back

scattering the rags of twilight
on fluttering moth wings;

or she'd slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;

or she'd hang in the milky moonlight
burning like a medallion,

this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
this old woman made out of leaves.

Mary Oliver
(from Twelve Moons, 1978)

Friday Ramble - Golden

Large Yellow Lady Slipper

(Cypripedium parviflorum var pubescens) 

I sign on here in the morning, look at my photographic efforts, utter a silent "meh" and decide to say (or write) as little as possible. That seems to be happening more often than it used to.

Sequestered safe at home, I plunk myself down in front of the computer with a mug of tea and skim the early news. I cringe. I think about what is happening in the great wide world and am left speechless by horror, by sorrow and outrage. It isn't just the pandemic, but the hatred, barbarity and deliberate cruelty of recent human doings. How can we be doing this to each other? I can't find words for what is going on, or at least not the right words.

As I write, lady slippers are blooming in the Lanark highlands as they have for time out of mind. In their flickering alcoves, the orchids sing a capella in their own lilting voices, a testament to wildness and belonging and community. Whole hillsides of nodding golden beauty express the indwelling incandescent spirit of the living earth without any help at all from This Old Thing. Wild orchids are comforting and a balm to this world weary spirit.

My departed soulmate and I loved our wild orchid colony and watched over them for many years, protecting them from being eaten by deer and trampled by bears. Every year, I would lie down in the grass nearby and marvel at their perfection, have long conversations with them and capture them with my lens whenever I visited. In the midst of global disease and rampant human brutality, here they are again in all their golden perfection.

Events on the world stage have broken us wide open, and they compel us to confront aspects of our humanity that we would rather not acknowledge, let alone address. The orchids are a reminder of what it means to be human, and I am grateful for their counsel. Time to get to work.

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Belonging so fully to yourself that you're willing to stand alone is a wilderness—an untamed, unpredictable place of solitude and searching. It is a place as dangerous as it is breathtaking, a place as sought after as it is feared. The wilderness can often feel unholy because we can't control it, or what people think about our choice of whether to venture into that vastness or not. But it turns out to be the place of true belonging, and it's the bravest and most sacred place you will ever stand.

Brené Brown

Thursday Poem - Straight Talk From Fox

Listen says fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.

Mary Oliver, from Redbird

Thursday Poem - The Moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Margaret Atwood,
from Morning in the Burned House

Fey Steeds and Spirit Riders

Dryad's Saddle or Pheasant Back Mushroom 

(Polyporus squamosus or Cerioporus squamosus)

One goes into the woods in May in search of wildflowers and occasionally encounters these fetching fungi along the way instead.  It's always a treat to discover the arty structures, and they pop out of the woodwork around the same time as morels do, sometimes growing quite large - well over a foot across.  This one was growing out of an elm stump along the trail into the deep woods, and it could be seen from quite a distance because of its tawny ochre coloring.

The growths are a species of bracket fungus, and their common name derives from an ancient Greek belief that the tree spirits known as dryads found them comfortable and liked to use them as saddles. Do manes, legs, tails and hooves appear when nobody is watching, then canter off with tiny riders? As for the second common name, patterns on the fungi do resemble the lovely mottled feathering on a pheasant's back.

Tough in their maturity (like me, I suppose), the "saddles" are delicious when young and tender, and they smell like watermelons, apparently taste like them too. I haven't tried it, but one can make a lovely, stiff, creamy, thick paper out of their fibers.  All the saddles I have located so far are old and stringy so I haven't tried eating them. I simply like them for their shape (kind of like a federation starship), their vivid earthy hues, and the fact that they show up unexpectedly on stumps and fallen trees, no two the same.