Spring??

Is it really Spring? The calendar says so, and yet I wonder. The other day the wind whipped through the branches, and dark gray clouds swept across the sky. The lone varied thrush that spent the winter here still pecked at sunflower seeds under the bird feeder. Shouldn’t it have flown north by now? And back East, snow was falling.

 And yet daffodils are in bloom. The first tentative blossoms are opening on our early rhododendron. Flowering trees in the neighborhood are bursting into pink and white. The signs are there—perhaps a bit later than last year, but definitely there.

 As I drove to the store, I looked up to see a flock of ducks or geese—hard to tell which when I’m trying to keep my eyes on the road. I immediately wondered if they were flying north. As I glanced up, I could see the flock constantly changing shape as some birds dropped back and other birds led briefly. Nobody seemed to want the leadership. Instead the flock drifted about in a big circle, going nowhere in particular.

 I guess it’s that time of year. Winter hasn’t quite left; spring hasn’t quite arrived. We are stuck in the middle, not sure what to expect. But we have hope. Spring will come. That much we know from experience. Although it may be hard to believe on cold, dark, dreary days, Earth is still revolving about the Sun, and the seasons continue in their usual pattern. We can have faith that warmer, sunnier days are on their way.

 And for my southern hemisphere friends, that means fall is coming—and I hope it brings a refreshing coolness after summer heat. Up here in the cold North, we would be happy to trade places, at least briefly.

Read Full Post »

Bare Trees

Late winter, and deciduous trees stand naked against the sky. In a month or so, buds will open and green leaves reach for the clouds. Pink and white blossoms will burst open on some of those trees, brightening rainy spring days. But now they stand stripped of decoration, bare branches spreading out.

With leaves gone, the form of the tree beneath can be seen. Some trees are pleasingly symmetrical with shapely limbs. My photographer’s eye relishes the beauty of their design. Others show ragged edges and broken branches; they have not weathered the storms as well. Each has a story to tell.

Life’s storms batter me, too. Most of the time I can hide my wounds under the leaves of activity, the blossoms of a smile. Nobody sees my pain, and I don’t see the hurts of those around me. We go about our lives with the breeze gently ruffling our days, appearing happy and fulfilled to anyone who glances our way.

But sometimes life strips away our defenses. A job is lost, a spouse dies, cancer strikes. We can no longer keep up the façade that all is well. Instead we find our innermost self exposed for all to see, our lives naked against the sky. When that happens, what pattern will I reveal? Will it be a broken form with stubby branches, or will people be inspired by the beauty that is within?

Lord, may my roots always be in You, so that my branches may grow strong.

Read Full Post »

Late February Snow

It fell during the night, covering trees and houses and grass in a thin layer of fluffy white. I know those who live in cold parts of the Northern Hemisphere are probably sick of snow by now–and I don’t blame you. It has been a rough year in many places. In my neck of the woods, however, February snow is a rare and beautiful thing.

The temperature has crept above freezing, and so I hurry out to enjoy the snow before it melts. It accents the bushes and trees, drifts in among the sprouting bulbs, lightens the path into the woods. As the sun comes out from behind clouds, the snow glistens bright and clean. So nice. I want to run through it like a child, laughing in glee. Instead I snap pictures and breathe in deeply of the cold air.

By lunchtime most of it has melted. A cold front comes in to preserve the bits that are left–clumps of snow turn ice hard in the bitter wind. I watch from indoors now. Soon it will gone, and spring will arrive with greenness and bright flowers. The snow is transient, here for a moment and gone, like so many other things in life–not all good, not all bad, just a moment to be lived and to give thanks for.

Read Full Post »

Cloud Watching–Better than Television

Cotton candy, ocean breakers, dark stallions rearing up in terror–clouds bring so many different images to mind. We took our usual walk the other day–husband and I, along with our faithful black Lab, for whom walks are the most exciting thing in the world next to dinner and playing frisbee. The sky was typical Oregon spring/late winter–a kaleidoscope of whites, blues, and ever-changing shades of gray.

I brought along my camera and made my patient husband–and not-so-patient dog–wait while I snapped pictures of the dancing clouds overhead. “I have to share this with my faithful blog readers,” I explained. “They’ll both be waiting for more photos.”

As I walked, I tried to come up with words to describe the clouds as they shifted and changed color, alternately hiding and revealing the bright blue skies above. The sky so big and wide and amazing. But you know what they saw about a thousand words. So I think I’ll just post some of the pictures and hope you enjoy them. I love watching clouds–it’s definitely better than watching television!

Read Full Post »

Ice Patterns

We bundle up and head out the door. The wind blows, but the sun is shining. Our black lab pulls at her leash, and we traipse down the hill, the wind at our backs. Refreshing, I think, that’s a good word for it. Brisk. That sounds better than icy cold, doesn’t it? At least it isn’t 40 below zero (F), and we don’t have two feet of snow. I can handle a little cold East Wind.

 The sun on my back feels good, warming me just a bit. We turn and head back up the street, and I see ice in the ditch. Where the trees cast shadows and the sun can’t reach, bright ice patterns curl around grass clumps, through gravel and mud, out toward the sunshine. Broken sheets of crystal water with bits of moss and algae adding green tones to the design.

 Another little fragment of nature’s transient beauty.

Read Full Post »

The Warbler and the Chickadee

I first noticed the little bird hopping about in the dogwood tree near the suet feeder. One of my usual visitors, a chestnut-backed chickadee flew past it to grab some suet. And then the fun began. The new little bird began chasing the chickadee. From one side of the tree to the other. Then to a nearby bush. And finally the poor chickadee escaped to the brush across the yard.

Apparently satisfied, the new bird settled in to peck at the suet, then look for insects in the tree. What was it? Not the usual junco or house sparrow. Small, in winter colors, hard to identify from quick flashes through the branches. I watched more closely until I saw a flash of yellow. Ah. The yellow at the base of the tail was a dead giveaway: the yellow-rumped warbler. Formerly known as Audubon’s warbler, but merged with the myrtle warbler into one species. (I hate it when they do that, and I have to learn new names.)

The chickadee returned. The warbler chased it again. Up, down, around, until the chickadee again retreated. Each time that little chickadee tried to return, the warbler went crazy. And yet juncos and house sparrows munched on sunflower seeds nearby, totally ignored by that warbler. What did it have against chickadees? Was there prejudice among birds? I never did figure it out. Eventually I crept out to try to get a photo of the warbler with the yellow backside, but it would not cooperate. Warbler and chickadee both disappeared into the gathering dusk. Another one of nature’s little mysteries.

(not my photos)

Read Full Post »

Winter Quiet

The sun is shining, a little winter miracle here in rainy Oregon. And so I wander down to our small woods to look for signs of spring and seek the quiet of trees and ferns.

Winter woods hold a special kind of quiet. The sound of the freeway in the distance fades as I enter—or perhaps I simply choose not to hear it. Soggy brown leaves cushion my steps, and the only sound is the occasional crack of twigs under my feet. There is no rustle of small creatures or chirping of birds; they are either gone for the season or settled into cozy burrows and thickets, as evening approaches.

The late afternoon sun slants through the trees, highlighting dangling filbert catkins and mossy tree trunks. Winter has brought an openness to the woods. The nettle patch has died down, and I wander into areas I wouldn’t dare to enter in the summer. Has that tree always had ferns growing up its trunk? So much green here, even in the winter. I feel like I have wandered into the Hoh rainforest, with its moss-covered branches and fern-lined paths.

The beauty of moss and ferns, the glory of the setting sun, the calmness of trees stretching to the sky—it all sinks into my soul, filling me with peace. Why do I always forget how much I need the woods? The woods, the shore, the mountains—all connect me to a greater reality, to the miracle of God’s creation where I can just exist and feel whole again.

Read Full Post »

Gray Day

Outside all is gray. The fine, steady rain we call Oregon mist is falling, shrouding the world in its veil. Gray buildings pass by as I walk down the gray sidewalk. A gray bridge rises against the nothingness of the sky, and dark, naked trees lift bony fingers against the dull gray blanket. Gray pigeons huddle in long rows on wires and light poles. The grayness creeps into me, and I feel a leaden weight settle in my heart, cold and dark as the clouds. I stand silent, waiting for the train.

 Then three pigeons alight on the platform. In constant motion, they bobble along, searching for food, pecking here and there for crumbs, looking up with beady eyes. Each of the gray birds has a different pattern of gray, black, and white. Pink legs add a touch of color. One bird sports a necklace of iridescent green. I smile at them as they peck their way across the platform, very much alive in their grayness, and the clouds leave my soul.

Read Full Post »

December Rain

When I got up, it was cool, but dry outside. By the time I left the house, rain was lightly falling. When I reached the light rail parking lot, it had become, as another passenger put it, “a monsoon.” Wind blew the rain into me, leaving dark splotches on my jeans as I gratefully settled into a dry seat by the heater. When I disembarked at my destination, the rain had stopped, and bits of blue showed through the clouds. Half an hour later, sunshine poured down from blue skies marred only by a few windswept gray and white clouds along the horizons. When I got home, however, an hour later, dark clouds were moving back in. We attempted a walk with the dog, but soon gave up as the wind and rain returned.

This is a typical winter (okay, almost winter) day in western Oregon. Rain and wind, occasional drying spells, more rain. We enjoy the brief visits by the sun and accept the wet days as the price we pay for living in a place where green, growing things are abundant and drought a rarity. Where only once every fifty years or so do we get buried under feet of snow, and where twisters and typhoons are almost unknown. (Strangely enough, not long after I wrote this, a tornado ripped through little Aumsville, Oregon. How weird!)

Rain? Well, yeah, it does bring flooding and seeps in through leaky roofs. (Glad we have a new roof for the winter!) But, overall, we can handle it. Everyone knows that true Oregonians are born with webbed feet. (Think Beavers and Ducks.) And if it gets too bad, we only need turn to Genesis and learn how to build an ark.

Read Full Post »

Restless

View from my window

Restless, I sit in front of my computer, reading essay after essay, assigning what I determine to be the correct score. Working. Outside my window, thin white clouds slide across the pale winter blue sky. In front of them a cedar stands tall and green, and stretching maple branches form shapely patterns against the blue and white. The icy East wind has died down. A junco swoops past, into the holly tree, white outer tail feathers flashing. Two robins land in the maple. I squirm in my chair and stretch my legs.

 Shadows lengthen. Darkness will fall before my shift ends and I am free to leave my computer for the day. But I still have one break remaining. I pull on a warm coat and step outside to fill the bird feeder. The air chills my face, and I have to break a thin layer of ice on the bird bath. By the time I get back inside and hang up my coat, a golden-crowned sparrow, a song sparrow, and two spotted towhees are pecking at seeds I tossed on the ground, soon joined by a black-capped chickadee at the feeder and another song sparrow on the ground. My offering is appreciated. Refreshed, I return to my work. Only an hour to go!

(written in December, 2009)

Read Full Post »