The Cycles of Spring

I've been delighted this spring, witnessing the cycles of growth all around me in yard and woods. First were the daffodils and forsythia, then came the flowers of vinca vine and redbuds; several trees leafed out quite early, including our broad-canopied mystery tree near the front porch, while others remained externally dormant. Soon appeared wild sweet william near the cultivated tulips, and now emerge the pastel wild geraniums along with the dogwood whose large white petals are now dancing in the breeze instead of the small purple ones of the redbuds.

Having spent most of my adult life among coniferous forests in Colorado and Maine, I'd little idea of how the deciduous trees pulsed into life in their own rhythms. The hickory, walnut, and oak trees are leafing out last, our heavy weekend rain giving them a burst of energy!

So many more plants and trees to become acquainted with!

On Not Knowing

I follow the moving and evocative Brain Pickings, and today's post is one I am compelled to share. Both the reflection on Inspiration, and the reference to how damaging Certainty can be, spoke to me in Maria Popova's How Our Certitudes Keep Us Small and the Generative Power of Not Knowing, using Polish Poet and Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska's words as a doorway. Beautiful!

Meanwhile, back at the homestead, hubby and I spent the weekend outdoors cleaning away massive amounts of dead leaves and tidying up the neglected beds with an eye toward where to settle new plants in a couple weeks. Because our house is on a steep, rocky hillside, and surrounded by wild, tangly woods -- which I do totally love; once the trees leaf out, three sides of the house are snuggled in a green nest -- our challenge is to find resilient, hardy plants that thrive on limited sunshine.

At the end of an earlier post HERE, I had included photos from the back deck, that were from August and January. Below is one from this past weekend (taken from same spot); I delight in how our view continues to change through the seasons in our new home. While the trees are still bare from winter's hibernation, the fields across the bottoms have become verdant and magnificent, rather than brown.

April 2017

Trusting the Discourse

In winter, we trust that spring will follow.

I find myself having to trust that my current discourse, whether face-to-face or through writing, is necessary. As I delve into culture, religion, politics, and family genealogy, it feels like I’ve fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. I meant this exploration to be short-lived, a way to become more at ease during my transition to the Ozarks of Missouri where I’ve always felt like a square peg in a round hole. I expected that I could then quickly switch back to working on my novel, a work-in-progress that is about three-fourths complete. Instead, my inquiry process expands and contracts like a fire-breathing dragon, though, granted, this shouldn’t have been a surprise since the local community and our larger American society as a whole is, in fact, the result of complex people, alive as well as dead. 

History reaches forward as well as backward, and each moment of the present investigation compels me to seek an explanation, an origin, but one that never truly manifests as solid. The fear and anger of the American people is full-spectrum, derived from past disappointment and future expectation, compounded by myriad perceptions of how our lives should be — locally as well as globally. This, too, is part of the fieldwork and analysis applicable to all of us; I am within the spiral of events, yet also a witness to them.

Thus, what began as a form of personal therapy has developed into a desire for greater knowledge and, hopefully, deeper wisdom. I have to trust that there is a purpose to my seemingly endless research, encompassing both my inner and outer work, taking up vast amounts of time, and that it will ultimately benefit others as well as myself. And I have to trust that when I eventually return to working on my novel, that it will be enriched as well — perhaps its characters will be more alive and multi-faceted than they would have been without my detour into the quagmire of the American political and religious systems.

I end with Walt Whitman on "How Literature Bolsters Democracy" … certainly something to aspire to when writing! 

Blooming Cholla

The many varieties of Cholla are blooming, as is the Ocotillo, and the Prickly Pear is just starting. Along with myriad other plants, these desert survivors continue to blossom and thrive, which is still amazing to me since we haven't received any rain in weeks. As I walked through the desert, splashes of bright color met me in every direction.

Don't the Ocotillo flowers look like birds?

Red Flowers on Cholla Cactus

Cholla, Ocotillo and a young Saguaro

Yellow Flowers on Cholla Cactus

I don't know what this bush is but it's everywhere!

The Bottlebrush tree in our yard, in full bloom!

Between Rocks and a Hard Place

Desert Blooms

Fairy Duster

Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum

Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum

Tohono Chul Park, Tucson

Of Oranges and Agave

The oranges continue to drop 

-- thud! plop! -- 

upon the ground, 

some from over-ripening 

and others assisted in the descent 

by a hungry woodpecker poking holes. 

There's one with a hole!

The woodpeckers also fly

from one agave stalk to the other,

pecking away

(alas, I didn't get any photos of the birds).

Merely two weeks ago, 

the agave were barely awake and stretching.

But, the multicolored poles of agave 

are shooting up fast in their race to touch the sun. 

The leader is currently well over six feet tall 

and none of them are giving any hints 

as to how high they intend to reach. 

Spiky spindles 

expand and contract; 

I can almost hear them 

breathing and growing 

at impressive speed. 

Because I don't know what kind of agave live in our yard,
everything they do is a beautiful surprise!

Marinade

Mother Earth Marinating Her Spring Greens