That’s fall in the north woods of Wisconsin.
I have two favorite times of the year ... spring and fall. Spring charms me with its unexpected sightings of green softening the dirt, the smells of earth ripening, the flurry of blossoms opening quietly. It reawakens and restores my spirit following long months of snow, cold, and darkness.
But fall is different. Something special. This morning as I walked out the door into this full-color world I wondered how similar the arrival of fall is to film’s transition from black-and-white to color.
Suddenly the world is seen through a different lens. It is brighter, more alive ... real.
This week my canopy of green erupted into a kaleidoscope of color. And when I look out my window or walk down a path, the intensity of green, gold, and scarlet flashes into my soul.
Summer’s full-bodied, voluptuous, and wild excesses now gradually die down and transition into a quieter, more subdued palette. But first, I’m swept into this drama of season’s change. And, temporary as it is, I glory in its grandeur.
I’m grateful to be witness to these cycles of life ... and death. And I’m reminded of filmmaker Ken Burns’ 12 hour documentary: “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” When describing what he most loved about the parks, Burns said: “The original impulse of the national parks is spiritual…. It’s saying that you could find God in nature more easily than through a dogmatic devotion that required you to find God in a cathedral built by the hands of man.” (www.newsweek.com/id/216171)
My thoughts exactly.
Showing posts with label Mother Nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mother Nature. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2009
Monday, March 31, 2008
Nature's Quiet Miracles
Even though the pulse of spring throbs through my veins … It’s still not here! Yesterday I sat out on the deck for several hours just noticing the sounds—and the quiet. It was 50 degrees in the sun (yes, I wrapped myself in a blanket). What a miracle to soak in the sun’s warmth while surrounded by acres and acres of snow!
Today clouds cover the sun and temps are back down to 20 degrees. Both earth and sky are white, the trunks of trees the only darkness in this wooded landscape. I can see a few flakes of snow—and now a growing abundance—drifting down-down-down.
The earth unveils herself a bit at a time … Now we have a large front yard of mud and we “walk the plank” (a 2x4 board we’ve placed over the worst of it) each day to get to the other side. The drive is so snowy-muddy that we parked our car at the bottom early this morning to avoid driving on it, wearing deep tracks into the slippery-slidey muck.
Frances and I (i.e., Same Spirit) are collaborating with Pinehurst Inn B&B on a spring retreat May 15-18, 2008 called “Nature’s Quiet Miracles.” We’re offering a beautiful location, healthful meals, bodywork sessions, daily T’ai Chi Chih moving meditation, meditative walks through the woods and on the beach, group writing and conversation sessions, ritual, and lots of time to nap-read-write-walk-observe-converse-listen-dream-r-e-l-a-x-BE. I’ve been contemplating quiet and wondering …
What is quiet? It’s space to breathe and listen and hear the sounds of nature all around me. It’s making a choice to sit instead of run, lie instead of stand, observe instead of do, and gently float on the tides of thought and senses instead of control what I experience.
Quiet is taking the time to be alone. It is taking the time to hear, see, feel, experience your Self without any need to don masks or personas.…
Quiet is watching the waving branches of a tree, listening to the shuddering flap of bird wings as they flutter away from the feeder, noticing the small brown leaf that has melted its way through the crusty snow all the way down to the earth.
Quiet is experienced in the cheep of a bird flying overhead, the gentle tapping of a squirrel’s paw nearby, the repetitive knock-knock-knock of a Downy Woodpecker’s beak.
When I quieten down, I don’t necessarily experience total silence. Rather, I enter into a state of being where speed, hurry and busyness are purposefully set aside in order to rest—truly rest—peacefully in the moment.
If this opportunity for quiet appeals to you, contact us through our website, www.same-spirit.com, contact Nancy or Steve at 877-499-7651, or go to www.pinehurstinn.com. Ahhh ….
Today clouds cover the sun and temps are back down to 20 degrees. Both earth and sky are white, the trunks of trees the only darkness in this wooded landscape. I can see a few flakes of snow—and now a growing abundance—drifting down-down-down.
The earth unveils herself a bit at a time … Now we have a large front yard of mud and we “walk the plank” (a 2x4 board we’ve placed over the worst of it) each day to get to the other side. The drive is so snowy-muddy that we parked our car at the bottom early this morning to avoid driving on it, wearing deep tracks into the slippery-slidey muck.
Frances and I (i.e., Same Spirit) are collaborating with Pinehurst Inn B&B on a spring retreat May 15-18, 2008 called “Nature’s Quiet Miracles.” We’re offering a beautiful location, healthful meals, bodywork sessions, daily T’ai Chi Chih moving meditation, meditative walks through the woods and on the beach, group writing and conversation sessions, ritual, and lots of time to nap-read-write-walk-observe-converse-listen-dream-r-e-l-a-x-BE. I’ve been contemplating quiet and wondering …
What is quiet? It’s space to breathe and listen and hear the sounds of nature all around me. It’s making a choice to sit instead of run, lie instead of stand, observe instead of do, and gently float on the tides of thought and senses instead of control what I experience.
Quiet is taking the time to be alone. It is taking the time to hear, see, feel, experience your Self without any need to don masks or personas.…
Quiet is watching the waving branches of a tree, listening to the shuddering flap of bird wings as they flutter away from the feeder, noticing the small brown leaf that has melted its way through the crusty snow all the way down to the earth.
Quiet is experienced in the cheep of a bird flying overhead, the gentle tapping of a squirrel’s paw nearby, the repetitive knock-knock-knock of a Downy Woodpecker’s beak.
When I quieten down, I don’t necessarily experience total silence. Rather, I enter into a state of being where speed, hurry and busyness are purposefully set aside in order to rest—truly rest—peacefully in the moment.
If this opportunity for quiet appeals to you, contact us through our website, www.same-spirit.com, contact Nancy or Steve at 877-499-7651, or go to www.pinehurstinn.com. Ahhh ….
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Ah, Spring!
It’s the 11th of March, 10 days ‘til Spring Equinox. Pure white snow presses itself tightly against the earth. Its undulating dips and mounds replicate the Earth’s feminine nature. Trees sway their naked branches in circulating rhythms. They look like they’re still asleep but now there’s a whisper—just a whisper—of rebirth. (Their sap is running and it’s time to harvest their deliciousness.)
I can feel it … the advent of spring. It’s subtle, I admit. But there are signs. Signs! Cleaner, clearer skies. More intense shades of blue. Wider, brighter expanses of light. Here and there, an island of dark earth and dry, brown grass emerges amidst the vast expanse of frozen landscape.
The air is different. I can’t tell you how exactly. But spring quivers in the breezes.
The birds’ winter routine is altering too. They no longer vie for their spot at the feeder with the same level of competitive violence. Last week there were a dozen Pine Grosbeaks surveying the deck floor for oily black sunflower seeds. Black-Capped Chickadees, Nuthatches, Pine Siskins, Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers lurked at the feeder. Now, one single Chickadee feeds alone.
The cat anchors himself on the edge of the deck, his head dipping over the side to monitor the squirrels below. He hasn’t hunted that single-mindedly for months. The dog, his light fur coat no match for cooler temps, tends to his own routine of hunt and sniff, hunt and sniff. Last night he came in and out repeatedly as dusk fell. His vocalizations have increased dramatically, another indication that more creatures are afoot in the dark woods that surround us.
Excitement percolates beneath the surface of my skin. There is a subtle, shifting change despite the fact that I continue to wear wool socks, long underwear, layers of polypropylene, and Sorel boots. Something new waits beneath layers of snow and sturdy ice; some new being hides behind well-insulated walls and sealed windows and doors. When will it, she, I, we emerge?
I can feel it … the advent of spring. It’s subtle, I admit. But there are signs. Signs! Cleaner, clearer skies. More intense shades of blue. Wider, brighter expanses of light. Here and there, an island of dark earth and dry, brown grass emerges amidst the vast expanse of frozen landscape.
The air is different. I can’t tell you how exactly. But spring quivers in the breezes.
The birds’ winter routine is altering too. They no longer vie for their spot at the feeder with the same level of competitive violence. Last week there were a dozen Pine Grosbeaks surveying the deck floor for oily black sunflower seeds. Black-Capped Chickadees, Nuthatches, Pine Siskins, Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers lurked at the feeder. Now, one single Chickadee feeds alone.
The cat anchors himself on the edge of the deck, his head dipping over the side to monitor the squirrels below. He hasn’t hunted that single-mindedly for months. The dog, his light fur coat no match for cooler temps, tends to his own routine of hunt and sniff, hunt and sniff. Last night he came in and out repeatedly as dusk fell. His vocalizations have increased dramatically, another indication that more creatures are afoot in the dark woods that surround us.
Excitement percolates beneath the surface of my skin. There is a subtle, shifting change despite the fact that I continue to wear wool socks, long underwear, layers of polypropylene, and Sorel boots. Something new waits beneath layers of snow and sturdy ice; some new being hides behind well-insulated walls and sealed windows and doors. When will it, she, I, we emerge?
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Approaching Storm
It's midday on a Tuesday near the end of June and, though I should be marketing my upcoming t'ai chi chih classes or advertising our office space on Madeline Island, I'm caught in the hushed expectation of an approaching storm. The temp is now down to 60 from a high of 80+ and, when Frances and I walk out onto the deck, we hear the roar of approaching wind through the trees. The sky to the south is dark and as a few scattered raindrops begin to fall we scurry to carry our planters and hanging flower baskets into the porch and living room. I rush to the kitchen sink to draw a pitcher of water in preparation for an electrical outage.
After all precious living plants are moved to shelter inside we step onto the deck again to survey the rapid weather change and listen to the whoosh of wind, drawing closer. As Frances opens the patio door, though, the sun shines down. And, even as we stand by the railing looking east toward Lake Superior and watching the darkness of rain falling, we feel the sunlight grow stronger, the heat rise, and the sounds of gathering winds collapse into a low, distant murmur. Our anticipated storm has passed us by and we're left with unused adrenaline, unwatered flowers, unnecessary preparations. Ahh, life in the woods.
I return to the computer to post my first blog and sigh with relief. Somehow the intimidation of trying something new is made smaller by the just-missed cycling storm of spent and unspent energy that surrounded us moments ago. Nature's gathering power puts everything into perspective. Once again, I'm brought into the present. Just this moment. Now.
After all precious living plants are moved to shelter inside we step onto the deck again to survey the rapid weather change and listen to the whoosh of wind, drawing closer. As Frances opens the patio door, though, the sun shines down. And, even as we stand by the railing looking east toward Lake Superior and watching the darkness of rain falling, we feel the sunlight grow stronger, the heat rise, and the sounds of gathering winds collapse into a low, distant murmur. Our anticipated storm has passed us by and we're left with unused adrenaline, unwatered flowers, unnecessary preparations. Ahh, life in the woods.
I return to the computer to post my first blog and sigh with relief. Somehow the intimidation of trying something new is made smaller by the just-missed cycling storm of spent and unspent energy that surrounded us moments ago. Nature's gathering power puts everything into perspective. Once again, I'm brought into the present. Just this moment. Now.
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