There’s something irresistible about being INSIDE a tree. I knew that early. Reading My Side of the Mountain, I met my kindred spirit, Sam Gribley. At age twelve, Sam ran away from home and survived winter in the Catskill Mountains by living inside a giant hollowed-out hemlock.
My early reading also included Greek myths featuring un-kindred spirits. For instance, there were the Dryads, a form of nymph who lived inside trees. Even Christianly literature, like The Chronicles of Narnia, would harken back to the animation of trees. Mr. Tumnus warns Lucy about the Dryads: “The woods are full of her spies, even some of the trees are on her side.” And then, you have to admit… trees are pretty special in the Bible, from beginning to end.
For those reasons — and because I’m part Scottish (my excuse for strange excess) — when I see a giant hollowed-out tree, it still tugs at the little boy brain in my old man body. That happened yesterday. The question was inevitable: “Can I get inside?” One disturbing picture — that I’ll spare you — says, “Yes, I can get inside.” After removing my daypack, I was swallowed whole by an ancient tree at White Rock Lake.
I often think about what the little field critters see as they walk about in this big world. Flowers that are tiny and inconspicuous to us are their daily delight (at least I fancy God has given them some ability to appreciate beauty).
No, this is not my property, or even one I’m photographing for a Realtor. It’s a pile of dirt with a “Sold” sign in front. Whoever bought this pile of dirt has reason to hope for the mansion that will sit there some day. I get it. I too am sold on the HOPE for infinitely better things some endless day.
These are Buxbaum’s Speedwell plants collected from the field and assembled in one pot. The photograph itself is nothing to be proud of. In fact, as I wrote on Facebook, people who don’t read my poetry (and even those who DO) may think I’ve lost my mind. A pot of wildflowers. What’s up with that? “Humor him, he’s nutty.” See my poem “Celebrate What Is!“
For note, when evening shuts,
A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the grey:
A whisper from the west
Shoots—”Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.”
Nothing gets our cats more excited than the process of making the bed. Their favorite part is getting under the sheets or blankets. Is it the warmth? The thought that they are frustrating the humans? Who knows. They’re cats.
Reminds me of the calla lillies in Mom’s garden. As a child, I loved to take apart that tight central column of flowers (the spadix). Like a true Scottish lad, I thought the little insects I found on these flowers might be fairies. Aren’t aphids a form of fairy?