For me, there are very few things more relaxing or rewarding than resting my head upon the soft, warm head of my velvety-eared dog and hearing her deeply exhale. That grateful sigh, that moment of "Ahhhhhh...You've found me...It's my turn again...My life if good!" It's a moment of realignment for me, of tilting the balance back towards the things that truly matter. It's a recalibration, a graceful adjustment, an acknowledgment of the Now.
In the Northeastern United States, this is what the four seasons seem to do--adjust and balance. As soon as one season has reached the tipping point of enjoyment--that point where it's gotten to be just a bit too much for us--presto! It changes. It exits stage left, politely making way for the grand entrance of the next season. It's the perfect balancing act. Certainly, there have been the anomalies, the rare years when one of the seasons has forgetten its cue--a blizzard in October, a shivery-shiver day in August--but for the most part, they behave accordingly, thank you very much!
So, while we may talk (crazy-talk) of moving to a tropical island, or California, or New Zealand, or any place that isn't this place, I know in my heart that I cannot leave this respectful balance of the seasons and what each one heralds: The changing leaves, the falling snow, the bursting blossoms, and the balmy beach--each one, delicious and dramatic. I am so grateful that the seasons take their turns in my neck of the woods--like the most well-behaved of children, or like patient dogs resting in the corners of a cozy room--each giving the other its equal time to shine.
Your turn: Do the four seasons take turns in your neck of the woods, or do some hog the stage more than others?
As a photographer, I've always been visually interested in borders and boundaries--the fences we build, the stone walls dividing land, the doors between rooms, the horizon line separating the sea and sky. Of course, borders define our homes and our towns--two entities that we probably feel we know pretty well. So, I was pleasantly surprised last weekend to take a historical tour of my town with my family and discover twenty-six nationally registered landmarks within its twenty-one square miles. Twenty-six landmarks! Before the tour, I would have been hard-pressed to name four of them, but there they were, all with their plaques and dates, proving their hard-won histories.
My favorite was a Quaker meeting house dating back to 1758. Although I've lived in this New Jersey town for just over seven years and felt like I really knew my way around it, I never even knew this meeting house existed until three weeks ago, when my son wrote a social studies report on it. I had never been down this particular road before, and it made me wonder what else I could discover within these seemingly familiar boundaries.
A few months back, I read a beautifully written novel about discovery (especially self-discovery) and pushing physical and emotional limits, called The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. The main character, without any planning or even proper footwear, just starts walking across the whole of England because he learns an old friend is dying at the northernmost point of the country. His feet just sort of propel him forward, toward his friend. I'm a big book-underliner, and by the time I reached the last page, this book was thoroughly marked-up with passages I loved, including this one:
"The sun pressed warm on the back of his head and shoulders as he strolled down the avenues of new housing. Harold glanced in at people's windows, and sometimes they were empty, and sometimes people were staring right back at him and he felt obliged to rush on. Sometimes, though, there was an object that he didn't expect; a porcelain figure, or a vase, and even a tuba. The tender pieces of themselves that people staked as boundaries against the outside world."
The book is all about Harold taking notice of things large and small, expanding where he thought he could go emotionally and physically, seeing familiar things in a different light, and seeing new things altogether. (I devoured it.)
I had the good fortune (and great timing!) last week to turn on the TV for a quick check on the weather and instead find one of my favorite musicians, Yo-Yo Ma, speaking on "CBS This Morning" about his new CD, A Playlist Without Borders. I could listen to Yo-Yo Ma all day long, and I don't just mean his recent masterpieces or those YouTube videos of him as a child prodigy. But here's what he said that really struck a chord with me (oh, dear--horrible pun unintended!):
"In terms of our borders, we determine our borders. Some of them are political, some of them are demographic-economic borders, but then there's the border of the imagination. And that one, we have the most control over. We can control where our own edges are, and that's where the growth happens."
I loved his sentiment of exploring the boundaries of imagination within ourselves. Because we don't always need a guided tour for everything. Sometimes, even if we stay in one place, quietly looking inward, we can stretch our boundaries in ways we never thought were possible.
Your turn: Are there things in your town or city that you've only just discovered? Have you ever pushed the limits of your physical or mental strength to try something new? Please share in the Comments section below. If you are reading this post via email subscription or mobile device, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com from a computer to see the comments and leave one of your own. (Don't forget to click the box for subscribing to comments so you can follow the conversation.)
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No, this is not a ranting post against gas-guzzlers. I've already admitted that I'm driving a minivan at this juncture of my life, but will gladly trade it in for a hybrid when my children age out of the single digits. This is a post that expands "Carpe Diem" to "Carpe Diem Visu Capere", or "Seize the Day to Capture the View." (In case you can't tell, I faked the last two words, taking a little Google stab at some Latin. Don't hold me to it!)
This morning, after dropping off the kids at the bus stop, I was on my way in the aforementioned minivan to pick up the delightful Delilah from a weekend boarding at The Woof & Purr Inn. (Is that not the cutest name ever for a pet kennel?) I was driving along the familiar, winding road from our town to the next, a road I've traveled perhaps a hundred times in the last few years. It struck me how often I've thought to myself, "I need to come back here sometime and take some photographs along this road." Well, when exactly is "sometime" when I'm always on the road between two places, rushing from here to there and back again? So, even though I was quite eager to hug my velvety-eared dog, I finally--finally!--pulled the car over and got out with my iCamera iPhone, back-tracking on foot up the road and snapping random shots of the gorgeousness I had just driven past. (It seems as good a time as any to remind you that these are photos of the real New Jersey, a far cry from Snooki and the Housewives.)
If I waited until my return trip, I would have missed the morning mist at 8:17, the rising sun at that particular point in the sky, these turning trees, this twisting path, that splendid horse munching its hay for breakfast, all in their perfect places at this exact point in time. Because it's always changing--the light, the leaves, our lives. So often at moments like these, I remember a passage that deeply affected me from The Sheltering Skyby Paul Bowles: "...we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."
Life is not a drive-by experience. Now and then, you've got to stop the car, get out, and admire the view. Even better, take a few pictures. Better still, take a walk with your camera, because lately, driving strikes me as a cascading series of missed photo opportunities.Very rarely do we park at the Scenic Overlook; instead, we entirely overlook (fail to notice) the scenery from Point A to Point B. And then we'll never find out how the scene just might bend and change to welcome us. Take, for example, this fellow who trotted over to say hello to me this morning...
On my walk back to the van, I picked up about a dozen discarded plastic bottles for the recycling bin. I'll never quite understand the absent-minded callousness of driving through the countryside (or anywhere, really) and tossing trash out the window. But, I don't want to dwell on the negative. I spoke soft words to a gentle horse on this fine morning, and that will be my mental snapshot to carry with me through the years. Luckily, I also have an actual photograph this time around.
Your turn: Do you make time to stop and smell the roses, or more to this point, time to snap the photos? Do you take advantage of Scenic Overlooks or do you overlook the scenery? Have any books made you notice more beauty in your daily life? Please share in the Comments section below. If you are reading this post via email subscription or mobile device, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com from a computer to see the comments and leave one of your own. (Don't forget to click the box for subscribing to comments so you can follow the conversation.)
Isn't it amazing (and downright merciful) how many opportunities Mother Nature gives us to start a new chapter? Winter with its blank slate of fresh, white snow and New Year's resolutions; spring with its hopeful blooms and closet clean-outs; summer with its slower pace and leisurely vacations; and now autumn--all bursting with vibrant leaves, crisp apples and comical pumpkins, new teachers and sharpened pencils, cooler air scented with cozy fireplaces, and the clearest blue skies. With each season, it seems like we're perpetually beginning.
In keeping with this theme, I'm working on exciting new projects for this blog, which I'll unveil within the next couple of months. Here's a clue: Two of them have to do with photography, which is becoming more and more my favorite passion. (I don't want to call it a "hobby"--for me, the word "hobby" always conjures up messing around in basements, creating a lot of sawdust and glued-on rickrack, and doesn't convey any deep or lasting sense of interest.)
Continuing in the spirit of Grand Beginnings for fall, I went to a wedding in Montauk last weekend. Montauk is at the very end of the Hamptons, and is completely "un-Hamptons-ish", which is to say that it doesn't put on any airs. The groom, an effortlessly charming fellow whom I've long-called "one of the last of the great New York bachelors", said it was fitting that he would have a beginning that started at "The End." In perfect harmony with the evening, two swans glided past the ceremony on a mirror of water, as if on cue, modeling pure grace and supreme elegance in the way that only swans can. You cannot buy better wedding decorations than these...
I have one more beginning for fall, but this one is for you to try. It's an easy, inexpensive switch that will make a big impact for years to come. This season, perhaps as an homage to the lovely trees, switch from paper napkins to cloth napkins. We haven't bought paper napkins in years and we don't miss them at all. (I guess you could call me a "woman of the cloth.") If you buy a good stash of cloth napkins (or sew them yourself, if that's your hobby passion), you will be set for years of use (or more specifically, re-use). They generally can pass through more than one (unmessy) meal for your family if you keep them in their settings at the table, so you don't need to fret about the ever-growing Laundry Mountain. Buy a big enough supply and use them for parties, too--they are so much more elegant (and much more economical). There's really no need for paper napkins, and the trees--with their beautiful leaves most resplendent in fall--will thank you.
Your turn: What new leaf are you turning over for fall? Any big changes in the air? Have you made the switch to cloth napkins at your house? Please share in the Comments section below. If you are reading this post via email subscription or mobile device, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com from a computer to see the comments and leave one of your own. (Don't forget to click the box for subscribing to comments so you can follow the conversation.)
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Oh, dear reader! This was indeed a vexing predicament for me. As much as I've gone off the deep end with photographing bugs lately, I do not (I repeat, do not) want this blog to become "The Bug Blog: All Bugs, All the Time!" Having already written four posts that (literally) focus on bugs within the last three months (but who's counting?), I had other post ideas for this week, featuring lovely photographs (if I do say so myself) of autumn leaves and their exuberant palette, chrysanthemums bursting into vibrant bloom, crisp-blue fall skies with feathery, fair-weather clouds. And then--THEN!--look who dropped in for a visit!
How am I supposed to turn down a critter with that face, a face that clearly says, "I mean business!"? He (or she?) looked like one of the alien-villains from the bar scene in the original "Star Wars." This was the largest bug (about five inches long) that I've ever encountered at close distance--and by close, I mean within three inches of my face, because you know I am a total nut with my macro lens. (My iPhone's Olloclip, however, was useless on a bug that clearly shops in the XXL department.)
I spent an hour or so with this serious-looking fellow (or dame?), snapping away from every possible angle, and learning more about praying mantises within that hour than I've learned in the last four decades and change. For example:
The praying mantis can turn its head 180 degrees (the only insect who can do it). I witnessed it for myself, as everytime I neared it with my camera, it turned my way to pose. (To be honest, it freaked me out a bit. Did I mention this was a very large bug?)
I didn't witness it for myself (phew!), but I learned that the notorious mating behavior of praying mantises is not as common as you'd think. Only a small percentage of the lovers end up Murderer and Murdered. One theory is that human observers exacerbate the cannibalistic mating behavior. (In other words, mind your own business, looky-loos!)
The praying mantis has five eyes--the largest set (which can change colors) has wide-angle vision and helps it judge the distance to an enemy before striking. The three small eyes between the large ones (see the head shot above) are for light detection. It's pretty hard to sneak up on a praying mantis. They're a bit like parents of teenagers, with "eyes on the back of their heads."
Even though they've got more than their fair share of eyes, they've got only one ear--on the belly, of all places!
Females are slightly chubbier than males and are usually too heavy to fly. Even though I didn't see this one flying, I'm guessing it was a male due to its svelte figure. Don't put money on it, though.
When it came time for me to release the model from the photo shoot, I have to say it had lost some of its scary-alien factor. From some angles, it looked kinda cute--like this one below, peering off the "Tray of Freedom" to the Great Beyond. When I look back over the photos, the first one now reminds me of a dignified, elderly gentleman with a cane.
My leggy visitor inspired me in one unexpected way: To take out "E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial" from the library. It's about time that the kids saw the movie, and I have this critter to thank for the reminder.
Am I the only one who can see the resemblance to E.T.? Try picturing it riding a tiny bicycle.
We now return you to your regular bug-free programming. See you next week, sans bugs, I promise!
Your turn: Has wildlife or nature ever gotten in the way of what you had planned? Can you forgive me for yet another bug post, or are you grossed out beyond belief? Please share in the Comments section below. If you are reading this post via email subscription or mobile device, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com from a computer to see the comments and leave one of your own. (Don't forget to click the box for subscribing to comments so you can follow the conversation.)
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