Walking Sticks and Praying Mantises
Roly-Poly Bugs and House Flies
June Bugs and delicate, lacy Dragonflies
Butterflies and Lovebugs
Lightning Bugs and Stink Bugs
Wasps and Bees
Ants and Worms and Tree Roaches and Spiders
Cicadas and Katydids
Crickets and Grasshoppers
Moths and Ladybugs
Water Striders and Caterpillars

These were some of the bugs of my early childhood here in Louisiana. Mosquitoes and Fire Ants didn't show up until I was older. My first memories of insects are lovebugs floating in cohesive pairs in the summery daylight, some landing on the sheets the lady down the street was hanging on the line to dry. I built a castle of stray bricks, and peopled it with about one hundred roly-poly bugs that escaped almost as fast as I deposited them. We chased the lightning bugs on summer evenings, and caught the Dragonflies known as Mosquito Hawks in our bare hands to study their iridescent colors. We fell asleep, the bedroom windows open, to the music of crickets and katydids.

When the subject of trees arises, there are details such as height, leaf shape, hardness of wood, type of bark, trunk diameter. This gives us what we need to identify tree species.

What I've been thinking about of late are other amazing facets of trees. What else lives in this tree? What kind of lichens, mushrooms, and curious growths? Do insects - ants, beetles, fireflies - reside beneath the bark? Do wasps create galls that house their young? What kinds of birds like to nest here? Do they make nests from leaves or needles or bark of this tree? Are there dead or dying limbs on this tree? Has a raccoon or woodpecker carved a home in the dying wood? Is there a bee hive dripping with honey filling such a hollow? Is there a swing hanging from a branch? Is there a tree house resting on the lower limbs with children holding their secret meetings? Are there vines clutching the trunk and limbs of this tree, that kids can swing on and that squirrels scurry upon? How far deep and how far around do the roots stretch? Do they go as deep in the ground as the height of the tree? Do field mice have little burrows near the roots? What lives and grows beneath the leaves that fall off the tree? What happens as the leaves moulder and crumble into the earth? What a community thrives around and within an old tree!

What happens to the tree community when a dying tree remains in place for many years? How does this compare to when trees or dying limbs are promptly taken away? Does a young new tree provide the same environment as an ancient crumbling tree?

And is there such a thing as tree spirits, like those that appear in many ancient stories? Do trees commune in some way with the life around them?

"Linnaeus was in reality a poet who happened to become a naturalist."

The writer August Strindberg was referring to Carl Linnaeus, the 18th century Swedish botanist, physician and zoologist. Though Linnaeus is best known today for his practical system of categorizing plants and animals, he was a prolific researcher, explorer, and teacher. He catalogued thousands of plants, and though I haven't heard him described as an artist, images of his work suggest he was not only competent at sketching, but that he was creative and took pleasure in drawing.

This is a link to a page from his book Praeludia Sponsaliorum Plantarum ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Linn%C3%A9-Praeludia_Sponsaliorum_Plantarum.jpg ). How I'd like to see one of his original works, to turn the pages, feel the paper, see what he saw!

Triangles get a bad rap. When people talk about relationships with a third wheel, they talk about jealousies, and possible infidelities, and two at a time leaving the third member out in the cold. The dark side of triangles.

But triangles may occur naturally, and sometimes in quite healthy ways. One-on-one relationships can be kind of intense and heavy, or boring at times, and all sorts of stuff from one's history can be acted out, unfairly, toward one's partner. When there are three people, the one outside of the heavy situation may shed light, or may give the person who is stressed a breather by taking the other guy or gal to a ball game for the afternoon.

In triangle X-Y-Z, you - Person X - can struggle with or tear your hair out over person Z. Dear person Y shows up and sighs with you until you regain your fascination with the flaws in person Z that made you tear out your hair and love him or her in the first place.

Am I making any sense?

I'm not discussing sexuality here. All I know is that person Z in a friendship can offer fresh air, a sense of space for awhile while he plays board games or talks politics with person Y. Perhaps X and Y are married, and their friend or relative Z hangs out with them a lot. When X and Y are bored by the end of the weekend, Z shows up, having been lonesome all weekend, and everything is alive again with the welcome arrival of a dear third person. This kind of healthy triangle is a heart-expanding gift, and can nurture relationships through hard times to the benefit of all three.

There were four gold-plated bells shaped like small, upside-down bowls attached to a single handle. When the altar boy shook them, all four rang at once with a sound that was both melodious and sharp - creating a great pause.

Everyone paid attention. When I was a girl, as now, I experienced a frisson at the sound. Tonight on the internet, I found them under 'sanctus bells' or 'altar bells'. We called them 'sacristy bells', and they had a way of clearing a space, opening the door to the consecration of bread and wine, the mystery part of Holy Mass.

A real south Louisiana spring day, the temperature mild under cloud-laden skies, the breeze pouring in from over the gulf, fresh and salty, a neighborhood schoolyard flowing with green clover in bloom, the scent borne over the playground fence.

Listened to a warbler's song, loud and lusty, and heard, for the first time in several years, the call of a mourning dove.

The famous two-note 'rusty gate' call of a blue jay floated down from the right side of the street, in a steady cadence, and then, from the left side, the same song, the timing of its seesaw beat more rapid than the call from the right. It was as though one bird was on a slower train than the other, each singing to the tempo of the wheels against the tracks.

The first sound we hear is the beat of our mother's heart.



(Here's a link to a visual representation of the beat of time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Flashingsecond.gif )

tra la tra la
dum de dum dum -
at a loss for words tonight.
Sweet dreams.

Tonight, I'm surfing the web regarding three twentieth century British writers who were contemporaries. Winston Graham, Dick Francis, and James Herriot. I then threw one more into the mix, from a few decades earlier, G.K. Chesterton. So, we have four writers, all of whom were enormously well-known, with works perhaps considered one step below literary writing (except for Chesterton) and certainly a step above most popular writing.

Their subject matter varied. Francis, a former jockey, wrote mysteries, many of them set in the world of horse racing. Chesterton was a writer with range, including philosophical works, but was popular for the Father Brown mysteries, anchored in Catholicism with hints of the supernatural. James Herriot's works were mostly autobiographical regarding the world of rural veterinary medicine in the 1930s to 1960s. And Winston Graham captivated thousands of readers, (and millions of television viewers) with his Poldark series, historical novels set in the late 1770s to early 1800s.

What they have in common is a deep appreciation for the human (and animal) condition, good and wicked. They convey everyday life in colorful entertaining detail. In other words, they know how to create a good read.

I must have read the first four books of the Poldark series at least seven times over, becoming absorbed into Graham's fictional world in coal mining villages of Cornwall. The first times, I was interested in the over-the-top lives of his characters. But then, I slowed down, and picked up the detours such as: The different vocalizations of frogs from different towns. Mischief among bankers. Watching his main characters shift from life without timepieces to the purchase of their first clock. Insane medical treatments of the day. The rescue of friends by boat during the French Revolution. Capturing moths with beer. Fishing for pilchard. How to survive a famine by scavenging shipwrecks. Clothing details. Travel across England by stagecoach.

I saw a sign today that read: Try our Lenten Menu! Enjoy our Hamburger Steak!

Roman Catholics in central Louisiana in the 1960s did not eat meat on Fridays - and especially during Lent. Schools and restaurants made sure seafood dishes were available on Fridays. (A dear Protestant friend from the northwest told me that's why his crowd called us Mackerel Snappers.)

During Lent, you gave up more than meat, say candy, or alcohol. I wasn't good at giving up candy for more than a day or two (and, as a kid, I wasn't consuming alcohol except for the infrequent teaspoon of Robitussin for coughs), so I tried practices that I was more likely to succeed at. Washing my face each day with cold water. Sleeping without a pillow. (These two proved useful when as an adult I started going camping.) Saying a special prayer every day.

I wonder how many people have ever played the harmonica every day for Lent? Late getting started; I only thought of this today.

I'll understand if God wants to put cotton in His ears.

Late one afternoon some years back as I walked up a street in rural central Texas, I came upon a Bewick's Wren singing crystalline notes while perched on a wire attached to a utility pole. I was a rapt audience of one. A strand of Beethoven's work came to mind, and that's how I learned to recognize the call of this species. When I heard a bird singing that string of Beethovian notes, I knew a Bewick's wren was near.

In the same way, one spring I came upon a Carolina Chickadee perched in a sycamore whose leaves were not yet fully unfolded. This tiny black and white headed bird belted out precise sounds that thrilled me. I still could hear the call a mile away - a creature so small with such a piercing reach.

Now, I haven't seen the movie since the late 1970s, but the chickadee's song reminds me of the melodic refrain in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Not an exact match, but it's what comes to my mind.

I've wondered since watching the Bewick's wren how many composers and troubadours from our past, before there were audio recordings of any kind, might have been influenced, perhaps unconsciously, by the trills and calls of birds and frogs and insects.


Here's a link to the movie soundtrack: Close Encounters of the Third Kind
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rnYCboElgHs

The 2013 Farmer's Almanac offered a couple of tidbits to enhance our chances for success in gardening. One is to soak seeds in water before planting them. The other is that rabbit food pellets, which essentially consist of dried alfalfa, are an excellent, natural way to add nutrients to your soil. Just scatter on the surface, and add water.

It's February 16, and it might freeze tonight here in Lafayette, Louisiana. I brought in the potted aloe vera and the bougainvillea. Leaves are now lightly mounded at the bases of the younger trees. Even if it does drop to freezing, it shouldn't be that cold for more than an hour or two.

There are areas of the yard that are very tidy, swept clean of leaves and debris by maintenance crews. There are areas of the yard that are carpeted with leaves and twigs. I've been curious to see how the different surface conditions affect the soil and the flora and fauna. I must admit that I'm not an unbiased observer here. Having spent my youth here in the 60s, I remember the azaleas that were seldom trimmed which developed into huge sensual mounds of bright blooms. It wasn't unheard of for trees to be pruned maybe once every ten years. Their branches bowed low. Every tree was a world of its own. Kids clambered along them, and looked inside bird nests, or shook the limbs to increase the release of pecans in the fall. Ivies grew at the bases of some. Dead or broken branches were shed naturally, and the half-decayed part still attached to the tree might support woodpeckers and mockingbirds in search of bugs burrowed in the bark. There was fungal growth, and a trail of black ants could almost always be found marching up and down the trunk. You might find a beehive or a squirrels nest. In the lichens at the base of the tree, assorted plants, some with tiny blooms, flourished. Small jungles thrived secretively, tangled along fence lines where no one had bothered to take out the hand-powered clippers for awhile.

Over the decades since the 60s, we've become far more efficient taking care of our yards. Lawn maintenance people have powerful mowers, blowers, and other gas-powered equipment. Unlike when hiring the high school kid down the street, or with the old gardeners for hire who showed up with spades and rakes, these services are supplied by companies that have workers expecting regular salaries. Instead of of coming now and again, they show up on a schedule. And, since they have all this equipment, each time they show up, they find ways to use the equipment. They cut off tree limbs before they become hazards, and take away each leaf and loose twig they can find. Trees that are pruned a couple of times a month gradually become like bandits with their hands up. The grass is given a military haircut, short and uniform. However, in this era where heat, drought, and other factors have wrought a great toll on birds and insects, life in the handsome tidy parts of the yard is limited. Just as interrelationships become established, they are abruptly disturbed or demolished in the wind and thunder of a leaf blower.

Parts of the yard left untouched for weeks at a time, where branches and leaves grow and decay in the natural cycles that have evolved over millenia, offer housing, moisture, and nourishment for small important friends like mushrooms, worms, miniscule flies. The little jungles with their vines and tiny wild blooms have a lyrical whimsy; they're alive, regenerating, connected.

water dissolves barriers
water flows through and beneath, above and around obstacles
water washes the mountains,
wears down their jagged edges
water creates mountains
water runs downhill
it seeks and fills the lowest spaces
water blesses what it touches

Our grandfather was unable to speak to us as other people did. He'd suffered from throat cancer, and his voice box was surgically removed as part of his treatment. So when he wanted to communicate to us, he'd arch his eyes expressively and wave his hands about. Bring me a spoon for my soup! Carry this letter to the mailbox! His face was intelligent, and he wore the expression of the boss of an office, but there was a hint of elation behind it, and sometimes wistfulness. We were noisy and clumsy around his belongings, but he never looked annoyed. He just had to wag his finger, teasing, and we calmed down.

He couldn't speak, and we didn't hear anything of his history, or how things worked when he was a kid. We didn't hear of his travels. We never heard him speak our names. But we didn't miss this. When he stood next to us, we felt the story of who he was. In his silent presence, we felt his love.

Remembering Grandpa on St. Valentine's Day ....

Whale archetype surfaced in my abstract art early in 2012, without planning on my part. Over and over comes the whale, surfacing through the dots and lines and dashes of my work. A great peace comes to me as I draw.

The same process has now occurred of late with the banana tree bloom, though I've never thought of this flower as archetypal before typing this paragraph, and I've come to discover the whale and the bloom in my drawings are nearly the same.

There are so many mammals on earth with so many different shapes, sizes, colors and behaviors. Think giraffes and gerbils side by side. For me, the candidate for most unusual mammal, though, might be the manatee. I've never seen a manatee, even at a zoo, but when I come upon a photo, I'm always startled. Their huge bulbous shapes! And they live just floating around a few feet below the surface, dining on plants. Their faces reveal a surprising sensitivity and intelligence. Some reportedly live into their sixties.

It's unfortunate that their size and peaceful slow movement make them vulnerable to run-ins with human activity and machinery. Apparently many are killed or maimed each year by boat propellers. We could do better than this. It's not so much being aware of manatees (which is important) as being aware when we enter say a river, recognizing we are visiting the home for many kinds of life, that we are sharing the space. It isn't that we don't know how to tread lightly. It's about choosing to tread lightly, about choosing coexistence - life - over domination.

rain welcome but cold
drums on the metal roof -
it's dark without
good food and warm light within
the band begins at 7 PM
and the people come in pairs
dancing round the floor
two-stepping to the fiddle
their blissful faces say:
'now we're happy!'
touching hands
the dancers
float above the floor

knitting banana trees
and pale clouds,
they recreate the landscape

When we were in nursery school, every now and again, the teacher would hand each of us a little flag. We kids would pair up in twos, holding hands, and parade down the sidewalk around the block, waving our flags under blue skies with puffy clouds. The school was in a residential area here in Lafayette, Louisiana - it was in a house where three rooms were used for classes, and there was a separate area with a kitchen, bath, bedroom, and parlor for the owner. Huge hydrangea bushes were covered with lavender-blue blooms. Hula hoops had just become popular, and we gathered on the driveway near the carport to play at recess.

The American flag - stars and stripes - like a family member - was at times most dear to the heart, at times worrisome. By the time I was in high school, there were photos in newspapers and film on TV showing flags behind the President and the Generals and flags being burned at angry demonstrations. The Vietnam War era was characterized by strife, assassinations, and a large percentage of citizens feeling uncomfortable about their country. The drafting of men 18 and older, the use of Agent Orange (chemically defoliating large areas of Vietnam), incidents such as My Lai, and the way in which we exited the war were controversial, to put it mildly.

The U.S. has a most elegant and humanistic design. The Constitution (a descendant of the Magna Carta), focuses on human rights. Power is shared by three arms of the government: the Presidency, the Supreme Court, and the Congress (representing the citizens). Ideally, this prevents hasty decision making and enhances the wisdom of those decisions that are made. We are awkward regarding our military, the governance of our non-human resources, and our relations with those who live outside our country, with whom we share the planet.

Compared to many other parts of the world, we are still a very young country. Our roots, though, are strong, and the U.S.A.'s built-in respect for the individual's right to 'pursuit of happiness', while acknowledging the needs of the community, is something of great value, and worth protecting.

Image taken in Austin, Texas, June 7, 2012.

Traditionally, sunflowers face the sun. These blooms are doing their own thing!

The images above were taken in Austin, Texas on June 21, 2012.

'o caro mio...

Images taken in Blanco/Hays County, Texas April, 2012

We lived in a box of jigsaw pieces from many different puzzles, a two-dimensional game with a multi-dimensional answer, forever just beyond our reach.

Late in the spring of 1974, I'd just graduated from college and was soon to leave Colorado, a state I'd loved at first sight when I arrived in 1971. Some friends and I went camping together for the last time, a brief overnighter in one of the Rocky Mountain national forests. Late in the afternoon, it was gray, damp and cold. A friend walked ahead of me on a trail, and as he hiked over a rise, I was mystified to see him disappear into the fog.

Most of us had tents, but my roommate and I didn't. We couldn't find a flat area so we unfurled our sleeping bags on a slope above a valley. We placed stones at the foot of our bags to keep us from sliding downhill. (We were not pros.) The clouds cleared, so it got much colder in the night. That didn't keep me up because my secondhand sleeping bag was warm.

What kept me awake was the sky. The sky was spangled with stars, sprays and swirls of stars and planets in fascinating patterns of light against darkness. Sleepy as I was, I couldn't stand to close my eyes, to miss a moment. The beauty of the laws of the universe had become physically evident. The pace of time seemed to shift, and I got to see the motion of the stars, how they circled around the north star as the night progressed, how it all processed across the sky, how perfect the synchrony of the celestial clock.

The air was cold and very still, sweetly scented of the wilderness. I fell asleep late in the night, but awakened again well before dawn, my body awkwardly wedged against the stones. I saw something very bright in the east over the valley. Venus was rising. I knew of the planets, and had learned from books and classrooms how they traveled, and what our perspective from earth was like. But this was the first time it visually clicked. I watched the path the white fiery planet made the last couple hours of the night, watched it fade as sunrise approached. A couple of days later, I was on board a plane back home to Louisiana; my life in Colorado had come to a close.