My Daily Snap

Hello, Spring?

2012-02-02T18:32:00.002-06:00

Hello Spring,

Isn't it a little early for you? Did you not sleep well? Or long enough?

Don't you know that Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow at Gobbler's Knob this morning? He has predicted that six more weeks of winter await us. Maybe you haven't seen the news today because you already got up and at 'em a couple of weeks ago.

But why?

I don't mean to be rude, but really . . . couldn't you wait just a little longer? What's the hurry? Daffodils, snowdrops, crocus, quince. What's next?

Here's what worries me: your brother Winter just might not be done with his waking time. He might return in a rage because you usurped his place. And then what! He just might bite the flowers that haven't bloomed yet like he did the day after my azaleas opened a couple of years ago. And then I'll be raging, too!

Oh, Spring, I do love your warm sun and tiny blooms, but I worry nevertheless.

With most sincere regards,
Robley

How Must It Be?

2012-02-01T11:02:00.001-06:00

Moss
by Bruce Guernsey

How must it be
to be moss,
that slicover of rocks? --
imagine,

greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.

How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough? --

a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.

Bells, Bells, Bells!

2012-01-31T16:30:00.001-06:00

Sunday, while some prepared for church and others were in church, I tried shooting pictures through campus arches. Just as I finished and turned out of the courtyard, the bell ringers started their morning changes.

I listened for a long while, giving thanks in my own way.

The Wind, the Sun, and the Moon

2012-01-30T10:21:00.000-06:00

The Wind, the Sun, and the Moon
by Anne Stevenson

For weeks the wind has been talking to us,
Swearing, imploring, speaking like a person.
Not a person, more the noise of a being might make
Searching for a body and a name. The sun
In its polished aurora rises late, then dazzles
Our eyes and days, pacing a bronze horizon
To a mauve bed in the sea. Light kindles the hills,
Though in the long shadow or Moelfre, winter
Won't unshackle the dead house near the marsh.
Putting these words on paper after sunset
Alters the length and asperity of night.
By the fire, when the wind pauses, little is said.
Every phrase we unfold stands upright. Outside,
The visible cold, the therapy of moonlight.

Grade Report

2012-01-29T20:02:00.001-06:00

Dear Winter,

I have been waiting. Where the heck are you?

Oh, I know you blustered three teeny little "winter mixes," but surely you know that an hors d'oeuvre does not substitute for the entree. What about the knee-deep snow and blue shadows? The low temperatures and ice?

You've been generous with rain and fog, but seriously, spring brings those as well.

Is this it? The end of the no-show season? You sure as heck better show up next year, or I'm not even bringing out the wool!

I am sorry to report that you have earned an F for lack of effort.

Sincerely,
Robley

What's All the Hoopla?

2012-01-28T17:49:00.000-06:00

Homemade soup!

Sunset simmered
in a pot, ladled,
spooned, &
the slurper
swoons.

The Language of Stone

2012-01-27T19:44:00.014-06:00

hear stone
sing, peal,
ring green!

All Together Now!

2012-01-26T21:00:00.000-06:00

A soft clump of moss:
a silent mosh pit,
or a class of first-graders,
or stadium wave,
or a mountain of prayer flags.
Sporophytes celebrate
the warmth of winter.

Another Woods Walk

2012-01-25T11:52:00.002-06:00

Along both sides of Highway 56, otherwise known as Jumpoff Road, Franklin State Forest offers trails.

Down a graded road lies a lake I've not seen before, with gently sloping shoreline, perfect for dragonfly spotting this spring and summer.

One trail leading from the lake winds through a laurel arcade that reminds me of summer camp, offering shelter and shade and crisscrossing a rocky creek.

Thanks to my friends Dave and Greg! Spring appeals more and more every day.

Oh, Sun! Oh, Roof! Oh, Tower! Oh, Bells!

2012-01-24T17:35:00.001-06:00

The sun, a roof, a tower, the bells; of the sun, a roof, a tower, the bells. And of all the dark days behind us.

We come now to celebrate the departure of fog.

However brief.

British Soldier Lichen

2012-01-24T06:07:00.013-06:00

That's the official name, but when I saw it, I thought cauliflower and tiny radishes. I would have missed it altogether had the ground above Lake Dimmick's spillway been drier. After our weeks of rain and fog, the soil sucked my feet in, so I skirted the edge of woods, paused to un-suck my walking stick, and glimpsed the little red caps.

Lichen are truly weird and wonderful: not one being, but two working together better than any pair of people I've ever known. Wikipedia explains it more clearly than I can, so you might wish to read more about it there.

If you do, you will also see an image from one of Ernst Haeckel's miraculous studies. On the advice of a friend, about a month ago, I watched the film Proteus about Haeckel who brought together art and science, understanding their symbiosis with the same elegance this lichen demonstrates.

British Soldiers? Maybe, but there's nothing military about this tiny organism. Perhaps I shall think of it as something more like this: Cheerful Little Cherry-tipped Lichen on Cauliflower Stalks a la Haeckel.

A Little Sun

2012-01-23T13:14:00.000-06:00

makes everyone happy.

Looks like I'm not the only admirer of the red berries in front of Carnegie.

All Work and Some Play

2012-01-22T21:50:00.000-06:00

Although I haven't enjoyed my own birthday since I turned 17 only three months after my mother's death, I love my great-nieces' and great-nephew's birthdays. I spend an inordinate amount of time working on their presents. Witness my lost weekend. Squeezing time between paying jobs, I selected and uploaded photographs, designed and tweaked calendars, edited and revised them, and saved them for fresh eyes in the morning.

Neither child a reader yet but both in love with wild things, may my North Carolina greats who celebrate February birthdays enjoy their gifts and those of this world.

What Happens Elsewhere

2012-01-21T23:47:00.014-06:00

is sometimes far more "snappish" than what happens here, especially on another foggy day.

Benjamin Vogt, for example, had way more excitement than I.

See what I mean?

2012-01-20T17:58:00.003-06:00

Why do vultures make even a man's man (an automobile mechanic) ask, "What are you looking at?" and shudder.

A vulture isn't good or bad: it just is what it is.

Yes, they might not be beautiful according to a human aesthetic, but what they do is beautiful. They clean up after death, consuming what has been consumed by disease or accident or killing. What could be more beautiful than the cleaning of the carcass, put to good use in feeding another creature which, when dead, will be cleaned and consumed by another?

Children and dewy-eyed adults (I count myself among that number) wax poetic about The Lion King and "The Circle of Life." Isn't the vulture part of that circle?

At this time of year when large flocks of them roost around here, I rejoice when I see them circling and soaring.

Winter Red

2012-01-19T17:10:00.001-06:00

Stone, wood, glass, arches, and the red berries of winter.

Who knew paying the garbage bill could be so spectacular?

Motion Sickness on Winter Afternoons

2012-01-18T17:32:00.000-06:00

Trees
spindle into bluing sky
crossed by vapor trails,
buzzards circling,
& I wheel as if
on a houseboat
pitching atop
another's wake.

Happy Handyman

2012-01-17T20:28:00.001-06:00

When I first met him, I was hunkered down, blocking the path skirting the beach end of Lake Cheston, photographing a newly emerged female Calico Pennant. He and his dog Buckaroo walked round the rocky shore and then sat on a little footbridge, and waited patiently and quietly for me to rise.

I sat and called out, "Sorry!"

When they joined me, he wanted to know what I was photographing, and I was happy to point out the tiny insect. We chatted then, a long time about dragonflies, and then about mushrooms which he forages, and then about where he lives. Suddenly, I knew who he was before he told me: my friend Jill has recently sung his praises because of his good work with her on her yard.

He's Dave! A serious spelunker, who -- when out of work because of the recession -- sold his Harley and built a 12-by-12 cabin on his land, using his own trees, and working to buy the things he couldn't make. A one-time soldier, he can flake beautiful arrowheads and carve peace pipes, complete with turkey feather flourish. He eats at the Senior Citizens' Center each day and works with his head and hands otherwise, helping folks like me do the jobs we can't do.

So far he has caulked and sealed my tubs; changed one of the shower heads; stuffed a mouse hole; cleaned my gutters and fixed the gutter guards incorrectly installed by the previous house owner's father; stopped a leak in the hot water heater in my attic and corrected the faulty run-off line (in which he discovered evidence of someone's sabotage: a big chunk of insulation stuffed up into the PVC); and replaced two porch lights. Tomorrow, he will install the lattice to discourage the raccoons from entering the crawl space; mortar a hole at the base of the brick foundation; and repaint the ceiling marred by the leaking hot water heater.

Dave's a delight: a self-made man with a smart mouth, big heart, and talent for fixing things. And he hoots like an owl too, even while balanced on an extension ladder! Dave makes my house and me smile.

It's That Time of Year

2012-01-16T15:17:00.000-06:00

when the woods wear brown, of all hues and saturations.

A friend likes the woods best this way, saying that she could walk and look, and walk and look, imagining all the fibers she could spin and dye.

It is not the time I like woods best. I miss color in bloom and bug.

But on occasion, I make more-than-do when I notice fungi catching the few rays of sun between a succession of gray days. Like cooling butterscotch, one colony slides up the slab of a fallen trunk, while another fallen limb sports green turkey tails luxuriating on lime moss.

Then I fall to ground to take a closer look. And then, the woods aren't quite so brown and spring returns to my step.

Return to Cedar Hollow Lake

2012-01-15T16:32:00.000-06:00

Last summer, silence reigned at Cedar Hollow Lake, approached down a sloping lane lined by tall pines. Today, water rushes beneath the footbridge where salamanders and snakes once sunned, and the trees have been culled, resulting in a rutted avenue of mud and woody debris.

I love the sound and macro vista,

but struggle to adjust to the new long view.

Solar Magic

2012-01-14T17:39:00.001-06:00

Sun today, full, for the first time in a long time,

but stuck inside till just before sundown,

I enjoyed it only indirectly.

Still even as reflection,

sun beautifies what it touches,

making it "other."

A Good Night's Sleep

2012-01-14T06:34:00.000-06:00

I sleep better when my neighbors are here,

not because I take comfort that they are just beyond my driveway should something happen, but because my home feels empty without their light and life.

This morning I celebrate neighbors whom I love.

A Dusting of Snow

2012-01-13T18:01:00.000-06:00

reveals what
I see
but don't notice.
Oh, tiny
plants pushing
up through cold soil.
I love these green bits
and their instruction:
surfaces are surfaces:
underneath life
is.

Wintry Mix

2012-01-12T19:02:00.003-06:00

Maybe we need a new word for the bipolar weather phenomenon that makes living here unique.

First this.

And then this.

All within about twenty minutes.

I Am Not Ashamed

2012-01-11T15:38:00.001-06:00

to admit:
I love lunch.

A little thing:
     sandwich
          egg salad on Pepperidge Farm Oatmeal White
     pretzels
          Snyder's twists
     dessert
          one fat navel orange,
          still bagged.

Like a poem
lunch packs
a punch.

Wildness and Will

2012-01-10T20:33:00.000-06:00

At the Chattanooga Aquarium, a newly emerged butterfly lay on the ground in a heavily traveled spot. I reached down, offered a finger, and noticed the crinkled right hind wing. I placed him on a leaf, waited to make sure he could balance, and moved on.

But all the way through the exhibits, I thought of that little butterfly, trapped in deformity. How long, I wondered, before one of the fantastically colored birds made a snack of him.

Even in the hu-manufactured environment, the wild exerts its will.

Head in the Clouds

2012-01-09T16:41:00.001-06:00

Why is it always a bad thing to have one's head in the clouds? In winter especially, though not exclusively, folks in Sewanee have their heads and their every-other-parts in the clouds quite often, sometimes even all day.

In my experience, clouds do not make me feel flighty or unrealistic or spacey or out-of-touch. On the contrary, I feel in touch, energized, and turned indoors -- to work, or create, to read, or bake, to wander and wonder at the inward turnings of the mind's world each of us carries.

We share the cloud, but not what we make of it.

Something Beautiful

2012-01-08T14:08:00.005-06:00

A year ago yesterday, Gabby Giffords was shot in the head. Last night, CBS news reminded viewers of her remarkable strides and the equally remarkable discoveries made about the brain and its capacity for repair because of her injury.

The brain is a beautiful thing, as is the courage of those who surface, small and large, from the icy stillness of trauma.

Today I celebrate Gabby and Elizabeth and all the doctors, nurses, families, and friends who help them break the ice.

Like a Mantra

2012-01-07T22:44:00.000-06:00

repeating, holding and reaching, Yes, yes, yes, you can.

For Three Strong Women

2012-01-06T18:57:00.001-06:00

My friend Cathy and her daughters are famous in all the right ways, and they will all bounce back.

I hope. I know. I am pulling. We are all pulling.

Reaching for the Moon

2012-01-05T17:33:00.000-06:00

Missing doesn't always mean landing among the stars.

But many are reaching now for those they love anyway.

And some of those loved ones will land back where they belong.

Hope Is the Thing

2012-01-04T18:52:00.000-06:00

with feathers, says Emily Dickinson.

Not today. See it: a swirling vine strung with worry beads of rosy buds and one pinkish white flower.

Day wanes, temperature drops, but still a flower blooms.

The Ties That Bind

2012-01-03T20:37:00.000-06:00

In a crisis, I would want a girl posse like this.

One of them is facing serious health challenges as a result of an accident, and the others have leapt in to do all they can for the family and their wider circle of friends.

When I first knew them, they were 13. They are 30-somethings now, and impressive in ways I could not have imagined way back when.

I am proud of them. I love them. And I join them in wishing Liz well.

A Still Running

2012-01-02T16:56:00.000-06:00

the way
leaves float
not moving
caught, speared
by rock, pent up;
the way
one leaf
burns, upright,
a gentleman
among ladies;
the way
pebbles collect
like gossips
chattering rock-
bottom news;
the way
water eddies,
swirls, then
flows, falling
down stream;
the way
silver sky
pocks a pool,
a mirror
shadowed by
sinuous rivulets:
the way
my mind
tumbles &
steadies &
races &
pauses &

Losing Balance

2012-01-01T20:32:00.003-06:00

On our way to the Stone Door, my friend talked about her elderly neighbor's selfishness. He won't wear a medical alert button to call someone should he fall, and he falls, often. He's over 90. "What about those who worry about you?" she asked him. He answered, "I don't care what happens to me." My friend does, though.

On our hike, I couldn't telescope my walking stick, which proved useless for maintaining balance among roots and stones and slushy leaves along a trail lined by twisting trunks and trees. My nephew, stronger than I, tightened something days earlier, which I couldn't release, so I finally just carried the pole, somewhat awkwardly to the great stone shelf.

While my friend sat above, enjoying winter sun, I climbed down the stairs of the stone door into a burst of light below. From either end -- above or below -- the rock is impressive: a convoluted upheaving of layered stone in rolling green and amber, blue and tawny red. A passageway, my friend said, once used by Indians.

At home, soon after arriving filled with the salmon light of sunset and pleasant conversation, I lost my balance on unexpected news. A loved former student, the daughter of a loved friend, lies in a hospital, after a serious accident, hovering in a twilight of pain and uncertainty.

Suddenly, as in the Ted Hughes' poem I mentioned earlier to my friend, the light drained from day, turning the stone door into metaphor: may Liz walk through the door of trauma to the other side, where her family and friends await her safe return.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

2011-12-31T21:43:00.000-06:00

An overnight visit from my nephew and family culminated at the Chattanooga Aquarium.

My niece-in-law noticed the butterfly release time, and we headed straight to the top of the building. A man opened a small box holding fluttering jewels, took them by their closed wings and offered them to us for release.

The girls didn't want any butterflies.

But their parents did. These are hands I love.

What Makes a Walk Friendlier?

2011-12-30T21:33:00.000-06:00

Family.

Fly Tying

2011-12-29T17:58:00.000-06:00

My great-nephew shows off his first effort at fly tying. I have encouraged this activity, with a Christmas gift card to his local fly shop, where I suspect he and his father have already been.

Next spring and summer, when I stalk dragonflies and damselflies at the ponds and lakes, I shall think of C and the beautiful trout he stalks with flies mimicking the very insects in my frame.

I shall love them all.

Scratching That Itch

2011-12-28T19:07:00.000-06:00

Blue sky scudded (a trite term but true today) with fish scale clouds. I went out to scratch the itch, two-fisting my cameras, and found someone else had been there first.

Light as a Feather

2011-12-27T17:33:00.002-06:00

On Christmas, a Canada Goose family paddled Lake Gregg, their color-block-style feathers providing formal attire for dull weather. I assume they were warm in the cold water on the cold day, as I sleep winter nights under a goose down comforter, head resting on pillows stuffed with goose down.

Right now, as I type this post (aimlessly paddling the keyboard and screen for a throughline), an unexpected Christmas gift hangs from my tensor light: a glass orb filled with soft tawny feathers. When I first saw them, I thought "guineafowl," not so much because I am familiar with many of the living species (though I have seen them and tried to walk among them), but because a folk artist has made their "eyes" so familiar.

Guineafowl make great watch "dogs," I am told, because they are loud and fluttery. Geese are pests, I am told, because they soil new mown grass with abandon. Both are also beautiful, I know, and now they conflate in my mind because of the coincidence of a gift and a sighting.

I went again to Lake Gregg today, but the geese were gone. Coupled for life and model parents, they provide the kind of feathered nest people might long for: attentive care of doting adults. Just watch a gosling ride the wake of a parent's stroke, and you'll know what I mean.

Year-end Review

2011-12-26T07:01:00.000-06:00

Everyone has favorites, including me. After looking through and agonizing over my 2011 photographs, these still move me.

January

Piggly Wiggly parking lot, Monteagle

February

Convocation Hall

March

Question Mark butterfly at water's edge, Lake Cheston dam

April

Pink dogwood on Mikell Lane

May

Assassin bug nymph on car hood, Lake Cheston

June

Eastern Amberwing with mites, Lake Dimmick

July

Blue Dasher at Lake Cheston

August

Dewy female Calico Pennant, Lake Cheston

September

Autumn Meadowhawk at Lake Cheston

October

Gulf Fritillary caterpillar at the Community Gardens

November

Path to the Forestry Cabin

December

Moss on the Perimeter Trail

Christmas is just another day

2011-12-25T16:50:00.000-06:00

at Lake Cheston.

Weathering

2011-12-24T17:57:00.000-06:00

Weathered by its maker before I bought it, the metal bird tree grows more beautiful as it weathers, cracking like dry earth, lifting rust into gray-blue, the color of winter sky. People weather storms like this sculpture, surviving despite challenges, and folks sometimes feel under the weather, or "punk" as my father used to say. Sailors weather obstacles by shifting course to avoid them, and according to the Oxford dictionary, falcons weather when they perch on their "block" for a long time.

Whether by storm (tempestas) or by time (kairos), we all weather like my bird tree, cracking and creaking and weakening over time, but look closely at old skin, and think of the storms it has weathered, and see its beauty.

Bug-out!

2011-12-23T11:25:00.002-06:00

This morning, my friend Greg asked, "Have you seen that folk artist down past Sherwood?"

"Why yes, I have," I said. "I've seen his work and compound grow over the years I've lived in Sewanee since I drive to Birmingham the back way."

And now I don't have to drive to Birmingham to enjoy his work any time I want to. Thanks to Gay, this insect of welded nails, railroad spike, and corrugated metal has nested in its rightful home.

A merry Christmas for us both!

Winter Warmth:

2011-12-22T20:54:00.000-06:00

oatmeal,

tea with milk,

limb's twisting last bits.

The Dragonflies Don't Fly:

2011-12-21T17:57:00.000-06:00

they float round the rim of the watery-blue bowl.

Thanks to my friends Mike and Dale for reminding me of their visit, our admiration of a Blue Dasher at Cedar Hollow Lake, and the dragonflies of spring, summer, and fall.

Ain't Christmas grand?

The Happy Gardener

2011-12-20T21:11:00.000-06:00

makes me happy.

Like many folks in Sewanee, she's seriously over-qualified for her profession, having been a doctoral candidate before picking up her clippers. When she waters or plants or dead-heads The Lemon Fair garden, the dirt itself sighs like a tired and cranky client slowly relaxing on a massage table.

More of us should be like her: happy in the work we choose regardless of our credentials.

Convergences

2011-12-19T17:27:00.000-06:00

Everywhere today,

every thing

I noticed

every time --

swirling dervishes

in stone,

in plant,

in water.

I wanted

to join

the conversation.

The Creek:

2011-12-18T08:12:00.000-06:00

the one

lit living

thing

wending in

Abbo's Alley.

A Mind for Fog

2011-12-17T07:43:00.001-06:00

I told a visitor yesterday that one must have a mind for fog to live here. He laughed, but I was serious. I imagine that our fog -- especially in gray winter -- could make some people mad, or nearly so.

Me, I love the fog, making the light of home even more beautiful.

December Treats

2011-12-16T06:33:00.002-06:00

The month of pansies and lights: lustrous jewels strung and hung from trees and ceilings and stemmed and up-jumped like jack-in-the-box puppets, heads nodding and bobbing.

If I Could, I Would

2011-12-15T11:12:00.000-06:00

An hour ago, the horizon warned the day would turn gray and rainy, as it has.

If I could, I would invent a winter machine that guarantees at least a little blue every day.

The Old Camera Makes Me Miss the New (Broken) One

2011-12-14T18:52:00.000-06:00

Mosses like emeralds green in the forest, pleasing me on a brown day as does Bruce Guernsey's "Moss."

Photos © Robley M. Hood

Blackout

2011-12-13T16:28:00.000-06:00

Until Canon has fixed my camera, this blog is on pause.

Composition

2011-12-09T20:17:00.000-06:00

Sometimes

one leaf

makes

stone sing.

Those Pipes

2011-12-08T18:30:00.001-06:00

Lately, I have been pining for something I don't have: a piano.

From the time I was 6 till I was 17, I took piano lessons. I played what most folks play, I suspect, who studied as long as I: Bach inventions, plenty of Debussy (I especially remember "Golliwog's Cake Walk" for some reason), lots of old and some new classical music, old standards and popular ones, and plenty of carols at this time of the year.

The last thing I learned was Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue," and I memorized all 31 (as I remember the number) pages. I played it with great feeling, over and over and over again. (I pity my father for suffering through its repetition, though he was probably tinkering in the basement, out of earshot.)

My teacher also introduced me to her small Kimball organ, on which I learned the rudiments of key action, foot pedals, and stops. I learned just enough to earn permission to play the pipe organ at church. Some days after school, I'd go to St. Luke's, climb up to choir loft facing the cross my father designed and made, and play whatever fell open in the hymnal. The swelling thrum was truly music to my ears and feet and hands and nose and . . . .

Yesterday afternoon, I walked in the new snow up to the campus and, as I neared All Saints', heard the organ. I walked in quietly and stood in a side aisle, out of sight, I suppose because I didn't want to interrupt the player. He stopped anyway, within fifteen seconds, and as I slid just past a column and watched, he walked casually out toward the offices.

I was disappointed. I had wanted to feel that thrum again, just as I want to play the piano again.

The silence of my camera was deafening.

In and Out

2011-12-07T11:10:00.002-06:00

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

Inside, I print the children's books, and outside sloppy snow flies and slaps the windows.

The views make me smile.

Two hours later, the snow is still flying!

Diving Deep

2011-12-06T21:24:00.000-06:00

A single duck (a ruddy duck thanks to David Haskell, who saw her yesterday too), swimming in strong wind, diving deep, like the writer who, a friend used to say, should dive deep and swim away from the light.

A movie should appear here and might (one day) if my camera and software ever function again correctly. Instead, I'll post this weak photo. You'll just have to trust me on the strength of the wind and the strength of her swimming.

Am I Blue?

2011-12-05T17:40:00.000-06:00

Yes, like the blue-black crow I snapped before my camera died.

No head for the bird; no light sensor for the Canon.

At least flies and other animals can feast on the avian carcass.

As for the camera body, it's winging to the maker.

Let's see if it can be resurrected.

The Nothing That Is Something

2011-12-04T19:17:00.000-06:00

At Sunset

by Jason Shinder

Your death must be loved this much.

You have to know the grief—now.

Standing by the water’s edge,

looking down at the wave

touching you. You have to lie,

stiff, arms folded, on a heap of earth

and see how far the darkness

will take you. I mean it, this, now—

before the ghost the cold leaves

in your breath, rises;

before the toes are put together

inside the shoes. There it is—the goddamn

orange-going-into-rose descending

circle of beauty and time.
You have nothing to be sad about.

The Ginkgo Reappears

2011-12-03T17:56:00.000-06:00

Nine times, I have seen All Saints' decorated for Lessons and Carols. Nine times, I have admired the wreaths on the doors. Eight times, I have failed to see what was right before my very eyes.

See those yellow flowers?

Look again. The ginkgo has reappeared, resurrected.

Hip hip hooray for the venerable tree!

The Familiar Made Strange

2011-12-02T17:20:00.000-06:00

In Spencer Hall today, I turned a corner and was brought up short. That's my photograph on the left. It won second place, I think, in a Domain photography contest several years ago.

I didn't know I was hanging in Mr. Spencer's building. No degrees of separation here, his having been a friend of my father's and his daughters my acquaintances and schoolmates.

I am pleased, and my family will be too.

Morning Sleeper

2011-12-01T19:41:00.000-06:00

When I drove by the first time, he stood, loose and heavy, head bowed, weight low. I thought Is he ill?

When I drove back by, he lay curled in icy grass, a ball of sleeping muscle.

My noticing woke him.

He eyed me a moment, then strolled over for a nuzzle, and, suddenly, on hearing a companion at the field's low end, took off, galloping.

Now I understand "zero to sixty."

This Morning's Poetry Break

2011-11-30T11:08:00.000-06:00

About creativity

poet Billy Collins

said: jealousy

births imitation;

imitation morphs

into originality.

II.

Without having met

him, my great-niece

E proves his definition.

III.

Let It Snow

2011-11-29T17:44:00.000-06:00

Morning

and

evening:

season's first

flurries swirl

a Sewanee

snow dome.

The Manifesto of Done

2011-11-28T17:10:00.001-06:00

Every year, as I think about, plan, draft, sketch, design, layout, publish, and make The Greats' Christmas book, I feel as though I'm fishing in the sky. My bobber is stuck -- right now -- in some branch beyond my reach, and no matter how hard I tug, I can't pull the line loose.

Just as I was panicking today, I came across The Manifesto of Done, mentioned in a blog I follow. Number 4 is especially helpful at the moment: "Pretending you know what you're doing is almost the same as knowing what you are doing, so just accept that you know what you're doing even if you don't and do it."

Fingers, don't fail me now!

Book Lust

2011-11-27T17:25:00.001-06:00

It isn't that I want a particular book.

It's that I wish I had written a particular book.

Just a Second, reviewed this week in The New York Times, celebrates my own peculiar preoccupations: bugs, stars, perspective, and time. It's as if Steve Jenkins had taken a walkabout in my head and turned my random thoughts into art.

Sometimes, I think, like James Wright in "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota," that I have "wasted my life" (line 13).

Alas, this is one of those times.

Steve Jenkins, I envy you.

Foot in the Door

2011-11-26T18:11:00.000-06:00

Mushrooms

Sylvia Plath

Overnight, very,
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,

Stops us, betrays us,

The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on

Heaving the needles,

The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.

Our hammers, our rams,

Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,

Widen the crannies,

Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,

On crumbs of shadow,

Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.

So many of us!

We are shelves, we are

Tables, we are meek,

We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers

In spite of ourselves.

Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning

Inherit the earth.

Our foot's in the door.

It's Been That Kind of Day:

2011-11-25T18:09:00.000-06:00

amorphous.

Moving Day

2011-11-24T06:48:00.001-06:00

On the day when millions of Americans eat turkey, the starlings are moving into The Lemon Fair, where they have roosted for years.

One pair has selected the space between decorative medallion and clapboard, just below the roof peak from which a view of the village opens. Inside the building, their chirruping provides company on wintry days, their twigs sometimes fall through the ceiling cracks, and in the spring their chicks cry for supper.

Pests in the thousands, those at home above the shop number far fewer and figure in a friendlier way.

Welcome home, starlings! Enjoy your moving day!

This article has just appeared in the New York Times, with some fascinating news about the European Starling: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/22/science/presentation-trumps-knowledge-in-starling-study.html?ref=science.

So Said Hamlet

2011-11-23T15:36:00.000-06:00

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Amazon sells 1,000 Green Lacewing eggs for $14.99.

Wikipedia tells me that adults are nocturnal. Perhaps that explains why this 1/2-inch specimen awaited me to the left of my front door yesterday, late afternoon, just as evening descended. A clever insect, the lacewing eats garden pests, explaining why you can buy them so easily online.

What the sales slip won't tell you is this: the tiny flyer with delicate-looking wings belongs to the insect order Neuroptera, which first appeared 1,000,000,000 years ago.

Delicate?

Hardly.

Charming?

Indeed.

Mutualism

2011-11-22T17:12:00.001-06:00

Some ants herd aphids and mealybugs, protecting the little honeydew-producing critters so they, the ants, can slurp up their sweet excretions.

On this dreary moving-into-winter day, mutualism doesn't sound like a bad deal. I wouldn't mind if some large beast came along and herded me, protected me, took care of me, and ate up my refuse.

I might even call that beast Honey-Do.

Indecision

2011-11-21T22:12:00.000-06:00

What was once a caterpillar is now a butterfly.

October 25

November 21

My friend Lydia let me come over and take its picture. We thought if we unzipped the netting, he or she would fly off. Instead, the Gulf Fritillary moved toward the fresh air, inhaled, and waited. Maybe tomorrow.

Now that Lydia knows the caterpillars eat maypops, she'll be planting plenty before next summer.

And I'll know just where to look!

Can You See Me Now?

2011-11-20T19:41:00.000-06:00

Today, I met a couple at the lake I've run into several times. They are funghi foragers.

We chatted about mushrooms and dragonflies, and before parting I said, "See? There's one!"

Neither saw the female Autumn Meadowhawk till I slid down the bank, approached the rock, and pointed.

And she was hiding in plain sight, just like these.

Can you see me now?

When Is That Fat Lady Going to Sing Anyway?

2011-11-19T18:47:00.001-06:00

O brave new world that has such creatures in it!

Note to self: to avoid the painful conniptions of trying to take pictures with my left hand only, next time offer the left forefinger as the perch.

Longlegged Flies

2011-11-18T18:20:00.000-06:00

A lonely walk around Lake Cheston this morning.

First ice -- patchy, disappointing.

Four flying geese -- too far away to photograph or record.

And a school of longlegged flies, an insect I had never before seen, probably because I couldn't see anything well until after my eye surgery in January.

Tiny glints of sunlight, I thought they were, until I realized the flecks were flying and striding along the water with clear purpose. Once I realized the silvery glints were diaphanous wings, I stalked them along the shoreline, even dropping a glove into the bourbon-colored water.

Finally, I managed two shots good enough for identification. Bugguide to the rescue yet again: Longlegged Flies: Genus Hydrophorus. Species: Unknown. Here, I hit the wall.

Wonder why?

There are nearly 50 of them!

Perhaps I'll call mine Good Company on a Cold Day.

I agree with the deer:

2011-11-17T18:14:00.000-06:00

hydrangea are delicious.

Eye Candy

2011-11-16T21:01:00.000-06:00

When I was in elementary school, my mother sold the World Book. I've always wondered why, but I suspect it was because she got a free set for us.

I loved that encyclopedia. I would sit for hours alone, in the den, on the floor, with one volume. I might have looked up something for school, but I'd forget it within ten minutes. I paged through, looking and looking and looking like a picky eater who moves from one good thing to another.

Now my eye candy is the Internet, where I sometimes happen on a remarkable site, like 500px. A former student posted her web page on Facebook, and then as I did years ago, I started skipping from photographer to photographer to photographer.

There's just one problem with such eye candy: envy. Oh, how I want a camera with amazing macro ability.

Trout Fishing in North Carolina

2011-11-15T22:55:00.001-06:00

Of late, my nephew-in-law has been taking C, his son and my great-nephew, trout fishing in and around Brevard, where they live. Mostly, they throw back the catch, though at least once C caught dinner all by himself.

He has become Nature Boy, write large. Knowledgeable about bugs and flowers, now he is adding fish to his bank of facts and, more importantly, respectful pleasures. Two days ago, my niece even emailed that he had even taken my Christmas book, Bugs with Attitude, to show-and-tell at school.

He's a sweet spirit and a darn good naturalist!

The Miracle Treat

2011-11-14T22:24:00.000-06:00

My cousin Alice came to visit briefly ten days ago for her reunion, and because she is Alice, she arrived with gifts: home-baked bread and her miraculous cheese straws.

Cheese straws may well be my favorite southern treat, and Alice's Alabama cheese straws are the best I have ever eaten. Bar none. Cheddary and spicy hot, the little crackers snap in the mouth and burst with flavor.

I don't know who invented the cheese straw, but I sure as heck know who perfected it. And I'm well pleased she's a member of my own family.

The Dignity of Stone

2011-11-13T17:48:00.000-06:00

On my way in to hear John Johns play guitar, St. Luke's Chapel alights like butter brickle stacked against a suddenly feathery blue sky.

So good to be here,
at this moment,
in this place.

Fifteen Minutes

2011-11-12T17:18:00.000-06:00

That's all I had before work. I drove to Lake Cheston, got out of the car, walked briskly down to the dam, and immediately saw a Common Checkered Skipper and a Variegated Fritillary. I walked three more paces and there she was: a single Autumn Meadowhawk, sunning.

Two freezes, several cold nights, and still a dragonfly. I continue to be impressed.

The fat lady hasn't sung yet.

In Praise of a Slow Stream

2011-11-11T18:11:00.000-06:00

Just below the small footbridge on South Carolina's sidewalk, at the edge of Abbo's Alley, a slow moving stream collects the season's detritus, swirling leaf-fall and shadow in shallow water, above silt and pebble.

I hunkered and looked for a long while this morning, narrowing my focus to a series of small and smaller shifting scenes. Had I not needed to work, I'd have happily spent the day.

Now, at home hours later, looking at the pictures, I wonder why I have filled my house with art: all I need do is walk outside to find my fill.

These Are My People

2011-11-10T19:03:00.000-06:00

When he was a little boy, my nephew said, "I want to be a cowboy artist." And he was: in his boots, with six-guns strapped, he worked at his easel, making beautiful pictures.

Last year, on seeing his first-born daughter in The Nutcracker, he asked, "How do you get to do that?" with reference to the men in the party scene.

This year he and his two daughters (middle and right) will appear in The Nutcracker.

As they said in their birthday note to him yesterday morning, he's "not old yet."

In my heart, he will never be an old man: he will always be the boy with the artist's heart.

2011-11-09T21:29:00.000-06:00

Years ago, at the Denver Art Museum a trompe l'oeil show featured paintings so fool-the-eye real I fought a natural response to write on paper (which wasn't paper), to sniff flowers (that weren't flowers), and to walk through doors (that weren't doors).

Oddly, the loose collection of leaves blown onto the weathered wood of a moldy bridge reminds me of those paintings with their sharp edges and surreal colors. If I could paint, I would paint such simple lines, such brilliant colors, such sharp shadows, and space would open from canvas like Alice's rabbit hole. I would be lost, and I would be happy.

A Fire Within

2011-11-08T17:26:00.000-06:00

This afternoon, between the rec center and University Avenue, one back-lit tree licked the sky like some tortured, enraptured El Greco figure afire on darkening ground.

Across the triangle, another joined the hymn of autumn and sun, their duet a remarkable crescendo of yellow and orange and gold.

I was driving home, but had to stop to pay homage. Just as I reached one tree, a policeman pulled up to the curb, stopped, got out, said, "Don't miss the other."

"Oh I'm walking there next," I said and added, "I was driving home but I had to stop to take pictures."

"I know what you mean. Just the other day I took a picture of an alumni group in the same place. Isn't it beautiful?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "Only in Sewanee," he said before turning toward the gym.

Maybe not only in Sewanee. But only in Sewanee do these two particular trees flame into evening.

Perspective, Revisited

2011-11-07T17:21:00.000-06:00

Small.

Medium.

Large.

Huge.

Astronomical.

A Single Spectacular Tree

2011-11-06T17:31:00.001-06:00

No need for lectures in Convocation Hall or meetings in Walsh-Ellett today.

The ginkgo tree is doing all the talking (and stinking).

Homecoming

2011-11-05T17:21:00.000-06:00

On my walk around Farm Pond, birds sing, football crowds cheer, a bell tolls; three ducks coast in a silent circuit the opposite of my direction; grass, moss, tree, pond shore, berry -- all stretch to the afternoon sun.

These are enough homecoming for me.

Hiding in Plain Sight

2011-11-04T18:57:00.001-06:00

For three days, one of my tsatsas sat ignored on Lake Cheston's metal bridge lower rail. I know lots of people walked by it as well as another tsatsa balanced on top of a piling. Many folks passed me while I photographed Blue-faced Meadowhawks near the dam, and they had come from the tsatsa direction.

But they had not seen what was hiding in plain sight.

In response to my blog post "Waiting, then Walking," a friend wrote this on my Facebook wall: "Wish I could see Sewanee through your eyes -- I see its beauty but it doesn't move me any more."

Nothing makes me sadder than otherwise lovely people who live here unmoved by what's around them all the time, awaiting their notice.

Look I want to say; slow down and look.

A Little Perspective

2011-11-03T19:02:00.000-06:00

Big.

Small.

Waiting, then Walking

2011-11-02T17:02:00.000-06:00

I waited at Lake Cheston, squatting in pine straw and broken limbs, an hour or so for the Blue-faced Meadowhawks.

They never appeared, so I walked to the Forestry Cabin instead.

Walking has its own rewards.

A Young Friend

2011-11-01T20:00:00.002-06:00

From across the dam, I heard, "Robley! Look! Meadowhawks are mating!"

Emery and his mother were on the bridge, she lying and he standing, looking over into the slough.

By the time I got there, that pair had disappeared, but others appeared as if by magic. I showed Emery some photos of the Blue-faced Dragonfly, and we all watched a swimming salamander-like creature. Just then, an Autumn Meadowhawk landed at Emory's feet.

"Stand still!" his mother said.

"Yes, so I can take a picture," I said.

I did.

"Next summer, I can't wait to show you more dragonflies," I said.

And I mean it. In him, I see my three great-nieces and one great-nephew, whom I do not see much in the flesh.

I can't wait for summer and dragonflies with my young friend.

Trick or

2011-10-31T17:04:00.000-06:00

TREAT!

Spotted a new (to me) dragonfly today at Lake Cheston: the Blue-faced Meadowhawk (Sympetrum ambiguum). At first I didn't believe what I saw: blue eyes, white face, gray-blue thorax, dark brown-black and yellow stripes on the red abdomen, yellow underneath. I kept snapping, and he kept letting me.

I watched him prepare the sperm packet, grab a female, alight in the grass, on the concrete, and then on my too-white shoe. Alas, no sharp photo of the female, but now I know where they are.

I shall return.

Sacred Space

2011-10-30T19:44:00.005-06:00

Today, I began an adventure with some fifteen or so Sewanee-ites. Under the direction of artist Julie Puttgen, we are placing small tsatsas (tiny Buddhist stupas) in sacred places, leaving them for passerbys to find.

And as I started the adventure, I (re)found magic at one of my most sacred places: Lake Cheston. Rounding a curve along the path from hill toward dam, I saw a darting twinkle, followed it round a tree, and saw a mated pair of Autumn Meadowhawks, he steering and she depositing eggs in leafy water.

At the metal trestle bridge, I watched five pairs, one of whom landed briefly on my red jacket. On the bridge to the dam from the woods, another pair mated on the wooden planks, backed by warm sun. Where had they spent the cold night and other cold nights previous? I wondered. Even on the beach, a pair landed at my feet, their winds sparkling like sugared sand.

I had thought dragonfly season was well over. Magic happens even when you're not looking, and if you're lucky -- like me -- you might glimpse it every now and then.

Sewanee Boogie-Woogie

2011-10-29T18:53:00.000-05:00

red & yellow leaves & berries

gray limbs & branches

blue sky & water

white clouds & cross arms

paths & forest, hill & valley --

Piet Mondian's

Sewanee Boogie-Woogie

My Perfect Tree

2011-10-28T19:33:00.000-05:00

Of the many I've planted, one dogwood has rooted itself firmly in my yard. It flames outside my study window, warming cold fog like a promise to a loved one: Just wait; I'll be back.

Meantime, I burn.

As the Weather Turns

2011-10-27T17:32:00.000-05:00

The weatherman just said, "Things are gonna change. The weekend's not bad, though we'll be frosty tomorrow."

Yesterday, sun and wind and warm temperatures. Today, clouds and fog and spitty rain and descending temperatures.

How can one weather be "good" or another "bad"?

Weather just is.

Disequilibrium

2011-10-26T18:29:00.004-05:00

One bowl of oatmeal and one cup of tea do not offset the effects of an opioid pain pill. Woozy is not what I should feel at water's edge on a short hike to the plateau's rim.

II.

Piney Point overlooking Roark's Cove, accessible by stepping from one rock to another across a deep gap, makes me giddy even without an opioid pain pill, especially on a glorious fall day.

III.

Staring across Sue's front yard at a hawk guarding a squirrel in its talons, I nearly lose my balance, head spinning at the sight.

red-tailed hawk photographed by Sue Ridyard

A Little Luck

2011-10-25T21:13:00.001-05:00

Oral surgery yesterday meant no photo walk, so this afternoon's visit to Lydia's garden -- despite discomfort -- lifted my spirits.

Two monarchs, at least two Common Checkered Skippers, two Guly Fritillaries, and a number of other assorted skippers probed fading flowers for the last of their nectar. There was plenty of action.

But it was stillness that I found enchanting. A smile of spiky caterpillar slept in a tendril curl, rocking slightly, as if by an invisible mother, into slumber.

A little luck brings such unexpected pleasure.

Gulf Fritillary caterpillar, maybe?