Breathless

I wish I really knew how to use my macro lens. I lie down, inch forward, squirm back, squinch, lean, hunch, stand, sit, set and reset every option, study the light and shadow and foliage, tinker, and still . . . nothing I take pleases me.

Breathe, I remind myself; relax, I repeat; remember -- it took more than a year to figure out a different camera and lens.

But the year unfolds now, always now, and still now, never waiting for me to catch up.

Too Early for Spring

But no one has told
snowdrops (in all fairness, last year they bloomed winter to fall)
Lenten roses
crocus
daffodils
fuchsia
cherry
forsythia
star magnolia

What am I leaving out?

Oh yeah. A freeze.

Bound to happen.

Lightened Load

early blooming in Abbo's Alley

Such an Improvement!

Dear W. S.,

Since you came to the University, the grounds have finally starting catching up to the beauty of the buildings and natural surroundings. I really love your work!

I know I spoke to you just a few weeks ago when we ran into each other on the new downtown trail. I thanked you then for the work you've accomplished here, but today I was so startled and delighted as I came off the highway that I went home, changed clothes, and headed right back (before the rain) to snap a few pictures.

Ever since the main entrance to campus was re-routed and the huge stone (and concrete?) sign went up with its bluish light thrown from a lumpy black box, I have averted my eyes and driven further down before turning off. 

Today I didn't.

The sea of daffodils (also found in abundance on the campus this year) and the flood of crocus (I stopped counting at 63) have turned what I think is an eyesore into a welcome springtime delight.

Soon it'll be odonate time, and I look forward to running into at one of the lakes.

With appreciation,
Robley

Sun Worship

Despite having had melanoma many years ago, I freely admit that I worship the sun.

Not in the way I did as a stupid teenager, lying on a towel atop an asphalt driveway, after having slathered myself in baby oil. 

But in a respectful way, wandering (in long pants, long socks over the pants, long-sleeved man's shirt, wind jacket as much for the pockets as any other reason, hat) somewhere, anywhere beautiful things can be found. 

Like these:

slider

water and algae

children at Lake Cheston

crocus

marmalade cat.

Everyone needs some sun. 

Housebound

Dear F,

I have of late felt housebound, probably because of the weather and cold, gray skies.

Today, to break the spell, I took a drive to Stevenson, AL, hoping to see lots of birds. I wanted especially to see cranes (Sandhills in particular). Alas, just diving ducks and gulls and one Great Blue Heron floated and dove stood and flew. So I drove home the long way, up through Bridgeport and South Pittsburg, along Jumpoff Mountain Road, and even then I was still restless.

So I went down to Abbo's Alley on the campus. And there I saw flowers starting in earnest: snowdrops of the kind you wrote "These make me happy" on Facebook, Lenten Roses, the first crocus (yellow and white), and tiny white blossoms (whose identity I forget every year) clinging to the stones marking the path. So many daffodil and bluebell leaves are pushing u, promising a good bloom this spring.

When three fraternity boys wandered down toward me, one holding a beer (it's Friday afternoon after all, the temp is warm, the sun strong), they asked, "Have you got some good pictures?" And I shared them. The boys, like you, were complimentary and wanted to know the flowers' names and where to look for them.

I wish you could see them live and in situ, but since you can't, I hope you'll enjoy these photos. (By the way, they'll improve when I have figured out my new camera and even better when I can afford a macro lens.)

Enjoy!

Best,
R

Purple at the Beginning, Purple at the End

My yard's first blossoms, crocus, push up purple and yellow, blazing with the promise of spring to come, and among the last blooms, these tiny stems pop up among grasses, announcing another oncoming winter.

A Note from Home

Hi Gay,

I know you're enjoying Paris and all the art, architecture, wine, chocolate, pastries, and sauces, but I thought you might like to see what you're missing at home.

Miss G is still yapping up a storm, the campus is (thankfully) quiet, and the flowers are popping out in Abbo's Alley. 

Today I saw daffodils, Lenten roses, those sweetly scented delicate white and yellow viney blooms (whose name I never remember), hyacinth, bluebells, crocus (the last ones), snowdrops, Virginia spring beauties, and a fully budded trillium poking out of a snake hole by the last little stone bridge below the spring. (Oh! And those teeny-weeny little purple flowers running along the ground.) You'll be happy on your next walk here. 

Spring is springing in Sewanee without you!

Your friend,
Robley

A Spot of Color

A bad fall. A bump on the head, a seized trapezius muscle, and a swollen, sore hand do not make for a happy camper.

Good thing the crocus aren't down for the count.

Like me.

Sometimes Predictions Come True

I.
Yesterday.

US National Weather Service Nashville Tennessee

To quote our friend @NashSevereWx, I have no words of warmth to give. I am sorry. We must forecast these awful things. Alas, the cold front has just passed through Nashville. The mercury shall drop and drop and drop. The rain shall fall, shall change to an icy mess. The roads shall freeze and bring their silent havok. And still the mercury shall drop and drop and drop. As I foretell these terrible deeds, it is still a pleasant 52°. By this time tomorrow morning, it will be 23° with anywhere from a sixth to a third of a foot of snow, ice pellets, and, the worst of all wintry deeds, freezing rain. Tomorrow night, nature shall deal perhaps its cruelest blow: a temperature of 7°. Indeed, William Shakespeare was most apt: "I, that did never weep, now melt with woe/That winter should cut off our spring-time so."

II.
Today. 

Close Punctuation

I
A new term learned today from Mary Norris' "Confessions of a Comma Queen" in the February 23, 2015 issue of The New Yorker:

The New Yorker practices a "close" style of punctuation. Or, as E. B. White once put it, "Commas in The New Yorker fall with the precision of knives in a circus act, outlining the victim." (Norris, 2015, para. 32)

Commas separate or mark off sentence parts with precision and tact and art.

II
Precision isn't something we experience with Tennessee weather.

In the transitions from season to season, the parts -- temperature, humidity, precipitation, sun -- jumble together like words in a rambling sentence, which defies logic or clarity.

To wit: a high of 66 today and a predicted low of 26. Fog, rain, ice pellets. Sunshine on Friday with a high of 38 and low of 22. Then back up to 52 on Sunday.

III
In language, I like a close style, but in seasonal shifts I prefer messiness and unpredictability, so much closer to life as it is lived rather than life as it is made in words.

IV
Besides, the crocus don't mind, so why should I?

Measuring Time

I used to wear a watch every day (often in my sleep), and I needed a clock in my classroom. Time matters when you have only so many minutes before a class-ending bell.

Now I wear a watch only occasionally.

I am more likely to notice time by the light and temperature and arrivals and departures of seasons. 

Take today, for example. The crocus are up now in Abbo's Alley. They weren't up just a few days ago. I know because I looked for them. This is the time of transition from winter to spring, from fog and rain and ice and snow to blue skies and blooms. 

Soon it will be spring -- I will know its arrival by the first Odonate I see at the lake. The heart of summer arrives on the wings of Widow Skimmers and Slaty Skimmers, and fall means mature Autumn Meadowhawks and Shadow Darners.

When I hear others say there aren't enough hours in a day, I feel sorry for them. There are only 24 hours, and there will always be only 24 hours, no matter how much we wish otherwise. 

It isn't a question of hours; it's how they're spent.

Yes, Billy Collins, Yes!

Today

by Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,

so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw

open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,

indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths

and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight

that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight

on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants

from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,

holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,

well, today is just that kind of day.

Another Crocus Post

Why?

Because taxes strain patience, 
and work demands time, 
and high wind blew overnight,
and rain fell, 
and the temperature dropped, 
and slate sky lowered,
but crocus cups 
glowed across concrete, 
studded with diamond water beads.

Like upturned circus tents

for The Borrowers, my five small sets of crocus quietly open and close beneath the bare azalea limbs.

There are so many things to love about crocus:

• hardy blooming in sun and warm temperatures, freezing temperatures and snow
• reliable return each year 
• spread into their little patches like small gossip groups
• cheerful deep purple and preppie stripes
• orange tongues
• pollen polyps like polka dots
• sun-shadowed cups

Recently, I have seen (in several places) beautiful photographs of tulip fields in the Netherlands, and I dream of planting crocus everywhere in the yard, creating my own swath of Seurat to enjoy each winter/spring. This fall, perhaps, will see the beginning of something big.

Meantime, I'll enjoy the something small that makes me smile, going and coming.

Crocus on Inauguration Day

"What're you doing?" the dog-walker asked.

And because I was sitting on the ground, hunkered over the leaves off the walkway, and couldn't imagine answering Thinking about the inauguration poem and Diane's Op Ed piece in The New York Times and watching crocuses, waiting for them to open to the sun, hoping I'll see them open, I said, "Taking a picture of a crocus."

"Oh! Have fun!" she said and walked on.

When I came home, I looked up crocuses, those tiny fried-egg or Easter-basket-decorative blossoms that push up through leaf litter in winter.  I read about corms and anthers and styles; I learned that the new corm develops on the old one, year after year after year.  I read about the saffron crocuses on Crete and saw a picture of a fresco at Thera, which I studied so many years ago and so enthusiastically in college. I followed a link to the Liddell and Scott dictionary of ancient Greek (online!) which I used when I took the language, pouring through the many volumes in the Vanderbilt library.  I read about the many many varieties on the Crocus Pages, admiring their tidily ravishing beauty.  I searched for poems that mention crocuses on the Poetry Foundation and Academy of American Poets sites, stopping to read the interviews with the inaugural poet Richard Blanco.  I found two poems I like -- "For You Today" by Jessica Greenbaum and "Poem" by Jill Alexander Essbaum.

And then I finally looked at my pictures.  

And they were enough.

The Color Purple

Sometimes, a book whispers from my library shelf.

Coming in from outside, where crocus loosen among piled leaves in my narrow front bed, I heard, "Listen, God love everything you love -- and a mess of stuff you don’t. But more than anything else, God love admiration . . . Not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it." (Alice Walker's The Color Purple)

Today, I share crocus purple and Walker's words.