Robert Frost's poem figures often in this blog, but not by design. (See here and here.)
Yesterday I photographed a mating pair of Orange Bluets. (Only the male, as you can see, is orange [bu confusingly, an immature male is pale blue], while the female is yellow-green. Lesson one in American Bluet-watching might be this: bluets are not all blue.)
I watched this pair for perhaps 15 minutes, during which time they flew from water plant to matting to plant in an oval area of only a few feet. When they landed here (see photo) below, I held my breath and tried again and again and again to get the perfect shot. I never fully succeeded in capturing the almost artistic beauty of their happy landing.
At first, I merely thought, Wow! What a happy accident!
Then I thought, Surely no accident. Otherwise, how would these tiny odonates know with whom to mate? A clue can be found in their different color. Recent research, of which a good bit is published online, suggests that damselflies (and dragonflies) see color. In fact, one fascinating PhD thesis states, "Numerous behavioural studies suggest that the diverse colour patterns function as a means for intersexual, intrasexual, interspecific, or intraspecific recognition and play a role in sexual selection, particularly in ischnuran damselflies that have sex-limited polymorphism."
Bingo!
Other researchers sequenced the genes of Ischnura elegans (Blue-tailed Damselfy, a species found in Europe) and "generated 428.744,100 paired-ends reads amounting to 110 Gb of sequence data." (Mind you, this damselfly averages about 31mm in length.) What did they find? Distinct color pathways supporting the fact "the odonate eye can detect colour from the ultraviolet (UV) (~300 nm) to the long wavelength (LW) (~700 nm) portion of the visible light spectrum and is capable of distinguishing polarized light" as well. (To put this in perspective, Wikipedia claims that humans that "a typical human eye will respond to wavelengths from about 390 to 700 nm."
So. Those Orange Bluets knew what they were doing when they hooked up. I can't help wondering if their final choice of ovipositing spot might also have been intentional. What fine camouflage the plant provides as she begins the long plunge underwater to deposit her fertilized eggs.
Long live the American Bluet!
(Whether or not design govern in a thing so small.)
I have 20/20 vision. At a distance. I can see a tiny bug or dust mote and follow its flight or float. I can read road signs. I enter a big box store, and I can find the right aisle.
But with clarity provided by man-made lenses, I have also lost something I loved, but never knew before just how much: I cannot shift my eyes out of focus.
I don't remember learning to tie my shoe laces or to read, but I remember stumbling upon that trick as a child. Once I learned how to let my eyes shift, I'd do it again, and again and again. I wanted to see the world in shapes and colors, let them swim together and apart, meld and separate.
In the last two weeks, I have asked my camera to do what I can't. I have, as is my wont, become obsessed. Everywhere I look, I aim and shift myself and camera settings, sometimes successfully, sometimes not, but always with childish pleasure.
It's a silly thing, but in a time of stress and worry, of endings and beginnings, a small thing can weigh much. And this discovery does.
Julie wheeled her little red wagon to Lake Cheston, took out her materials, and headed down to the beach, where I found her.
"When I took out my palette, a dragonfly landed on it," she told me.
Her youngest child has just started kindergarten, so Julie has time again to do something she loves: paint. She is by training and temperament an artist, apparent in the beginnings of her landscape.
"I'm glad you're doing this for yourself now," I said and walked on.
We're kindred spirits: Julie creates her vision on canvas, and I, in digital photos.
Both of us prove that autumn offers gifts for the eyes that see them.
When my father had cataract surgery, he had to stay in bed in a dark room for days. He wasn't allowed to bend his head down or lift heavy things. When it was all over, he could see better -- but he still wore tri-focals.
Unhappily, I inherited my father's bad eyes.
I've had to use both distance and reading glasses for years (never together because I couldn't handle bifocals), and I even required middle distance glasses for a period of time. My vision deteriorated so badly when I was in my twenties that my ophthalmaologist had me tested for diabetes. When I came to his office after he received the report, he said, "I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you don't have diabetes. The bad news is that your eyes are fifty years older than your body."
Happily, unlike my father, cataract surgery is no longer a big deal. Yesterday morning, I had a second cataract surgery (my right eye was corrected a year and a half ago), came home with a patch, removed it 4, started eye drops, and resumed normal activites today.
"Normal," though, already has a whole new meaning. Because I opted to have both new lenses focused at the same point, I can see the computer screen clearly for the first time in my life. And I am not even wearing glasses!
In a month, when I can get new prescription distance glasses, I expect to see a whole new world of wonders.
Unlucky in eyes, lucky in modern medicine: that's me.
