Mom remains the single most important source of my proclivity to understand nature.  She embodies the foundation of my ability to reach out and touch, on communal terms, the life of beasts great and small.  From her I gleaned an appreciation of life in all its many forms; from her I received a courageous approach to that which is different; from her I learned not to fear but to respect a world full of living things.

As Sharon, my aunt, pointed out last weekend after arriving from New York, Mom is also the family’s Doctor Dolittle.  No matter the species, Sharon stood amazed that Mom felt no fear of but plenty of compassion for every beast.

So here I present a bit of Doctor Dolittle in action.

One herd of cows had stood at the pasture’s gate for a few hours, perking up each time Mom stepped outside.  Some would even call to her.  A visit with her, they knew, was always a pleasant experience.

Around these parts, a cow moaning and groaning is referred to as “bellering” or, in the more precise vernacular, “beller’n.”  As with all animals who can make sounds, one need only listen and learn the language to understand what they’re saying.  I learned this trip the specific kind of beller’n that translated to “Where’s Mom?  Can we see her?  Mom, are you bringing a treat?  Why haven’t you come to see us yet?”

Eventually deciding to go visit them, even if for no other reason than to stop their beller’n, she grabbed a small bucket full of treats and we followed her.  The treats, by the way, are a compressed grain and molasses goody specially made for cows.  And how they love that stuff!

You might be thinking she has nothing to worry about as she’s behind a fence.  Nope.  She’s in the enclosure standing in the “run,” that part of the fence used to herd the cows on or off a trailer.  While most of the cows are standing on one side of the run, any of them could easily walk up to her.  Like this:

That happens to be the massive bull, the bovine equivalent of a leviathan.  He could easily trample a human without noticing, yet he loves Mom dearly and gifts her with his most gentlemanly behavior.  Well, most of the time anyway.  Sometimes he gets a little carried away with his affectionate munching.

Oh, and she’s getting some tongue action from one of the young’uns who really thinks they deserve more attention. . .and treats.

Don’t worry.  No humans or bovines were harmed in the making of this post.  Despite looking as though he intends to eat her starting with her arm, he’s actually suckling the treat from her hand.

One bite and a cow that size could sever a limb.  Never did any of us fear such a thing would happen.  Despite not being terribly fond of others, that bull absolutely loves Mom and treats her with the utmost care.

From the other side of the run came another cow who felt the service was not as prompt as it should be, so she offered a bit of an incentive: cow slime.  There’s a lot of tongue in one of those heads and they don’t think twice about slobbering all over the place with gleeful anticipation.

When the food had all disappeared and Mom finally stepped out of the pasture, I remained standing next to the fence as I snapped some additional photos.  I obviously didn’t pose a threat.

That cow asked and asked for something I didn’t have: more treats.  When she discovered one hand empty, she turned to the other.  Where I was holding the camera.

Before I knew it, she slimed the whole camera and my hand looking for something to munch on.  It took me several minutes of wiping and cleaning before I could take another photo.

By then, however, the bull had come to see if I had anything to offer.

Unfortunately, he too found I had nothing.  The herd began to mill about wondering if we had something in reserve, not wanting to walk away and miss something yet finding all the empty hands of little use save the occasional pet or pat.

We finally moved across the main yard to another pasture where the other herd rested.  Doctor Dolittle had one final show for my aunt.

You see, one of the cows is so smitten with Mom that she won’t let her come and go without stopping for a good scratching and petting session.  This cow is, in point of fact, Mom’s pet, Mom’s baby bovine.

If my mother walks into the pasture, this large puppy comes trotting alongside, gentle nudges and expectant glances included.  She simply won’t accept that Mom is there for any reason other than to pet her.

And so she does.

While the quality of those images suffered because I was shooting into the sun, I think you get the point.

There is a look of absolute trust and contentment on that cow’s face.  She’s so enjoying the back rub that she’d miss a nuclear war if it happened right next to her.

Keep in mind this doesn’t cover the chickens who follow her around and talk to her, and who even don’t mind being held by her, or the rabbits who curl up and coo softly in her arms as they wallow in a trusted embrace, or the various other animals who find my mother a kindred, loving spirit who cares for them as she would a child.

There’s no need to question where I got my ability to deal with animals on such a spiritual level. . .

Warmth belies a cool that hides behind afternoon sun, an autumnal visitor quivering beneath unseasonable temperatures.  I stand in shorts and sandals while heating rays blanket me.  Ah, but I know. . .yes, I know.

Nature’s way of reminding us about the season rests on surprise.

As we scurry about our evening business and settle in to home and hearth for a night of restless sleep before the morning’s too soon return, a change is coming, one already quite near and cloaking its approach in normalcy.  Only the wind will reveal its arrival.

Something in me feels like prey waiting for the predator’s ambush, waiting for talons or claws or teeth to leap over the horizon with ferocity.  Perhaps that’s the thrill of such sudden shifts in the weather.  Well, at least for me.

In a place I cannot see stands the unavoidable difference between today and tomorrow.  Only when its brusque hands caress me with northerly gusts will the beast finally be upon the land.

Until then, a near yet distant star hangs lazily in the southwestern sky, a dim brightness hardly comparable to its summertime intensity.  Beneath it a still cover lies atop an unsuspecting world, one where creatures play and rest in tepid waters of air.

Not for long, though.

This is SOOOOO cool!  From SpaceWeather.com:

Last week, Comet 17P/Holmes shocked sky watchers around the world with a sudden million-fold increase in brightness. It literally exploded into view, rapidly becoming a naked eye “star” in the constellation Perseus. Since then the comet has expanded dramatically. It is now physically larger than the planet Jupiter and subtends an angle in the night sky similar to the Moon’s Sea of Tranquility, the right eye of the “Man in the Moon.” Photographers, this amazing comet is an excellent target for off-the-shelf digital cameras and backyard telescopes. It grows visibly from night to night and no one knows how large it will become. Stay tuned to http://spaceweather.com for sky maps and the latest images.

Try and penetrate with our limited means the secrets of nature and you will find that, behind all the discernible concatenations, there remains something subtle, intangible and inexplicable. Veneration for this force beyond anything that we can comprehend is my religion. To that extent I am, in point of fact, religious.

— Albert Einstein

Grendel

Grendel with Kako blurred in the background
(these two are never far apart)

I submitted the photos today.  What photos?  These photos.

Here’s what I can tell you in addition to what I already said about this.

The book is a field guide to wildflowers.  Its scope appears regional.

I can tell you it’s being written by “noted naturalists Rick and Nora Bowers, with Stan Tekiela,” and will cover more than 200 species.

The publisher says their “goal is to educate people on the wonderful variety of wildflowers and the types of habitat critical to their survival.”

Although I only posted a few photos of the specific flower about which they contacted me, I provided them with the handful of images I have of that species.  They can peruse what’s available and decide which, if any, fulfill their requirements.

If they decide to use one or more of the photos, we’ll sign a contract selling publication rights to them for the image(s) they choose to publish, and only for the one book presently being considered.  Any future use will require a new contract.

You can see the flower in question in the last photo of this post and in the whole of this post

I again will admit what I’ve said all along: I’m an amateur when it comes to photography.  The photos I post here are the result of luck and numbers (i.e. I take a lot of pictures with the hope that at least one of them will be presentable).  To have been contacted about this represents a thrill I never imagined and can’t describe.

Even if none of the images are used, receiving that preliminary e-mail was a fantastic buzz.  It was also a kick in the pants telling me to keep doing what I’m doing, to keep snapping photos of what catches my eye.  Somewhere, someone wants to see the same thing.

Or so I believe.

Although I generally refrain these days from participating in the political distress created by the blogosphere, I wanted to ramble a bit on some thoughts I’ve had of late.

We Americans have lost much in recent years.  No longer are we free to speak our minds.  No longer are we guaranteed our day in court.  No longer are we safe from police-state tactics.

Regrettably, we now represent the very enemy we claimed to abhor throughout the Cold War.

Persons being deported are drugged against their will with powerful medications that are unwarranted and dangerous.

Anyone fingered as a “person of interest” finds that we no longer enjoy any constitutional rights.

Every phone call, every e-mail, every fax, every communiqué is monitored.  Warrantless searches are now all too common.  Judicial review and protection are things of the past.

Torture, that boundary America swore never to cross, is standard practice.  Humans represent nothing more than fodder for the cannons and canons of violence.

The separation of powers exists only in history books.  The inherent protection of three branches has been subjugated by the overgrown executive’s successful theft of authority.

I fear this could be the last presidency peacefully obtained.  In fact, I fear this could be the last presidency of America as we know it.  If my worst fears are realized, our nation will succumb to civil war and domestic mayhem within two years—especially when the time comes for power to be taken from the vile creature now occupying the Oval Office.  I fear he won’t give it up now that he’s tasted dictatorship and rule without constitutional restraint.

Let me finish with this, for I think it describes the situation perfectly:

“A rich enemy excites their cupidity; a poor one, their lust for power. East and West alike have failed to satisfy them. They are the only people on earth to whose covetousness both riches and poverty are equally tempting. To robbery, butchery and rapine, they give the lying name of ‘government’; they create a desolation and call it peace.”

— Tacitus

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

LD recently asked me to participate (secretly) in xocobra’s weekend of spiritual renewal.  Excepting the Christian overtones of the event, I felt both honored and challenged by her request:

[xocobra] is going through a spiritual renewal weekend… There he will receive notes and letters as a surprise. Would each of you consider writing him a note or letter of encouragement or something that would be special to him about what he’s meant to you in your life? It doesn’t need to be lengthy and anything would be great!

Truth be told, I was on call last week and had little time to think about it.  I received her message Tuesday evening when I arrived home from the office.  That night remained busy for me and I set her note aside.

Wednesday evening I found myself with a bit of time, so I returned to the e-mail and considered what I might say.

Let’s be clear: xocobra means a lot to me.  I love him dearly.  Unfortunately, and in retrospect, putting into words the importance of such people is nothing short of impossible.  Nevertheless, I tried.

I (digitally) penned the missive in the few minutes I had available, then I sent it off on its journey.

Yet I couldn’t help but feel my words rang hollow, that the trite and paltry verbiage failed completely to say that which needed to be said.

Forget what we’re told
Before we get too old

A lifetime of family and friends in this human culture of ours has taught me a profound lie offered as significant truth: When you love someone, say so.

Only after this exercise at LD’s behest did I begin to realize words are feeble instruments when it comes to the meaning of people, to the emotional bonds we share.  Saying “I love you” seems to matter, but it really doesn’t when the words are as overused as that once magical expression.

Still, too often we fail to communicate what we feel to those who deserve most to hear it.  Seldom are the moments when we really look at someone who matters and try to make clear how much they mean to us.

What needs to be said most often usually is said all too rarely.  Even more infrequently is it shown.

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

I wonder, looking back at life, how many times I’ve let a moment slip away without communicating what mattered most to those who mattered most.  More troubling is how often I failed to let my feelings manifest in something other than words. . .when words simply wouldn’t have been enough.

Whether in a comfortable silence, a kiss or a hug, a gentle touch, or an ordinary moment of togetherness, I wonder how often I’ve let slip by me the most critical seconds in life when what was needed was a demonstration of my love.

And here a day after the ninth anniversary of Henry’s death, less than two months after the anniversary of Derek’s death, and after I visited family Saturday who reminded me how fragile life is and how easily it can end—and how all too soon it does end, I’m left wondering how I can ever make clear to those who matter precisely how much they mean to me, how important they are, how critical their collective presence is in my life.

I don’t quite know
How to say
How I feel

Those three words
Are said too much
They’re not enough

[lyrics from "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol]

As I’ve asked so many times before: What pain will you suffer for those whom you think to be lesser beings?  What heartache will you endure to see to the end the shorter plight of lives inhuman?

Personally, I see no end to the lengths to which I would go. . .

If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can’t be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don’t let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.
We have had so many happy years,
You wouldn’t want me to suffer so.
When the time comes, please, let me go.
Take me to where my needs they’ll tend,
Only, stay with me till the end
And hold me firm and speak to me
Until my eyes no longer see.
I know in time you will agree
It is a kindness you do to me.
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I have been saved.
Don’t grieve that it must be you
Who has to decide this thing to do;
We’ve been so close — we two — these years,
Don’t let your heart hold any tears.

this is the garden: colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden.    Time shall surely reap
and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here emraptured, as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

—e.e. cummings

[photo taken yesterday at the family farm]