Showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa)
Firewheel (a.k.a Indian blanket or blanket flower; Gaillardia pulchella)
Seedbox (Ludwigia alternifolia)
Purple horsemint (a.k.a. lemon beebalm, horsemint, lemon-mint or plains horsemint; Monarda citriodora)
Wild carrot (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota)
Berlandier’s yellow flax (Linum berlandieri)
Downy phlox (a.k.a. prairie phlox or fragrant phlox; Phlox pilosa)
Texas greeneyes (Berlandiera betonicifolia)
When you spend all your time waiting, listening for news that could bring pain, emotion seeps from every pore and drips in slow motion until puddles of worry take shape at your feet. Thus has been the last several days with a loved one hospitalized in critical condition, someone dear to me who faces an uphill battle, but now a battle with hope appended to its wake.
Everything is made to be broken. Thus rings the loudest bell in life, the piercing sound of endings that follow all beginnings. For in this universe that shelters us, nothing is eternal.
Even as the blossoms of spring leap from beneath earthen slumber and whisper into the air the scent of perfumes both subtle and gross, so too does their time begin to end, the clock of their lives already winding down from the moment they burgeon to life.
John Muir once wrote, “Let children walk with Nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life.”
A few days ago I spoke with a dear friend about death, about being prepared—or at least accepting, as one can never truly be prepared for the death of a loved one. And while death’s hand appears momentarily stayed, this event offered yet another reminder that all things end, whether today or tomorrow or years down the road. All things end.
In our conversation my friend and I delved through the emotional aspects of this finale to find ourselves of like minds in that the living come from the same matter as everything else in the cosmos, and back to that collection of matter we should return when the sands in our life’s hourglass finally run out. After all, as Sir Arthur Eddington said, “We are bits of stellar matter that got cold by accident, bits of a star gone wrong.”
There is always some reason to not let go, to resist the natural course of events, to stand firm against the inevitable as if just this once something different will happen. The endlessness feared from such goings creates a strength of will that makes us think we can change the course of living. And lacking that ability, we give things an eternal soul that will go on even after the body ceases to live.
I need no such comforts, no mystical hopes of seeing someone later, for I know in my heart that we end just as all things end, and that end comes to stars and to planets and to people and to plants, and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it. Accepting it, a desire to prepare for it notwithstanding, is the best we can do.
All we can taste is this moment. Tomorrow never comes because it becomes today long before we can touch it. The hourglass can never contain eternity. So we cherish what we have now, what we have in this place, and we know that—despite the threat of pain—endings always follow beginnings.
[Out of respect and a wish for privacy, let’s leave it at “a loved one”…]
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Photos:
[1] Scarlet gaura (Gaura coccinea)
[2] Greenthread (Thelesperma filifolium)
[3] Texas bindweed (Convolvulus equitans)
[4] Trumpet vine (a.k.a. trumpet-creeper, common trumpet-creeper, trumpet ash, trumpet-flower, devil’s shoestring, foxglove vine, or cow-itch; Campsis radicans)
[5] Tenpetal thimbleweed (Anemone berlandieri)
[6] Purple prairie clover (Dalea purpurea)
[7] A field of Mexican hat (Ratibida columnaris) with a backdrop of wild carrot (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota)
[8] Texas dandelion (a.k.a. false dandelion, Carolina desert-chicory, leafy false dandelion or Florida dandelion; Pyrrhopappus carolinianus)
Faces rise through the soil, ghostly apparitions of life once buried yet clawing its way to the surface.
They call themselves flowers, these earthly beings, these shining, petaled, hued portraits of aliens.
They open without a sound, yet other marvelous creatures hear their siren songs and rush to partake of the bountiful visage each proffers.
More than was lost the year before is found again with each blossom, each new life.
Soon their armies will march upon the mountains and plot upon the plains.
Soon their kind will take from the sun all that it fells upon the world, and in that taking they will give as much as they consume.
Lives will do battle with those risen from the ground, will eat of their flesh, and in doing so will give hope to more faces that will glow in generations to come.
What splendor does war in the vernal birth of our planet! What marvels do manifest!
Towers will be built. Traps will be set. And more faces will rise than can be counted.
We will watch this, we humans, and we will wonder at the beauty of such beasts.
Even as we shrink away from the heat that besets the selves we wish to protect, dirt will crumble as more leviathans reach forth, climb the air above, strip away their winter skins for spring countenances too long hidden away.
Fields will be colored by them. Winds will carry their essence. Eyes will rest upon their forms like so many mouths upon a banquet.
What hope have we in light of such unstoppable invasions?
All hope, for vernal is that which is to come: life from lifelessness, growth from dormancy, brilliance from mundane, and new faces from the ashes of those who came before.
— — — — — — — — — —
Mary offered It’s Time for February Eye Candy and David offered Happy first day of spring!, both posting on the same day no less, and I blame them for this sudden want of mine to see the verdant, abundant life of spring. Not that I don’t like winter, mind you; I love it, in fact, as it’s my favorite season, yet the naturalist within me desires the overflowing bouquet of marvelous flora and fauna that defines where we go from here.
Photos:
[1] A spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) makes its ascent over the petals of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale).
[2] As toxic as it is beautiful: crowpoison (a.k.a. crow poison or false garlic; Nothoscordum bivalve).
[3] A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) dives to the heart of a showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) to fetch a bit of pollen.
[4] A non-native species considered invasive in many parts, western salsify (Tragopogon dubius) produces large, elegant flowers. All the towering buds you see around it are of the same species.
[5] A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) resting atop a full bloom of wild carrot (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota). Behind both towers yet another flower of the same plant has yet to open.
[6] A syrphid fly (a.k.a hover fly; Toxomerus marginatus) feeding on the pollen of a Texas dandelion (a.k.a. false dandelion, Carolina desert-chicory, leafy false dandelion or Florida dandelion; Pyrrhopappus carolinianus).
Given how quickly I can kick the bucket from just one sting given by an ant or wasp, or a bee, let alone more than one of any of these, it leads me to think I have a mental incapacitation that prohibits me from seeing the dangers right in front of me as I stand there trying to snap photos of these creatures.
A mason wasp (Pseudodynerus quadrisectus), the very species whose lone member attempted to invade the carpenter bee nest outside my patio. That individual undoubtedly was looking for a place to start a home and family as they nest in places similar to that of carpenter bees.
A different kind of mason wasp (Monobia quadridens) enjoying a bit to eat from this wild carrot bloom (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota).
A metallic sweat bee (Augochloropsis metallica)[1] who chanced into the purview of my camera even before I realized it had landed on the Engelmann daisy (Engelmannia pinnatifida) I was photographing from some distance away.
Small and stunning, it remained on that flower only briefly.
The ubiquitous western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) also enjoying some wild carrot.
A cuckoo wasp (Chrysis coerulans)[2]. It parasitizes the nests of the common potter wasp (a.k.a. dirt dauber; Eumenes fraternus). The potter wasp never built more pots and never returned, undoubtedly because the cuckoo wasp had already discovered the burgeoning nest.
A sweat bee (Halictus farinosus) covered with pollen as it scrounges around the bloom of a musk thistle (a.k.a. nodding thistle; Carduus nutans).
And finally, my favorite: a male cicada-killer wasp (Sphecius speciosus) perched on the edge of the sidewalk leading from my front door.[3] Although technically he has a false stinger that is nothing more dangerous than a sex organ, it’s an impressive stinger nonetheless (albeit much smaller than the real stinger his female counterparts wield).
Let me finish with this:
As I knelt in the dirt and leaned in close to capture this image, my father asked, “What are you doing?”
“Taking a picture of this katydid,” I responded, then I added, “I absolutely love insects!”
“I know,” he remarked.
Most of my love of insects comes from my mother. She lacks the usual fear of them and taught us kids—or at least me—to appreciate their diversity, their beauty, their lives.
Mud daubers dance around her ankles at the family farm (they nest under one set of outside steps), yet she barely notices, doesn’t flinch, assures others they’re not a danger. She catches grasshoppers and katydids and other goodies to feed to the chickens (a treat the fowl thoroughly enjoy!). When a massive dragonfly perches atop a fence post, she gets in close until she’s able to pet it—Yes! Pet it, I said!—and she’s tickled pink at the opportunity to share that kind of moment with something too many fear. Like me, she grabs her camera and gets in close to photograph the marvelous diversity and exquisite displays these creatures offer—a treat the family farm amplifies with its location in the middle of the Piney Woods of East Texas.
When the central light pole at the family farm comes alive with a skin of giant moths, she’s there to witness the event and appreciate its majesty. When massive yellow garden spiders build webs and egg sacks a few steps outside the door, she watches with the enjoyment of a tourist on safari. When cicadas recklessly crash into her or assassin bugs prance across the table where she’s working or a caterpillar inches its way around her feet, she stops to take notice and displays the truest, most profound spirit of a naturalist: “Would you look at that! I wonder what that is…”
Thank you, Mom.
— — — — — — — — — —
[1] I originally thought this might be an orchid bee. Only one has ever been seen in Texas, however, so it seemed far more likely to be a metallic sweat bee. The photos don’t make identification simple as I wasn’t trying to take a picture of the insect (I barely realized it was there before it was gone); nevertheless, it seems more likely to be a sweat bee than the rarer tropical species.
[2] Most cuckoo wasp species are too similar to identify from such a poor photo (taken from across the patio with the camera on the wrong settings as I barely realized the wasp was there before it vanished; I swung around, snapped two pictures [the second of which was even worse], then it was gone…). Despite that, the dark wings and its incessant visits to the potter wasp nest—then and later—makes it clear which species this is. I also believe I might have additional photos of this species from an unfortunate individual who made it inside the house…and didn’t live to tell about it due to feline predators who found the darting prey and relentlessly pursued and attacked it.
[3] I continue to fight with my neighbors about these wasps. If this is to be my last year in the middle of this enormous colony, the last summer during which I might enjoy the brief appearance of these giants, then let it be a year without interference, a year without the deadly machinations of uninformed humans bent on destroying that which they do not understand (and we all know people fear what they do not understand…).
Written yesterday before I decided to go offline for the evening. Yet even now as I post this, the sky has grown dark and forbidding as clouds heavy with rain float by overhead, and already they bring us more of the same…more rain…a tremulous dance performed to the unending beat of heavenly outpourings, one punctuated only by thunderous cymbals clapping to their own rhythm. . .
It has been more than two months since I’ve been able to enjoy a walk at the lake. As I told Jenny,
I’d really like to start taking walks again! Ugh. At first, I loved the constant rain. I loved the cloudy skies and cool weather. I hated the high humidity levels but was willing to put up with them for the gorgeous storms and torrential downpours. Now I’m over it. Too much of a good thing becomes a bad thing, and this is the perfect example of that premise. Enough already! I want to take walks again. I want to know what a blue sky looks like, and I don’t just mean via tiny holes in an endless cloud that stretches from horizon to horizon. Occasional rain? Sure, that works. Even infrequent flooding and, of course, severe storms. But give me a break.
This coming from me represents nothing short of a biblical event. I love rain! I most assuredly love storms! Nothing enchants me more than dark clouds and gusty winds and strong rain. Thunder is music to my ears and lightning art to my eyes.
But not anymore. At least not right now. Tempests have become ubiquitous. When one appears, no longer do I feel the enthralling fascination I once felt. No, it’s become more noting that it’s still raining, still storming, rather than losing myself in the pleasure of trembling before nature’s power.
What began as a welcome respite from drought in March became a missing friend in April, but then it returned in May and hasn’t left us since. I’m ready for this to end…at least for now. Let us recover a bit such that the ground can be walked upon without sinking in mud up to my ankles. Let the sun shine a bit and the heat settle down on us so that we might look forward to the next refreshing, cooling shower. Let our ears thirst for the sound of approaching thunder, and let our eyes quiver at the unexpected sight of lightning dancing betwixt earth and heaven. Let all of this become a joy again, rather than a tedious mess.
It occurred to me today that the one or two readers of this blog might feel the same way. Because it has rained for two months, torrential rain that seemed as unending as intent on inflicting harm and damage, I realized that much of what I’ve posted here has been wrought of our ad nauseam floods. Two words: BOR. ING.
Well, perhaps not for me, as I’m living it. Even now, rumbling and roiling, billowing and boiling, a dangerous thunderstorm swims through the air overhead. There is more rain, of course.
Yet both Jenny and I have increasingly spoken of the longing we share once again to enjoy walks at the lake, to bathe our bodies in nature’s bounty, to wallow away the time with wanderings free of schedules.
These things are simply not to be, however, for the constant deluge keeps the area one massive mud pit, an example of Texas quicksand wherein shoes are deposited without being returned, where nature takes a holiday to escape storm after storm after storm, where plants swim to keep alive, and where the only clear path is made of concrete, something which removes all but the most mundane discovery and joy from the experience.
So it has been for some time now, and so is the cause of my inability to provide new experiences and photographs from the world around me.
Instead of lamenting it and crying about it, however, today I’m going to revisit the last walk I was able to take, the last walk left lonely for the absence of walks to follow. It was April 29, the day before the rains came, the day before the world changed into a wet tropical mess. Visit with me that splendid morning now so long ago. . .
A lone male mallard duck (Anas platyrhynchos) sleeping atop a fallen tree
as a few American coots (Fulica americana) swim in the background
in front of the water theater
The community amphitheater
One of the many communal birdhouses around the lake with
male and female purple martins (Progne subis) and
a lone male house sparrow (Passer domesticus)
The tiniest of flowers, blue fieldmadder (Sherardia arvensis), still covered with
heavy morning dew
Wielded like a sword, a lone blade of grass points toward
the heavens
A field of Engelmann daisies (Engelmannia pinnatifida)
and as yet unidentified white flowers
A field of wildflowers
Standing amidst a grove of trees near home
Finally, some photos of my favorite bird, the red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus). They are common in this area, especially around the lake. I chanced upon this male perched atop an electrical wire. Although the photos were taken from some distance, I still find myself entranced by this creature, even by these images, as no other bird captivates me so. . .
[I have but a few photos left from this walk and intend to post them at a later date; perhaps under different circumstances I would claim I’m saving them for a rainy day. . .]