Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
-From The Enkindled Spring by D. H. Lawrence
A couple of weeks ago, I encountered a small patch of Trout Lilies.
Said I to them, “You are early this year.”
Trout Lily (Erythronium americanum)
And they replied, “Actually, we are right on time. You simply weren’t ready for us.”
Of course, they were correct. This time of year is a challenge for me, a time of anticipation and regret. Throughout the winter, I looked forward to the emergence of another spring. And here it is, hurtling forward faster than ever, The maple blooms create a rosy glow. Yellow flowers burst forth from the earth, giving back all the sunshine that they’ve imbibed. Trees that were bare, was it just yesterday, are clad in pink and white. A breeze comes along and the air is filled with tiny petals, drifting to the ground like flakes of snow.
I want to see it all, take it in and not miss a thing. I want to revisit the flowers I know, beloved familiar companions, and I want to discover the flowers I’ve never seen, elusive wonders. Though the days are getting longer, they are never long enough. What I don’t see today, I might never see.
Each season of the year, each season of life, has its own poignancy. One of my very favorite literary works is the 14th century chivalric romance, “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” Among the many passages I cherish is this account of the changing seasons:
For Yule was now over-past, and the year after, each season in its turn following the other. For after Christmas comes crabbed Lent, that will have fish for flesh and simpler cheer. But then the weather of the world chides with winter; the cold withdraws itself, the clouds uplift, and the rain falls in warm showers on the fair plains. Then the flowers come forth, meadows and grove are clad in green, the birds make ready to build, and sing sweetly for solace of the soft summer that follows thereafter. The blossoms bud and blow in the hedgerows rich and rank, and noble notes enough are heard in the fair woods.
After the season of summer, with the soft winds, when zephyr breathes lightly on seeds and herbs, joyous indeed is the growth that waxes thereout when the dew drips from the leaves beneath the blissful glance of the bright sun. But then comes harvest and hardens the grain, warning it to wax ripe ere the winter. The drought drives the dust on high, flying over the face of the land; the angry wind of the welkin wrestles with the sun; the leaves fall from the trees and light upon the ground, and all brown are the groves that but now were green, and ripe is the fruit that once was flower. So the year passes into many yesterdays, and winter comes again, as it needs no sage to tell us.
My quest for spring flowers does not entail the same risks as Gawain's heroic quest. And yet, we’re both human. We set out with intention, plotting the course we think our lives will take. Then, what we call “chance occurrences” intervene, and our paths take unanticipated turns.
I have not been one to chart out a life plan and see it through in any meticulous way. My trajectory has often been more drift than drive. But even those who pursue their goals with greater tenacity are not exempt from happenstance and “the hand of fate.” In my own experience, unexpected moments have taken me on detours to some of life’s greatest joys (and greatest sorrows, too, but joy and sorrow are inseparable.)
This time of year, I think about one of my favorite places, a little brook whose banks are lined with rare Oconee Bells. Years ago, when I learned about the botanical mystery story regarding this plant, I was determined to see them myself. With my intention firmly set, I made certain to be at the right place at the right time. The date was March 13, 2009 and it was one of the best days ever, far surpassing my anticipation of how it would be.
For several years, without fail, I made an annual return visit. My pilgrimage was a matter of intent, but not totally impeded by my intent. One year, I was there on the day of the vernal equinox. After meandering amongst the flowers, I followed the trail up toward a clearing. The sounds I heard did not prepare me for what I was about to see. I have tried to find a more accurate word for it, but my word choice then and now, is simply “orgy.” In a separate post, I share notes and photos from that memorable spectacle.
Yet another pilgrimage to this idyllic place was marked by another “random” meeting. Memories of that encounter are what prompted today’s musings. Oconee Bells are in bloom for a relatively short span of time. Before making the drive to revisit them, I would go online to find current photographs of the flowers. On one website, I did find up-to-date photos confirming that it was an opportune time to go. The author of the website also mentioned a tiny rare flower that could be found near the Oconee Bells.
Pygmy Pipes, aka Sweet Pine Sap (Monotropsis odorata)
Intrigued by that possibility, I made a beeline to my favorite Shortia patch with hopes of discovering Pygmy Pipes as well. I was almost halfway around the loop trail, when I saw a gentleman taking pictures. He looked like he knew what he was doing, and I thought he just might have some insights on Pygmy Pipes.
I told him I was there to enjoy the Oconee Bells, as usual, but that I was also looking for the diminutive plants I had seen on a website maintained by a guy named “Jim Fowler.”
He smiled and said “I’m Jim Fowler and you’re standing right next to a bunch of Pygmy Pipes.”
For Yule was now over-past, and the year after, each season in its turn following the other. For after Christmas comes crabbed Lent, that will have fish for flesh and simpler cheer. But then the weather of the world chides with winter; the cold withdraws itself, the clouds uplift, and the rain falls in warm showers on the fair plains. Then the flowers come forth, meadows and grove are clad in green, the birds make ready to build, and sing sweetly for solace of the soft summer that follows thereafter. The blossoms bud and blow in the hedgerows rich and rank, and noble notes enough are heard in the fair woods.
After the season of summer, with the soft winds, when zephyr breathes lightly on seeds and herbs, joyous indeed is the growth that waxes thereout when the dew drips from the leaves beneath the blissful glance of the bright sun. But then comes harvest and hardens the grain, warning it to wax ripe ere the winter. The drought drives the dust on high, flying over the face of the land; the angry wind of the welkin wrestles with the sun; the leaves fall from the trees and light upon the ground, and all brown are the groves that but now were green, and ripe is the fruit that once was flower. So the year passes into many yesterdays, and winter comes again, as it needs no sage to tell us.
My quest for spring flowers does not entail the same risks as Gawain's heroic quest. And yet, we’re both human. We set out with intention, plotting the course we think our lives will take. Then, what we call “chance occurrences” intervene, and our paths take unanticipated turns.
I have not been one to chart out a life plan and see it through in any meticulous way. My trajectory has often been more drift than drive. But even those who pursue their goals with greater tenacity are not exempt from happenstance and “the hand of fate.” In my own experience, unexpected moments have taken me on detours to some of life’s greatest joys (and greatest sorrows, too, but joy and sorrow are inseparable.)
 |
| Oconee Bells (Shortia galacifolia) |
This time of year, I think about one of my favorite places, a little brook whose banks are lined with rare Oconee Bells. Years ago, when I learned about the botanical mystery story regarding this plant, I was determined to see them myself. With my intention firmly set, I made certain to be at the right place at the right time. The date was March 13, 2009 and it was one of the best days ever, far surpassing my anticipation of how it would be.
For several years, without fail, I made an annual return visit. My pilgrimage was a matter of intent, but not totally impeded by my intent. One year, I was there on the day of the vernal equinox. After meandering amongst the flowers, I followed the trail up toward a clearing. The sounds I heard did not prepare me for what I was about to see. I have tried to find a more accurate word for it, but my word choice then and now, is simply “orgy.” In a separate post, I share notes and photos from that memorable spectacle.
Yet another pilgrimage to this idyllic place was marked by another “random” meeting. Memories of that encounter are what prompted today’s musings. Oconee Bells are in bloom for a relatively short span of time. Before making the drive to revisit them, I would go online to find current photographs of the flowers. On one website, I did find up-to-date photos confirming that it was an opportune time to go. The author of the website also mentioned a tiny rare flower that could be found near the Oconee Bells.
Pygmy Pipes, aka Sweet Pine Sap (Monotropsis odorata)
Intrigued by that possibility, I made a beeline to my favorite Shortia patch with hopes of discovering Pygmy Pipes as well. I was almost halfway around the loop trail, when I saw a gentleman taking pictures. He looked like he knew what he was doing, and I thought he just might have some insights on Pygmy Pipes.
I told him I was there to enjoy the Oconee Bells, as usual, but that I was also looking for the diminutive plants I had seen on a website maintained by a guy named “Jim Fowler.”
He smiled and said “I’m Jim Fowler and you’re standing right next to a bunch of Pygmy Pipes.”
I was astonished!
We spoke for a minute or two, he gave me his business card, I admired the flowers and then we went our separate ways. We never crossed paths again, although I did revisit his website of gorgeous wildflower photography from time to time.
Jim Fowler (1946-2021)
A couple of years ago, however, I went to his website and learned that Jim had died. That was terribly sad news, but as I read the details, there was something perfect about it, too.
On the final afternoon of his life, June 25, 2021, Jim was photographing purple fringed orchids on the road leading up to the summit of Mount Mitchell. A fatal heart attack ended his four-hour photoshoot.
Purple Fringed Orchid (Platanthera psycodes)
I like to think that a piece I wrote about wildflower photography would have resonated with Jim Fowler. On one level, April in the Cove is about the bliss of photographing flowers. On another level, it is a contemplation of life and death, and as much as anything I’ve written, a summation of who I am.
Jim Fowler was especially fond of wild orchids, which happen to be among my favorite botanical subjects. In 2020, the U.S. Postal Service issued a set of wild orchid stamps featuring Fowler’s flower photos. He was quoted in the news release announcing the issue:
It’s amazing that my passions of photographing wild orchids and stamp collecting have converged today with the release of these stamps. My childhood interest in photography began on the knee of my mother, who was an accomplished photographer; my passion for the beauty of plants, I learned from my great-grandmother, who was a botanist at the Department of Agriculture; and the hobby of stamp collecting, I picked up from my older brother.
The website for the North American Orchid Conservation Center features a notable collection of wild orchid photos and commentary from Jim Fowler.
And his own website is still online and is a remarkable resource.
My intention, for the weeks ahead, is to share some quality time with the spring flowers, to embrace serendipitous surprises that come my way and to savor the many joys tinged with sadness. Such is the poignancy of this season.
One word in the English language which comes close to describing the so-called dichotomy is “bittersweet.” That isn’t ideal, and I have to believe that another language must have the word that conveys the concept more effectively. Until I find that one word, let the poets speak:
Selection from Lines Written in Early Spring
We spoke for a minute or two, he gave me his business card, I admired the flowers and then we went our separate ways. We never crossed paths again, although I did revisit his website of gorgeous wildflower photography from time to time.
Jim Fowler (1946-2021)
A couple of years ago, however, I went to his website and learned that Jim had died. That was terribly sad news, but as I read the details, there was something perfect about it, too.
On the final afternoon of his life, June 25, 2021, Jim was photographing purple fringed orchids on the road leading up to the summit of Mount Mitchell. A fatal heart attack ended his four-hour photoshoot.
Purple Fringed Orchid (Platanthera psycodes)
I like to think that a piece I wrote about wildflower photography would have resonated with Jim Fowler. On one level, April in the Cove is about the bliss of photographing flowers. On another level, it is a contemplation of life and death, and as much as anything I’ve written, a summation of who I am.
Jim Fowler was especially fond of wild orchids, which happen to be among my favorite botanical subjects. In 2020, the U.S. Postal Service issued a set of wild orchid stamps featuring Fowler’s flower photos. He was quoted in the news release announcing the issue:
It’s amazing that my passions of photographing wild orchids and stamp collecting have converged today with the release of these stamps. My childhood interest in photography began on the knee of my mother, who was an accomplished photographer; my passion for the beauty of plants, I learned from my great-grandmother, who was a botanist at the Department of Agriculture; and the hobby of stamp collecting, I picked up from my older brother.
The website for the North American Orchid Conservation Center features a notable collection of wild orchid photos and commentary from Jim Fowler.
And his own website is still online and is a remarkable resource.
My intention, for the weeks ahead, is to share some quality time with the spring flowers, to embrace serendipitous surprises that come my way and to savor the many joys tinged with sadness. Such is the poignancy of this season.
One word in the English language which comes close to describing the so-called dichotomy is “bittersweet.” That isn’t ideal, and I have to believe that another language must have the word that conveys the concept more effectively. Until I find that one word, let the poets speak:
Selection from Lines Written in Early Spring
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
-William Wordsworth
On Joy and Sorrow
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
-Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
A Light Exists in Spring
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period --
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay --
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
-Emily Dickinson
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
-William Wordsworth
On Joy and Sorrow
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
-Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
A Light Exists in Spring
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period --
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay --
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
-Emily Dickinson
The Trees
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
-Philip Larkin
Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
-Gerard Manley Hopkins
No comments:
Post a Comment