Christmas Morning

This early Christmas morning is snowy and blustery. The radio alternates carols with weather advisories and travel warnings. The mid-section of the country is blanketed with bad weather from tornadoes and rain in the south to rain and sleet further north and snow and wind in the chillier temps.

I read the morning newspaper on line as the delivery person didn't make the rounds today. And no wonder when I looked at my outside world. My sister has canceled her family get together; my mom is safe at her assisted living. My son and his family are celebrating across town and will be        with us tomorrow, we hope. My daughter called from across the state for some words of advice on cooking her turkey.

From my windows I see falling snow swirled by the wind. Stan pushed snow from the front step to allow the door to open, but I expect it will soon fill in.

The lamp post light signifies the Light of the world has arrived. The bells proclaim

Peace on Earth, 

Goodwill to Men.

Waiting

This Christmas Eve Day, I woke to four inches (according to the radio weather man) of snow. The world outside my door is pristine white, undisturbed except for the early morning delivery of the newspaper.Trees, shrubs, and roofs are covered with a blanket of white. More inches are promised as well as wind; the radio airwaves are filled with travel advisories and changes in church services and programs. Callers describe the road conditions they encounter. Flying isn't any easier than driving as cancellation lists lengthen.

I'm waiting...
...for the full force of the storm to hit.
...to light the darkness with Christmas lights and candles.
...calls from family and friend.
...to collect presents from hiding places and put them under the tree.
...to read the Christmas story of the birth of Jesus.
...for the angels to sing their joyous alleluia.

Simon

A pet is defined as a domestic or tamed animal kept for companionship or pleasure and treated with care and affection. Some of us like dogs (my daughter has two), and others, including myself and my husband like cats. At my house Simon is the resident cat's meow. Sometimes he likes to curl up in a corner; sometimes he likes to be front and center.




Of course, he likes laps. A leap up to a lap means lots of pets and a good brush massage.
Then there's the Christmas decorations. Nosy Simon investigates all the boxes as the trinkets and garland and lights come out. He sits among the tinsel and watches where everything goes. When the decoration police are not looking, he plays with all these new toys. Batting the ornaments until they fall off is great fun.

When caught, he pouts, but doesn't move far.
The holiday season means fun for everyone in the house, including the pet.

Tea Tasting

The community education brochure announced a Tea Tasting class that nudged my curiosity. My interest was further enhanced by the site of the class, a local pastry shop, and the teacher, a woman I admire.I enrolled and arrived on a sunny wind-swept fall day to find six women gathered around a table set with plates, cups, and cutlery. Taking my place I listened to the teacher explain we would be tasting about 15 different kinds of tea and rating them. She described the qualities of black, green, and tisane teas, and we proceeded with the tasting accompanied by a scone, cookie, and chocolate truffle, each offered with an appropriate tea.

What a way to

spend an afternoon -

getting acquainted with other tea lovers,

introduced to new teas.

I learned about the areas of the world from which tea comes and the tea plant itself. The picking of leaf and bud influences the taste and quality as does the area, China, India, Ceylon, grown. I tasted red bush from Africa, the tea mentioned in No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith. I confess it wasn't one of my favorites. Moonlight in Montana (the name was enough to make me like it) proved a favorite of the group. No doubt it was the truffle that added to its attraction.

The teacher talked about water, methods of heating water, and teapots. The microwave process takes all the pizzaz out of water, leaving tea flat. Leaving my tea bag in the cup forever is a no-no. Even the correct temperature for steeping (brewing is for beer! not tea) and the time needed varies with the variety of tea being used.

I left the shop with a box of tea bag papers and a canister of Earl Grey, promising myself to return often as varieties on sale change. I can recycle by tin canister at the shop.

Changes

This month, October, hints at change to come. The rain and gloom precede warnings of our first winter storm. The Halloween goblins will need their wings and woolens to tramp about in the dark hours. September's warmth left in a flash giving the leaves no time to change color. Baskets of green leaves fell over one night, filling eave troughs, covering sidewalks, and littering lawns. No colors to marvel this autumn.

My dearth of postings during this year tells of attention demanded by family and activities. Mom moved in March to an assisted living facility. She took many months to adjust, even with frequent visits, daily phone calls, and attention to her needs.

Stan and I moved from our house to a rental town house (see photos). We tell everyone that it was time to give up yard work and snow removal. Others will take care of those chores at our new address. We have a three bedroom unit which accommodates my quilting "stuff" and the office. A family room offers space for grandchildren's books and games, exercise equipment, and a second TV to settle arguments over which program to watch. A rosebush pleases the eye outside the living room window.

As the outdoor chill signals change, I'm ready with a wool sweater for over the shoulders, an afghan or quilt for the legs, hot cocoa or tea, and a good book. I'll be learning the Wii and enjoying a fireplace, even if it is electric.

A New Year Begins

May this New Year bring happiness, joy, and good luck!

These wishes, oft repeated, remain the heartfelt expressions of all that is hoped for in 2009.

Autumn

Among the green of summer, spots of color portend the changing of the seasons. Some trees turn yellow, others crimson, and a few orange. Leaves drift down to sprinkle lawns that remain summer green, thick and lush, untouched by frost's fingers. Dipping temperatures have flirted with the freezing mark, only to retreat to warmer degrees.

This morning late buds on the rose bush open in a misty rain. Their rose red tops the oranges of the marigolds below. I stood in the damp air marveling at the depth of color and the beauty of the petals unfurling, thankful that Nature allows this last blooming before sending winter's chill.

The forest green ivy garlanding over the stump on our lawn has ripened to pinks and purples that catch the eye of passers-by. From my porch I gaze at the foliage admiring the hues, wondering if I can capture them in a quilting design. I retreat from the damp to my kitchen and the smell of coffee, certain my effort in fabric and thread will be a feeble representation of the glory outside.

There is a Season

For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:

• a time to be born, and a time to die;
• a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
• a time to kill, and a time to heal;
• a time to break down, and a time to build up;
• a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
• a time to mourn, and a time to dance...from Ecclesiastes
  

These words comfort my family at this time of the death of my father. He spent his life farming, and upon retiring he kept track of the seasons, the crops, and the weather. His life turned on nature's seasons and so this is the season of death. Mourning will pass; laughter and dancing will return; the timeless cycle repeats.

After ninety-one, nearly ninety-two, years, his greatest wish was to die at home. To this end, Hospice assisted us; he took his final breath reclining in a living room chair. We are blessed by the many expressions of comfort from family and friends.

June Showers

Shower: a brief fall of precipitation, as rain, hail, or sleet
(The American Heritage Dictionary, 1991)

A June shower provides a refreshing drink for crops, grass, and flowers. The raindrops patter a soothing refrain on roofs or pummel down in a rhythmic drumbeat. In the darkness of pre-dawn, I listen to their song and go back to sleep. Later, I rise to continued gloom of cloudy skies still emptying their water.

My reliable paper delivery person has delivered the morning newspaper with articles about the havoc of flooding in other areas of the country. Houses, streets, fields, and roads are inundated; the live giving rain leaves runnels of destruction.

Water sluicing from my downspout forms a puddle on the sidewalk and runs off into the grass. I bless Nature for nourishing my grass and easing my water bill; the hose stays wound and lifeless in its corner.

Flowers and plants reach their leaves and blossoms to the catch the drops that glisten on their foliage and feed their roots.

June showers, welcome and renewing or unrelenting and destructive, fall everywhere, their beneficence or their decimation a fluke of geography.

This is Spring?

Winter returns to my corner of North Dakota.
In January, I posted a view of my street. Alas, today looks similar. In inches, 8.3 is the official weather bureau measure. The wind is blowing and flurries linger in the air. Road reports and announcements fill the radio airwaves. News reporters call in from their drive arounds. They see vehicles in ditch and snowplows struggling. Postponements and cancellations replace the music selections. City buses aren't running until 9 a.m. The Valley's Largest Rummage Sale will begin at 11 a.m. instead of 7 a.m. A mother-daughter luncheon is cancelled. And on and on.

Through my kitchen window, I watch my flag flap and snow sift over the rooftops. I'm waiting for the melt as I've retired my shovel for this year!

The ice clouds my front door's window; tulips huddle under their white blanket.


My horoscope advises enjoying some down time, taking the day off. Simon has the right idea. I think I'll join him.

Pieces

Pieces on my cutting table appear as triangles, squares, and rectangles in various sizes and colors. Sometimes I choose fabrics that form a coordinated color scheme; other times I pick up random colors that spill together. Color and shape combine to make a design pleasing to my eye that takes its emphasis from color placed to draw attention within backgrounds that soothe and harmonize.

Pieces form an infinite variety of patterns with ebb and flow, patterns that shout with color and movement, patterns with restful subtlety. I never tire of the interplay of color, size and shape in design motifs. I play with their placement to achieve an arrangement that satisfies my senses.

As I sew pieces, sashes, borders and I watch the creation of a larger piece composed of many smaller parts, I accomplish an artistic rendition of an idea. Thread and fabric take on a spirit of their own. The sandwich of layers (top, batting, backing) is quilted together, another pattern imposed on the pieces. Applying the binding finishes the edge, the last piece of a wall hanging, a runner, a lap quilt or a bed quilt.

Like pieces, I choose words to make phrases, sentences, and paragraphs that express ideas and tell stories. The combinations are endless; the goal an engaging, entertaining composition.

Pieces spill into family and friends who combine in ever changing patterns stitching together the fabric of my life. Pieces surround me; their arrangement and rearrangement engrosses.

Love's Labor

Bertha and Frank exchanged their vows on a bracing September day.
Then John, Mary, Elisabeth, Frank Jr., Adam
Chester, Ruth, Michael, Debrah, Matthew,
Joseph, Peter, Charles, Paul, Rose,
Esther, Leah, Naomi, Matthew, Rachel, and Timothy
joined the family circle. On their silver anniversary, the couple
raised crystal glasses to toast the event. Around them ranged
sweet proof of loving and unsparing labor.

Wintering

Temperatures dipped last night below the zero mark, and an Alberta clipper zipped across the state prompting snow to fall and swirling the flakes across fields, roads, and streets. I adjust the thermostat, burn a log in the fireplace, and simmer a pot of soup.

But wintering is more than survival.
It's savoring the season of cold and snow.

It's a sleigh ride listening to the squeak of runners on the snow and to the jingle of bells on horse harness. Bundled in stocking caps and mittens, zipped in thick jackets, and nestled under lap robes, I, my husband, and my grandchildren keep cozy warm during a ride along the river. We scan the pattern of trees' bare limbs and winding river bank. Squirrels cavort and wild turkeys strut. Afterward we sip hot chocolate and talk about what we've seen.

My grandchildren enjoy taking their tobaggon or plastic dish sled to Dike West, a man made heap of dirt that protects from spring flooding. It's height and slope are perfect for a heady ride.

Wintering begs for visits to the library to choose books and movies. Add these to games like Trouble, Chutes and Ladders, checkers, and Scrabble for grand entertainment indoors. My husband loves to challenge children and adults to Carom, his favorite childhood game. He's so good at this version of table pool that the rest of groan in defeat before we take aim with our shooter.

On sunny, mild days, people are tempted to the parks, to take walks, or to skate at the outdoor rinks. My youngest grandson has discovered the thrill of gliding across a sheet of ice as if he has wings. When melting makes the snow sticky, the creative juices call for building snow people. Adding a variety of hats, scarves, sticks and stones gives these character and personality.

Ah, wintering! I'm ready to discover the contents of the book on my lamp table.

Colored Lights

Out my window I see hundreds of crystal bulbs outlining roofs, porches, stair rails, curving around trees and shrubs. Their light pierces the ominous darkness of the longest nights of the year. To me each point of light is an idea, a thought, a ray that inspires hope, hope that comes from the enlightenment of learning.

Each time I watch a student's face when she takes a book from the library shelf attracted by the cover and then I see the light of discovery when she looks at the pages inside. Often she shares it with others before coming to show me her treasure.

Letters, words, sentences, paragraphs on pages light the imagination as the bulbs light the dark side of nature. Stringing the lights in attractive patterns pleases the eye and soothes the spirit. Perusing the pages expands the channels of the mind adding connection to connection branches jutting in all directions. Intelligence bursts its boundaries and explores new territory.

I love the sparkle springing into eyes from the excitement of finding new information and new ideas, the stretching of minds made visible. The result is an essay, a discovery, an invention, a book, a film, a song.

In ages past, 2000 years ago, a star lighted the way for wise men and angels called the sheperds to adore the birth of a baby who would bring great change and enlightment to the world. The crystal bulbs are both reminder and inspiration.

Give Thanks

For everything there is a season under the sun
And 'tis the season of thanks...
Thanks for a million little things...
...tea and coffee in the morning.
...chocolate melting on the tongue.
...trash that I can still take it out.
...toilet bowl, scrubbing is good.
...floors that I can vacuum.
...dishes to fill, wash, and recupboard.
...shelves to dust.
...phone bringing friendly voices.
...hugs to warm the heart.
...gleam that never dims in a lover's eye.
...a cat's purrup
...the newspaper in the box.
...the books on my lamp table.
...heat in the winter.
...water from the tap.

Thanks for the big things...
...family that takes one in.
...kids that come home.
...grandkids who visit.
...friends who care

They add up to happiness and contentment
celebrated this Thanksgiving Day.

Cathars and Carcassonne

In French class, I studied and then taught Carcassonne as a medieval castle cultural lesson. Its defensive features, the thick walls, the dungeons, the openings for dropping stones fired my imagination with images of knights attacking and soldiers defending the city. In doing this research I discovered the reality behind its features.

Castles on mountain tops overlook river gorges and vineyards in the storybook landscape of southern France. From Toulouse to the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean Sea the fortified cities of Minerve, Carcassonne, Montsegur, Peyrepertuse, and Queribus dot the Languedoc region. The peaceful beauty of rolling hills, forests, and meadows belie the slaughter and terror that took place through 13th century.

Languedoc was home to the Cathars, numbers vary from 20,-40,000 believers with 1000 priests. The Cathars believed in in two gods, an evil God of Darkness (creator of the visible world) and a good God of Light (creator of the spiritual). The human body was evil and should receive as little as possible to sustain it. They called each other Christians and lived normal lives. The priests, both men and women, lived in houses run an elder or prioress and divided their time between preaching and doing regular work. The Cathar Church wealth came from the labor of the priests and the donations of the believers. The church had no civil authority over the population and did not believe in feudal heirarchy. The Cathars promoted feminism and equality for the serfs and the poor. They were vegetarians. They lived at peace with the aristocracy of the area an integral part of the countryside.

History tells the story of disturbance in this fairyland of good will. The Church in Rome saw the Cathar lifestyle as a threat. Equality for women and serfs? Disbelief in hierarchy? The Mass fakery? The Church the instrument of Satan? The clergy corrupt? An inquiry held at the town of Albi labeled the Cathars heretics and is known today as the Albigensian heresy. As a result in 1209 Pope Innocent III called for a new crusade to suppress the Cathars.

Simon de Montfort led the attacks. At Carcassonne, Viscount Raymond Roger Trencavel VI refused to surrender, but he was captured and the city taken. At Beziers, as many as 20,000 may have been massacred. Town after town the stories of terror and death repeated. People were stoned, hanged, starved in dungeons, and burned to death.
As early as 1206, Dominic de Guzman, who later became St. Dominic, began traveling and preaching in Languedoc region. The Lateran Council of 1215 formally recognized Dominic’s followers as a religious order. The Dominicans were known for their skills in teaching and theological debate. They used these trying to counter Cathar views. Despite all efforts and in the face of hardship, the Cathars continued to be a formidable force in the area.

In 1233, the Inquisition was devised for finding and punishing heretics. The Dominicans directed the Inquisition. Anyone could be arrested just on suspicion. Prisoners had no right to legal assistance, and no knowledge of their accuser or of the evidence against them. They were questioned in private and sentenced in public with no right to appeal. The persecution of the Inquisition forced Cathars to convert, to take up arms, or to flee to refuge in other countries or very remote places. One such refuge was a remote hilltop castle at the edge of the Pyrenees, Montsegur. It was besieged in 1241 and again in 1244 when it fell. Another remote stronghold at Queribus was the last to surrender in 1255. The Inquisition continued until the end of the century and the end of the Cathars.

A museum at Montsegur, the restoration of the walled city Carcassonne, and other remnants of castle walls, towers, dungeons, caves, and artifacts remain to memorialize the spiritual fervor of the Cathars. That they fought long and hard for their beliefs is admirable. I long for their hardiness and perseverance in pursuing my goals.

Friends are angels

"Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly." Anonymous

I wake giving thanks for another day. I hug my family members, and I review the day's activities at the breakfast table. Wrapped in love and compassion I leave the house with energy and purpose and high spirits. I open the school library door, flip on the lights, start the computers, and greet the first students. With such a positive start, what could go wrong?

On most days, nothing. On others the world turns contrary. The volunteer scheduled for the morning calls to report a sick child will keep her at home. A teacher has not returned a TV to the AV room, and the next user takes out his frustration on the handiest person, me. Two children want to check out the same book and my negotiations end with both in tears. "I'm leaving on the afternoon plane because the business meeting has been moved up a day," says my husband on the phone. My daughter slumps in, dropping her book bag by the door. Her contorted face tells the story. "It's not fair," she says. "They picked all the popular girls. It didn't matter how good the rest of us were." Cheerleading tryouts did not give her the hoped for result.

We struggle silently through supper rearranging the food on our plates. I'm unable to find words to ease her hurt. She retreats to her room while I clear away the meal. The phone rings, and Sheila says, "You sound down. What's wrong?" She listens while I list my woes. The telling lifts the weight. Her voice is soft, empathetic; she reminds me that words won't help my daughter, but a hug will.

She's my friend; she hugs me over the phone. "You're an angel," I say. What is that fluttering I hear as I climb the stairs to my daughter's room?

Transition and Change

I place the tube-shaped instrument to my eye and view a symmetrical design produced by mirrors reflecting the pattern made by bits of colored glass at the other end of the tube. A slight turn changes the design; another turn, another change. The myriad of change continues with each transition. A portion from one configuration moves to another position changing the design and perspective. Life is a kaleidoscope of transition and change.

With conception, a human being begins the process of change. Rituals punctuate a person’s timeline. A birthday marks a baby’s transition from womb to world. A first tooth, first step, and first word call for picture taking and record making. Entry into the world of education means the celebration of the first of many graduations—from kindergarten, from elementary school, from high school, and from college. Each signals a transition in mental, physical, emotional, and social growth. Bits from one stage form the basis for transformation to the next.

Besides education, relationships reflect change—from sibling, from pal, from best friend, from boyfriend/girlfriend, from lover to life mate. Even when a life mate is chosen and a commitment made, the relationship evolves, grows, and changes or it dies. Like the kaleidoscope, change alters the dynamics of a relationship. The motif ebbs and flows, brightens and darkens, pales and intensifies, comforts and troubles, and weakens and deepens. Youth reeks with intensity, middle life with sober brightness, and older age with a calm depth. I’m entering this time of quiet enjoyment of my mate’s strengths and indifference to his foibles. The recognition of the finiteness of the life span begs appreciating every remaining moment.

My life’s work reflects transition, too. Training culminates in working at a task, job, or career. In the beginning, huge amounts of time and energy shape the trials and rewards of work. Often one begins with uncertainty and gains confidence and skill to reap the rewards of promotion, honor, money, and achievement. My education career ends; retirement begins. Honors, leadership positions, and respect of colleagues signal success even though monetary levels were less than desirable in education. Long ago, I made the choice knowing this and I will not complain now. My thoughts have moved beyond school walls and classrooms to writing: letters, newsletters, essays, and a novel.

Transition moves along and becomes change; change shifts to transition and the process repeats. Individual bits rearrange in never ending creativity. Movement and activity, colors and energies animate my world stimulating a continuous kaleidoscope of inspiration. I welcome the next turn, prepared to revel in next design.

Contacting Emily in 2007

emily@amherst.com...The address leaped from the monitor’s screen into my head. Could it be? My heart pounded at the thought of Emily Dickinson,the cloistered poet, dressed in white, sitting at her computer sending messages into cyberspace. Dare I make contact? I do! My fingers tremble as I type. Dare I ask for permission to visit her? I do; I tell myself a dream does not come true without taking action. I click on send, and it’s done; I can’t call the message back.

Leaving the mail screen active, I search my book shelves for two books: one with a faded green cover and wrinkled pages, and one in it’s dust jacket with clean white pages of bold dark print. Emily Dickinson’s poems. I read while I wait for the ding that announces incoming e-mail messages.

“A precious--mouldering pleasure--’tis--
To meet an Antique Book--
In just the Dress his Century wore--
A privilege--I think--”

Emily Dickinson is that Antique Book from another century, that person who created a quiet revolution with her poetry. How exciting to contact her! Do I dare hope for the privilege of being in her presence, sharing a cup of tea, and discussing nature, words, and ideas?

“His venerable Hand to take--
And warming in our own--
A passage back--or two--to make
To times when he--was young--”

I substitute “her” and “she” and dream of taking Emily’s hand. I’m certain that in the awe I feel, I couldn’t begin to speak. Yet her hand warms my own and leads me to a chair. Emily sits in another chair close by, hands in her lap. Her dark hair is a smooth cap around her head; her dark dress trimmed with white lace around the neck. Her voice calms my nerves and invites me to converse.

“His quaint opinions--to inspect--
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind--
The Literature of Man--”

Emily begins with the most recent book of Dickens, and we talk of style, and characters, and social themes therein. She pours tea and passes me a cup. I spread the linen napkin on my lap and chose several delicacies from a plate of tempting dainty sandwiches and cookies. It is as I supposed, an occasion full of grace and courtesy.

“What interested Scholars--most--
What Competitions ran--
When Plato--was a Certainty--
And Sophocles--a Man--”

Emily converses on the strands of thought common to the ancient scholars and to their modern counterparts. She wonders if people, society, will ever learn from the literature and history of the past instead of repeating and even compounding mistakes. She’s interested in my opinion! She waits patiently for me to overcome my tongue-tied hesitation and attends my words, asking a question here, making a comment there.
“When Sappho--was a living girl--
and Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante--deified--
Facts Centuries before”

Emily quotes from Sappho, Elizabeth Browning, and the Brontes; I dare to introduce her to Moore, Rich and Angelou. She seems pleased that poets admired and imitated her verse and stanza patterns. She smiles a bit when I mention an entire volume has been published containing poetry inspired by her.

“He traverses--familiar--
As One should come to Town--
And tell you all your Dreams--were true--
He lived--where Dreams were born--”

Emily dreamed and wrote her dreams for readers everywhere to know. Because of her others dare to dream and dare to write their dreams with truth and honesty. Her sparkling intellect, keen curiosity, and deep introspection kindle my desire to search for deeper meanings and truth.

“His presence is Enchantment--
You beg him not to go--
Old volumes shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize--just so--” *

Of what importance, of what renown am I that Emily should share her precious time with me, yet the afternoon establishes a rapport, a kinship that embraces my soul and encourages me to dream. Emily’s presence is enchanting. I want to linger with Emily at Amherst and drink more of her rapture.

The anticipated “ding” has not interrupted my reverie with Emily; but I will keep the two volumes beside my computer. I will be patient. After all, in the year 2007, Emily may choose any one of 365 days to contact me. I will wait.

*Poem quoted from Thomas H. Johnson, ed., The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Boston: Little, Brown & Company, 1957, pp.176-77.

Plains...

Plains...
I've known plains...that central area of the United States between the Appalachian and the Rocky Mountains generally referred to as the Great Plains. Geological forces placed these plains at 2500 feet or more above sea level with high mountain ranges on the west that cuts rainfall to 20 inches or less each year. The geography varies from table top flat to gently mounded to hilly and is characterized by vast open expanses swept by wind that blows harder than anywhere else in the country. The eye roams unimpeded from horizon to horizon, man and his implements dots on the landscape.
I've known the upper Great Plains...that area west of the Mississippi River and north of the Platte reaching to the Rockies. Grasslands and streams fed numerous herds of buffalo and tribes of native people. Skeletal remains tell of dinosaurs inhabiting the plains in eons past. Today evidence of civilization erupts in crazy quilt pattern unable to fill the expansive ranges. Grass species range from tallgrass to stem grass to bluestem to western wheatgrass to grama grass. So important are the grasses to the culture and environment that each state has an official grass. Once home to roaming herds of buffalo, the plains today are home to elk, antelope, deer, bighorn sheep, coyotes, grouse, pheasants, wild turkeys, eagles, falcons, and prairie dogs.
I've known plains...the fields that change with the seasons. In spring, fallow earth lies flat and barren waiting for cultivation and planting. By late spring seedlings burst open their seed coverings and tender sprouts emerge. Their shoots responding to rain and sun soon reach for the sky. In summer, the fields put on a style show. Grains wear seed heads, legumes show blossoms that change to fruit, corn tassels and stalks grow heavy with ears, sugar beets charm with their ruffling foliage, and sunflowers display smiley faces. The plains are lush and luxurious. The heavy growth undulates in the summer breeze. This is the flatlander's ocean, the movement swelling and surging with sun lighted peaks and dark mysterious shadows. In late summer, the fields of grain turn golden promising wealth and reward. The harvest begins and continues into fall; the plains become sear and empty, turned into themselves. In the undercurrents, the plains rest, digest, gather energy for a new season. Days and weeks become the months of winter when the plains lay under a mantle of snow shifted and shaped and reshaped by the ever present wind sweeping unblocked across the even ground. The flatlander's ocean is awash in waves of white, waves that stretch to fine points or curl to shelter shadowy havens, waves that grow or diminish with the ebb and flow of wind driven snowflakes.
I've known plains...ever changing and never changing. The plains orchestrate my life's song. Sometimes I'm in harmony and sometimes I'm in discord. The rhythms of the plains are ever present calling to my inner being when I hike, backpack, or horseback ride. Canoeing, fishing and hunting allow me to savor the sights and sounds of the land. Photography tries, but cannot quite capture the fullness of images that invade and inspire my senses. The plains remind me that no matter how out of step or off key I get, I have only to look and listen to find affirmation. Yes, I know plains.