The Gift of Fading Blooms

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I recently had an MRI to determine if my rotator cuff was torn by my fall (it wasn't; just bursitis). I will never understand why they can't invent an MRI to do a shoulder (isolated in it's own little cuff inside the electric coffin). Instead, in you go, full body with ear plugs (that really don't work) for half hour that sounded the like sea-plane convention we do our best to avoid each year on our lake!

I suspect it was because of the rattled nerves of the done (or done-in) MRI patients that there is a lovely meditation garden just steps away from the building.

I really needed it after that!

The garden isn't large -- a path lined by trees, plants and flowers -- with a pond, a small bridge and a spot with several resting benches.

You never know who you'll encounter there.

Walking the garden was quiet and lovely. It helped me get my sanity back after the MRI.

The pond was in full glory, filled with blooming lily pads.

The koi were out, too! I loved how they swam under the bridge and back. Despite the "Do Not Feed the Fish" signs, I'm sure they have had a few errant walkers and they were prepared.

I couldn't help but notice that many of the blooms in the garden were past their peak.

Like me.

Blossoms were falling, some of the petals had been damaged. Perhaps by insects. Perhaps by time.

Even the petals on some of the roses were beginning to turn backwards, as though they might be all inside out soon enough.

 

And yet there was still a quiet beauty about them. That rose smelled as sweet as any of the others. Perhaps even more so. It was as though every fading flower knew their time for being the best bloom on the block was limited, and yet they were still giving it their all.

And in doing so, one could see more deeply within and note how elegantly they were structured, how their seeds would move on to settle in the earth for another year when they would bloom again.

Even the waterlilies, so stunning as they floated on their pods, would come to an end. But today, they were smiling.

I couldn't help but note that new buds were beginning to pop out and that there would be great beauty in this garden, long after the poppies had dropped their petals.

And they will fade at some point as well. The Japanese maple that shows its red leaves now will eventually be joined by the oaks, maples and sumac in their show of color.

Winter will come to our garden.

And then spring and summer once more.

 

New flowers and plants and trees will find their place -- and each will be beautiful in its own way.

There will be love. And beauty.

And so it goes. And goes. And goes.

I wrote this last week after my shoulder injury and when I was expecting test results from my lung cultures today. This morning I called to make sure I didn't have to go in again just to have them say, "Sorry, we don't have your results back. It was good I did, because they didn't have them back, so I am rescheduled for late August (first available).

To say I am discouraged (and exhausted) would be an understatement. I'm trying SO hard to be positive, but the waiting is getting me down. Sometimes I think I am going stark, raving mad. Or totally off the wall. Take your pick.

Just wanted to share with you as you've been so kind to ask. If it wasn't pouring so hard, I'd seek this garden out again today.

Harry the Heron

Think glorious autumn day -- crisp, cold -- but not that biting cold. Just the bracing morning chill that keeps us walking briskly, hands in gloves, scarves wrapped around the neck, leaves rustling at our feet.

Add a bright blue sky speckled with puffy white clouds. The first sun, I might add in days. And color. Glorious color.

I decided to take a walk around the ditch (thank you, Rick), camera in hand, for what could be the last of the color. Certainly the walk down brought some splash!

But the ditch itself was looking more muted. There may still be leaves on the trees, but clearly, we are moving toward the end of fall, even though autumn continues until the solstice.

I reveled in the tons of brown and gold.

No flaming red -- just deep burgundy.

A jogger, a few dogwalkers, the occasional duck surrounded me as I walked around the giant pond.

Can you see the heron in this photo? (Harry, I call him)

What about this one?

Or this?Yes, now you have him!

This heron reminded me of a very rich post I read by Anno on Saturday. "It's all junk," she said, and then richly created four scenes she had observed the following week in such detail that one could feel the story beginning. She'd had no time for writing, yet I contend she was "writing" all along.

Why does this heron remind me of Anno's post? It's simple. You really had to look to find him.

I'd been walking about and I thought I was really looking at things -- framing them, mentally editing as I looked for the right view.

Yet he blended in with the environment so completely, I missed him. He certainly wasn't obvious. In fact, it was only at certain angles that I could see he hadn't disappeared.

He stood, straight, tall and very still, surveying his pond. His neck would extend, slowly, deliberately. I wasn't sure what he was looking for -- but he knew. When he saw it, his head dipped quickly into the water. I was too far away to see what came out, but I suspect it was the first course.

I would contend that the first skill of any writer, artist, doctor, teacher, cook, parent, scientist isn't a technical one. No grand vocabulary, mix of media or surgeon's knife can bring about an ideal end if the artist doesn't first observe.

It's in "seeing" (or "listening," if you like) that we note the little things that may seem irrelevant, yet carry an importance all their own. Try people watching (read Anno's post) -- there are stories there. The child or partner who says, "OK," when asked "how was today," may not mean "OK" at all.

I'm not saying we have to read between the lines on anything that is said. But sometimes there are important messages in what isn't said. Messages that require further investigation.

It's very easy to fall into the patterns of our lives. We go to someone's house and we don't notice things have changed. A new outfit, a haircut, a new chair. The mess finally cleaned off the table. Maybe we notice and don't say.

I nearly missed Harry the Heron. That would have been oh, so sad.

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Some folks will go to great ends for photography. In Michael Maurer Smith's case, it's New Mexico!

Mike's Dissent Decree often gives me more food for thought than my brain can handle. He's a gifted photographer who is in love with New Mexico.

He's traveling now -- or has been. If you're into the Southwest or just want to see some blue sky for a change, check out his travel blog.