The walk didn’t start in a back alley. I was exploring an unfamiliar part of town while my car was in the shop. I meandered down a street, taking in flowers hanging pendulously over fences.
The fences became higher, tighter and more keep-out-ish. A resurrection lily poked its head around the corner as if to say with a wink: Life is still thriving behind closed doors.
Soon I could only see through a few cut holes. Then even the holes were covered over with metal plates. I was now officially in an alley.
Vegetation sprawled against the doors, their peeling paint almost worn away.
Lichen created a textured patina on the weathered planks; locks made me feel like a trespasser.
An old appliance stood like a sentinel, watching my every move. A car seemed as if had been parked and forgotten: weeds grew around its tires.
A vintage truck faced me, headlights staring. Everything in the alley exuded a rough-hewn charm, but was also slightly menacing. Was I welcome or not?
Just then I passed a sky-blue garage with large, double wooden doors. I felt more at ease. The red spray-painted latches appeared almost festive. A car turned into the alley, approaching me. I moved aside. An elderly woman with coiffed white hair and trembling lipstick smiled and waved as she passed. I was welcome, after all.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Art at the Pueblo Riverwalk traces the Arkansas River like a filigree frame around its edges. I sense that the city worked hard to beautify its downtown by creating this contemplative promenade. Do I do the same—work tirelessly to transform my soul into a work of art?
One fanciful bronze piece showcases river-loving creatures—some of which are outside of their habitat. Sometimes I feel like a fish out of water when my spiritual thirst has not been quenched by daily devotion. Can I be sustained by a few droplets until I am once again immersed?
A glazed ceramic wall is given added depth with small pools of crackled glass. Does my brokenness enhance my spiritual depth when fired in the kiln of trial?
A sculpted beaver pauses on a rock, partially, but not completely, submerged. How often do I plan to dive fully into God, but end up reserving a piece of myself on the surface? Am I afraid of drowning?
And then I see a mare with her foal. She is protective but not overbearing. The foal is relaxed enough to rest because it trusts its mother completely. Can I trust myself to God’s care enough to release all anxiety? This is my hope, wish and prayer.
When I get close to someone or something, I can see both the beauty and the flaws—they are inextricably intertwined. As I approach a resplendent rhododendron bloom to spy on a fly, I see the flower’s iridescent petals are marred with tiny brown spots.
A lily-of-the-valley shrub that looks unblemished from afar reveals small imperfections on its waxy white bells when seen up close.
Curled pink tongues of grevillea have shooting spathes, but one is broken. Miniscule blooms arising from juicy, succulent leaves have dead gray matter scattered between them.
The edges of a coral lily are slightly ragged and display whitish dots of lost color. A busy bee collects pollen from fresh bursts of blooms—but others held upon the same panicle are withered.
Oh, there’s a flawless fuchsia camellia! No…one of its petals has been crushed. The white one is yellowing and puckered along its perimeter.
An oxalis and magnolia fare no better: perfection just out of reach.
Every flaw gives the blossom its individuality, otherwise each would look exactly the same. The “Wabi-sabi” in each of us—a kind of aesthetic of imperfection—attracts others just as much as our beauty does. Why not revel in every little bit of who we are? Surely God does.
I’m having one of those weeks. You know the kind I’m talking about—where you’re actually wondering if the moon is whispering to the stars: Let’s knock that positive attitude right out of her, just for fun!
When I returned home, I received a call from the Elk Gallery telling me that one of my Little Souls was covered in ants. The gentleman said that the bright side was that my work was saving the others from being infested. Yay.
My husband and I had to go out in the pouring rain to look at a potential burial site for his deceased brother. We left our new dog, Remy, in the bedroom. He had been alone in the room before—mischief-free. But in the forty-five minutes we were gone, he managed to topple a precious stained-glass lamp.
I could go on, but I think I’ll stop. The week is drawing to a close and I know good things are just around the corner. I can already hear the stars whispering to the sun: Shine some of your golden rays on her; she could use the warmth.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
How do ants do it? Carry such a heavy load that often surpasses their body mass? I know I can’t.
My husband and I had to eat out the last evening because I had stripped the house of all food and scrubbed down the fridge. He chose a bustling restaurant his family had frequented during the time his father was in hospice. It seemed oddly appropriate.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
I was walking on an old logging road, taking a photo of raindrops balancing on a scotch broom bloom, when I heard the sound of a dirt bike. My neighbor had told me that the ATV and dirt bike riders he encountered when walking in this area were usually respectful, so I thought nothing of it.
One of the prayers I recite every day is: I choose to understand why people do what they do. And I have to admit, I felt that I did understand why he—and yes, it was a he—did it. It was simply funny to him: She’s turned the other way and I’ll soak her—she’ll never see it coming.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
My husband and I went for a walk in a portion of Jackson Demonstration State Forest that is near a prison camp. Minor offenders live and work among towering redwoods and blossoming cherry trees. Beauty surrounds them, yet they are still chained to their supervised existence.
There was very little that physically separated us from the prisoners—just a sign we came upon that read: State Prison Camp; Restricted Access. I know I am similar to those inside the prison—I simply made different choices and didn’t act on negative impulses. We are linked together as all humans are.
I try to be tough, but I find that my own vulnerability is the connective link that joins me in solidarity to others.
As we continued on our walk, we came to an underpass covered in graffiti. One might expect some awfully raunchy imagery, but one side displayed three giant pink teacups, and other read: Injoy Your Self. I’m not sure if the misspelling was intentional, but I did feel quite joyful as I looked at the suggestion. Did the prisoners paint it?
All photos © Sondra Sula.
I stopped by a friend’s house right after I left work—permanently. The sad truth is that my aging body couldn’t handle the physical aspect of working in a wood shop. The repetitive tasks of sanding, buffing, branding, and packaging left my back, arm and hand throbbing with pain.
She landed near an outcropping of rock. I stood at the edge of it, feeling the wind whip me. I certainly felt slapped in the face—quitting a job I enjoyed because my puny muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
The ladybug flew off to an old gadget that looked as if two whales were cavorting on it. But it was hard to distinguish the forms because the once newly painted metal was now rusty and flaking. I knew what that felt like…
I lost track of my beetle friend, and farther along I saw a burr as prickly as I felt. A group of feathers told a story of demise. A stone looked dull among fresh growth. Hmm…
I reached a bluff where the waves below were ferocious and pounding at the cliff facings. No wonder they get worn down and tumble into the sea, I reasoned.
But then on my way back to the car I saw a row of seagulls along a fence that made me chuckle. In front of them was a sign that read: Gull Haven, 1925. A single gull stood atop the worn sign causing me to laugh out loud. For nearly a hundred years gulls had probably been perching there. I thought: I’m only about half that age. I still have time to spread my wings.
I’ve been crabby lately.
All prickly outside and feeling like a dried up old stump.
My claws are out, and I’m pinching at anything, even air.
My crabby, irritable self is hollow. It has no substance. I need to be full to overflowing so that I can give from the excess that pours out of me.
Creation fills me—teaching me about God, beauty, life and death. I see a log that reminds me of God—a strong, sturdy bridge. I’m the string of seaweed, trying to grab on for dear life, but still dangling.
I get discouraged, just like anyone. Sometimes I feel all washed up—pale, bedraggled, pushed between a rock and a hard place.
As my body parts hurt and ache, I wonder what it would be like if they simply broke off and drifted away on the tide.
I look down at my feet and see all that has been uprooted and tossed upon the agate-laced shore: delicate ocean plants, a bumpy translucent sea creature, a plume of seaweed growing from its perfectly round root ball.
A kelp bowl holds the detritus of land and sea. Another bulb is whole, but scraped and battered—its fringed appendages imploring the air for some explanation. Part of a spewed up sign contains mysterious letters that cannot be deciphered. What does it all mean?
And then I come upon a little nest the waves have made. Its outer layer is green and threadlike; its inside layer is pink and precious, tender and pliable. I recognize my soft, inner self, always wrapped in God’s embrace, even when I struggle and flail. I use my aching arms to hug myself, thanking God I have them.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 