There are times I need to consult with creation as well as with The Creator. Times when I need to ask the cypress trees and calla lilies what wisdom they can impart.
Cypress trees: We stand strong against wind and gale — and continue to grow ever taller, ever wider.
Calla lilies: We enjoy togetherness; completely alone we do not thrive. 
Tall grass: Our stems may seem thin and weak, but that way strong winds may bend but don’t break us. 
Yellow flowers on hill: Alone we seem insubstantial; together we conquer mountains. 
Wild radish: We bloom where we are nourished. 
Yellow bush flower: We happily go our own way but know we are connected at the root. 
Douglas iris: Our petals reach upwards for inspiration — downwards to remain grounded. 
Grasses: When we stand up tall, our overall view increases. 
Ice plant: When people call us a nuisance, we point out our helpfulness — we reduce erosion and mitigate fires. 
California poppy: When rattlesnake grass surrounds me, I remain optimistic. 
Yellow flowers: Although we are tattered and our edges are eaten away, we will continue to bloom for all we’re worth.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
As the hiking trail planner for my husband’s break week vacation in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, I was responsible for deciding where we hiked each day. 
Joy, 
Many of the beaches in northern California are small rocky coves that can be walked end to end in several minutes — if one doesn’t get sidetracked by globular sea jellies 
Do you ever feel like a beetle carrying a deceased bee, being followed by an ant? I don’t, but I do like to imagine what it must be like to be any of those creatures, or even to be the sandstone on which they scurry. 
Who knew the path down to Elk’s beach would be so rife with flowers? 
Coves abound along the headlands of the Mendocino coast. Many can be accessed through somewhat treacherous means: scrambling down boulders or sliding in dirt grooves between tufts of grass.
The tiny beaches can be rocky or smooth, filled with driftwood and seaweed or bereft of anything but smooth sand. 
What message do the plants have to impart today? I say today because they are constantly communicating with me, in subtle or overt ways. This Scotch broom asks me: Do you know why we are this amazing color, when most of us are plain yellow? Cross-pollination. The mixing of our gene pool creates beauty untold.
The succulents: Praise be! We raise ourselves up in joy to greet each new day.
Wild radish: The patterns on our petals resemble feathered angel wings. Know that you are surrounded at all times with goodness; we are cheering for you.
Ice plant bloom: The Center is where things are happening. My delicate fringe will fall, but my center will become fruit and seed—nourishment and progeny.
Rock-clinging plants: We hold fast to our Foundation, even when the ground shifts below us.
White-edged flower: Little though I am, the bee still finds its way to me.
Foxglove buds: We are not mute. When we are ready, we open like trumpets and herald the truth.
Yellow ground cover: We may be tiny, but together, we change the face of the earth.
Am I unlike others?
Am I the same? Our wounds look similar.
I may be scratched more deeply. Or maybe that’s you.
We wear our scars differently.
Our outer forms don’t look the same.
But here we are
sharing the same stretch of land.
We must find a way to get along, crowded together like this.
Or we’ll find holes in our hearts that can’t be filled.
Riddled … gasping.
How do we begin healing?
How do we fill the holes with goodness, kindness, compassion, understanding?
I’m not sure. But the end result may look something like this.
Most of us are only leaving our homes to go to the market and then home again, home again, jiggety-jig. After one market trip I pulled into our driveway, parked and unloaded the groceries, as usual. But this time I went back outside because I had caught sight of a single, exquisite calla lily shaded by ferns. I thought it had gone the way of all the other callas I had planted—a few struggling leaves emerging in spring and then quickly dying. I was pleased to see a post-Easter resurrection.
The day lilies looked healthy too, surrounded by a ring of fallen camellia blossoms. The lilies had diminished in size each year as well, until I transplanted them to a new location a few months ago.
The two remaining branches of our apple tree were blooming. A hungry, pregnant doe had broken most of them last fall when she had tried to balance her front hooves on the trunk and had stripped the uppermost branches with her strong teeth. Although I caught her red-hoofed, she appeared defiant and ignored my shooing.
Crocosmia had shot up sword-like leaves amid a display of petrified wood. They are one of the few flowers in our yard that do not have to be babied and offer a spray of brilliant orange. Because orange stands out so well against green, it is my favorite garden color.
Since we don’t have a real koi pond, this sculpture makes a great stand-in. I love koi because they are affectionate and like to be petted. Koi are on the short list of aquatic creatures who have nuzzled my hand to be petted, along with tiger sharks and bat rays.
In the previous blog I mentioned a bear that had enjoyed itself at the expense of our pear tree. But this same tree had also nearly fallen over due to the strong western winds that blow in off the Pacific. The pear has been through a lot although you’d never know it by just looking at its lovely blossoms.
Fuzzy salal flowers tickled my toes. Their rouge-colored stems echo their roots, which are strong and tenacious despite their deceptively delicate pink hue.
A blush of quince blossoms crowded along the branches of our large bush. This is one plant no animal will disturb, even when large yellow pear-shaped fruit ripen and spread enticing aromas throughout the yard. Most humans ignore the fruit as well since it’s difficult to process and can’t be eaten raw.
I was surprised to see a couple of residual red berries on a bush below the deck. Having spent most of my life east of the Rockies, berries equal autumn. But the manzanitas are already producing berries too. I periodically forget in what a unique microclimate I now live.
As I was about to go back inside, I passed by the vivid petals of the Sparaxis, or harlequin flower. For many Midwest winters, I had pined for this beauty when I saw it on the pages of nursery catalogs, but being a South African native, it is only hardy in zones 9-10. I had forgotten all about it when I spied it blooming in my mother’s garden last fall. I knew right then it had a chance of survival in my own, and she happily shared her bounty. It is decidedly thriving.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 