Ever-Changing Life

The day was ever changing. Cloudy and drained of color one moment, sunny and bright the next. This outer undulation moved inward causing me to feel both hopeless and hopeful.

I entered a field of taupe: tall dry grasses and thistle. Death mixed with the promise of new life in each seed. Starry thistle seeds brought to mind the question: for what do I wish? With one puff of breath two seeds were airborne seeking fresh beginnings.

As I followed their trajectory I saw a ladybug exploring a spent flowerhead. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. But where is home? I wondered silently. Has home become anywhere I am?

Can home be on a precipice, looking down at the rocks below? Do I need to feel comfortable with unease?

This could become an endless rabbit hole, I reasoned when I stumbled across an actual hole in the ground. But as I faced the darkness and mystery of the unknown, a thought came to me: perhaps this hole contains the very thistle seeds that blew away. Maybe the darkness is a restorative resting place facilitating the process of germination.

When I stood up, I noticed some flowers in full bloom being harvested of their pollen by various winged creatures. This was the flip side of darkness—seeds that had germinated, grown, matured and were ready to share their bounty. Perhaps home is a cycle, an undulation, an ever-changing life.

Photos © Sondra Sula.

If you like these blogs, you’ll most likely enjoy my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.

Contemplating Death

Walking the rugged bluffs of the Pacific fills me with a sense of rough-hewn beauty that’s been carved and cut and pounded into being. Along crevices and cracks, seemingly delicate plants cling, rooted in shallow bits of soil, hanging on for dear life.

One misplaced step or unexpected gust of salty air could topple me, sending me plunging downward into exquisitely cold jade green water iced with white froth. Would I be able to absorb the loveliness of the pale rosette succulents dotting the sheer rock face as I fell, or would I squeeze my eyes shut and watch a movie of my life rush by?

As I was contemplating “death by accident,” I came across a very small graveyard, tucked along the edge of Noyo harbor, where its mouth opens to swallow the sea. A young man, William Camp, had died there at a mere twenty-four years of age. What were his last thoughts? How afraid was he? Was there a moment of acceptance, followed then by freedom?

I wandered on, coming across two plants that resembled the sun. One had a lime sherbet center that darkened as it radiated outwards, and held many curved, rose-tinged elliptical “flowers.” The other boasted tiny round seed puffs that gathered light and reflected it back in a golden glow. Was death like falling into the sun?

Life always follows death. Wild blackberries grow where Camp is buried. Birds will be nourished by the berries’ juicy sweetness and distribute their seeds to grow again.

Whether I drown in the sea like William, or pass in my sleep, I will eventually move on and become a different aspect of the oneness of God. I see a rough-hewn beauty in that.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Entombed

The theme of my walk repeated itself over and over: entombment. Bits of grass, leaves, sticks, even papers are trapped beneath a layer of ice.

At first this feels stifling, suffocating—but then I begin to notice that each item is breaking free. The maple leaf’s edge is flapping in the fierce wind. A stick creating the body of what appears to be an ice dragonfly is protruding from the clear, crystalline surface. Ochre and green blades of grass are thrusting their swords through tiny openings in the frozen water. And even the thick, yellowish paper pokes its corner through milky, hazy ice.

I realize that when I think I’m stuck, I’m actually being held by God. I am not ready for what lies ahead—not yet. Part of me pushes on, exposed, flailing out into the elements. But Wisdom bids me wait until the sun warms me, until breaking out of my entombment does not harm me. When the ice melts, every part of me is ready to move on, unencumbered.

I may not like being held, for sometimes being enclosed feels constrictive—God’s arms have a weight to them that is unlike anything else I’ve experienced. But if I am relaxed and nonresistant, I can see outside myself and observe the beauty unfolding. I am not trapped after all.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Walking at Sunset

“Throwing Up Their Hands at Nightfall” by Sondra Sula

I normally walk in the morning, if pressed, the afternoon. But I rarely walk at sunset.

The light at the end of the day has a different quality to it, usually more yellow or pink, and slanted dramatically to create long shadows opposite the sun. Tree limbs, when backlit, can take on a wild, flailing look, as if they are throwing up their hands at nightfall, unable to stop its progression.

“Creek Snake” by Sondra Sula

A small creek runs behind our house that can trickle or tumble depending on the amount of rain or snow accumulation. At dusk it changes to a shimmering snake flecked with gold and purplish scales. Because leaves have dropped to the ground and only twiggy branches remain, I see farther up towards the snake’s mouth where it gobbles up the forest.

Empty nests of birds and squirrels are obvious now, silhouetted against coral clouds. I know the birds have gone, but I imagine squirrels curled inside smooth curves of brown oak leaves, made soft by repeated naps.

God has created a system in which the winding down process for the night is tinged with beauty. We are given a painterly canvas of sky to remember our small place in the world, a lullaby, sung by nature, to gently hum us to sleep. Look, listen and enjoy the night to come.

“Curling in Their Nests” by Sondra Sula

 

Remnants

“Remnants of Autumn” by Sondra Sula

Two days before nearly a foot of snow fell, I was walking along Lake Michigan on a solitary stretch of beach with my husband, a friend, and her dog. It was a rare warm day for the middle of November, especially since we were on the Michigan side of the lake. Soon I was alone, my meandering curiosity widening the gap between us until the three were mere dots in the distance. I followed the scalloped edges of debris that had formed during high tide.

“Weathered Acorn” by Sondra Sula

Most of the items washed up on the sand were remnants: a silken finger of wood, fallen leaves, emptied shells, a blackened acorn. Each told the story of a previous life. The wood, leaves and acorn were formerly part of a living, growing tree. They had traveled from sky to earth, had rolled into the water, and then had been returned, changed. Even the rocks and shells that had begun their lives in the lake had been coughed out, transformed.

I began to contemplate how I am only a remnant of what I used to be. My cells have sloughed off time and time again, and my rough edges have grown smoother over the years. As I navigate the lake of life, I transition between effortlessly floating, sinking to the bottom, and somersaulting through the waves, pounded by the surf. I am becoming someone new, different, and more interesting. I am now worn and polished to the point where glimpses of my inner life can be seen on my surface.

I felt a brief moment of unity with all of creation—comfortable being a remnant.

“Along Lake Michigan” by Sondra Sula

Letting Go

“Transitions” by Sondra Sula

Autumn is a time during which I hold on tight to every glory and magnificence, reluctant to ease my grip for even a moment lest the season pass me by. Yet that is exactly what I must do: let go. I’m quick to find the last blooming dandelion in our yard, but when I draw near, I see a yellow jacket upon it, struggling due to its battered, broken wings. I could not save it even if I tried, because the worker wasps are slated to die before winter sets in. What I can do is witness its struggle, appreciate its beauty, acknowledge its purpose in the world, and then let go.

Further along my walk, I spot a paper wasp nest hidden within a juniper bush. The delicate layers look like squiggles of flattened yarn in shades of gray. I smile and reminisce about sitting in my garden, listening to paper wasps scrape the old bamboo poles that secure my tall plants during the summer. The wasps’ masticated wood pulp spittle creates these magnificent lantern-like structures. I soon realize the nest is abandoned and all the wasps have perished, save the queen who is safely tucked away elsewhere.

“Singed Clover” by Sondra Sula

“Crab Apples Clinging” by Sondra Sula

A hairy green milkweed pod brings to mind its ball of waxy mauve summer flowers. Then I imagine the fun I’ll have shaking the pods when they have browned and dried, bursting at the seams to reveal miniature petticoat seeds. I am retreating into the past and springing into the future instead of experiencing now. I must simply let go of before and after to enjoy the present.

I see a blooming clover and am beckoned by its brilliant hue. Pulled in, I notice the flaming pink tongues that form the floret are singed brown at one edge from frost. I must release my desire for an extended growing season and let nature continue her necessary cycles. I move on.

Crab apples and orange maple leaves desperately cling to now-brittle branches, but resistance is futile: it’s time to let go.

“Behold the Sugar Maple” by Sondra Sula

What Death Reveals

“Final Sleep” by Sondra Sula

It’s inevitable—while I’m on my gratefulness walks I come across animals that have met their demise. I’ve come to see them as a natural part of a cycle. I may still shed a tear, and I always pray that they have fulfilled their life’s purpose, and have lived and died without pain. I know these prayers are retroactive in our human concept of horizontal time, but I believe in vertical time, God time, or the eternal now, in which a prayer can work forward or backward.

“Dramatic Death Poses” by Sondra Sula

When I see a dead creature I can observe it more closely. I can see individually striped hairs on fur, nearly transparent claws, or the pattern of a bird’s leg. I can see the sensual shape of a bone, the complexity of an exoskeleton, the ringed lines encircling a worm.

“Questioning Death” by Sondra Sula

When I look into the intricate design inherent in fauna, I see beauty magnified exponentially. I see a grand pattern that incorporates within it the cycle of life, which includes death.

“The Details of Death” by Sondra Sula

Embracing Transition

“Sudden Change” by Sondra Sula

There are moments in life when a realization dawns that it’s time to move on. Perhaps the move is sudden, in mid-stride, like a cicada breaking free from its wingless exoskeleton to explore a life of flying. Or it can be subtle, like an inkberry transitioning from bud to fruit along its stem, changing gradually.

“Considering Flight” by Sondra Sula

“Gradual Transition” by Sondra Sula

I fall into the sweet pea category. Everything is happening at once on the sweet pea vine: buds, blooms, beans. One part of me feels energetic and green, ready to take on the world with open-eyed wonder. Another part feels in full flower, that I am exactly who I was always meant to be. Simultaneously, I feel spent—my colors are fading, my suppleness withering.

And within this still point at which all time collides, I welcome the bean. The pod looks nothing like the flower and keeps growing beyond previous boundaries. The bean, like encapsulated wisdom, contains everything necessary to recreate itself. This fresh incarnation may mimic its predecessor, but is actually an entirely new plant.

However one chooses to move on, be it dramatically or imperceptibly, embracing the change is the surest way to fully enjoy the freedoms a new stage of growth provides.

“Welcoming the Bean” by Sondra Sula

The Yellow Days of August

“Yellow Flowers, Green Bees” by Sondra Sula

Creation is spectacular, ever changing, and cyclical. As I began to walk outside in the natural world day after day, month after month, year after year, I noticed certain colors stood out more than others during any particular month. August shouts bright yellow and lush, vivid green. Even insects join the chorus: metallic emerald sweat bees dust themselves with golden pollen, a saffron-and-black patterned beetle traverses taxi-cab-yellow petals to its next stop.

“Exploring” by Sondra Sula

How can I remain glum when I see brilliant rays of sunshine extend from a flower’s center, inviting me in for a closer look? How can I focus on my problems when I’m busy following a long-legged spider’s journey across the forest floor’s bouquet of blossoming underbrush? How can I cry when the jewelweed’s glistening tears reflect globes of tranquil beauty?

Recent spiritual readings have brought to light that joy hangs in the air like humidity, always available for breathing. Even when I’m sad, or feel distant from God, joy is still present. I can see that when I look around. Perhaps joy is yellow.

“Yellow Days of August” by Sondra Sula

Inevitable Movement

“Escaping the Wind” by Sondra Sula

Everything is moving. Some things, such as dragonfly wings, are moving so fast we can barely see them, and other things, such as rocks, are moving so slowly, they appear to be stationary. Have you ever been standing outside and thought: the earth is moving me right now, rotating me from day to night to day? Well, it’s true!

“Teasel Layer Cake” by Sondra Sula

A mighty wind was present today as I walked with great confidence on the surface of our spinning planet, completely unaware as to whether I was walking with the movement or against it. The wind allowed me access to insects that would normally be too speedy to photograph up close because they were trying to shelter themselves. I was also able to see plants moving: petals fluttering, flowers sailing, and leaves bracing against bursts of air.

“Queen of Spades” by Sondra Sula

When I get stuck and feel like I’m going nowhere, it helps me to remember that the whole earth is moving me. The dark night will turn into day even if I’m standing still. And if I defiantly run counter to the rotation, I will eventually feel the sunlight on my back anyway because I can’t outwit a movement that’s been happening long before human existence.

“Petals Aflutter” by Sondra Sula