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.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my most recent 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.
I fully admit that someone else might not see “GOD” written in the kelp, but I did. I was simply walking along the Mendocino headlands, glanced out into the Pacific, then looked back down at the path and thought: Did I just see a word? Was that word GOD?
I knew I could never really capture in a photograph the way “GOD” was spelled out to me, so plain and obvious. As clear as the sweet peas on the other side of the path.
But I’m not alone in feeling a sense of sacredness here. That’s why people leave offerings in grotto-like niches.
Or wedge them into cracks in makeshift driftwood shrines.
Is this a larger-than-life portrait or an island deity?
To get to this place, I had walked along a path of flowers that started at the edge of a church parking lot.
I felt immediately grateful for the loveliness around me.
Even skeletal remains of flowers seemed beautiful, rising against fields of beige and a robin’s-egg-blue sky.
That’s why I saw GOD. For to be me is to see God in all things.
This is what I shall do:
Love the earth
and all who inhabit it.
Treat everyone with respect
no matter how pliable
or prickly.
Re-examine all I have been taught: spread every questionable idea out on the grass and test it with an eye towards love.
I may find we are all naturally connected—tied together.
For the seeds I sow, I also reap. What I do to others, I do to myself.
Whether via a rustle, swish or murmur, I can hear the grass whispering to me.
Sometimes the murmurings sound like two sides of the same tale,
other times there is a hum of agreement, all voices bent in the same direction.
Often there can be so much chatter
I have a hard time concentrating
on the still, small voice that provides direction.
The voice that tells me I’ve almost reached a place where things begin to make sense: the vantage point.
Prior to this revelation, I always believe I’m stuck in the middle.
That everywhere I turn leads to more of the same.
But as I look more closely I always find differences.
Subtle or
blatant, each point of view was worth the listening.
And when I hear all the perspectives, they become the One Voice. The Voice I constantly yearn to hear.
Two ravens sailed above my right shoulder on a headland breeze. I could hear their noisy flight—air rushing through soft, black butter-knife feathers—even as the waves crashed. As I watched them disappear I noticed a beached redwood log.
I zoomed in and was astounded by its redness. Where did it come from? Where would it end up?
Further down the path I passed over Pudding Creek. A large octopus-shaped seaweed swayed as the incoming tide and outflowing river pulled it back and forth. From what depths of the Pacific did it arise? How much fresh water can it tolerate? How long can it live? Is it even alive?
I moved on. A small brown log tumbled in the surf. Waves pushed it toward another log much further up the beach. During the trees’ early years they were tied to one spot, rooted in the earth. But now they could roam freely on a wave’s whim. Did the two logs desire connection? Were they trying to meet?
Near the end of my walk I saw another redwood tree trunk that had been smoothed by the ocean. Though it looked like a toothpick from where I was standing, I knew it was probably at least twenty-five feet long. How large or small are we? Is our size mere perception?
I watched, mesmerized, as the trunk rolled back and forth with the rhythm of the waves. Though the salty water buoyed the log up like a beach ball, I knew it was heavy enough to crush me. What is more powerful, liquid or solid? Or perhaps spirit-like gas?
I spent a half hour watching that log and didn’t regret one minute of it. That simple act may have been the most important part of my day. I must make room for such experiences, for they are truly the heart of existence.
A woman behind the counter at the bank looked me in the eye and said, “May blessings be heaped upon you!” Why? Last week I had deposited a stack of twenties in cash and she had accidentally counted them as fifties. I didn’t notice the error until the next day when the bank was closed. I had just now brought the deposit slip back, saving her lots of time and trouble..
From the bank I went on a walk and saw a faint fogbow—similar to a rainbow, but made of all-white fog—in the sky. I’m already being blessed, I thought. It was only the second time I’ve ever seen a fogbow.
Because a fogbow materializes when it’s both sunny and foggy, I turned one way and it was clear,
but facing the other way, the landscape was blurred with mist.
Both are lovely in their own ways, I thought as I stared down into a cauldron—a deep hole surrounded by rock where ocean waves crash inside via a tunnel.
I then saw two ravens on a rock. I’ve read that ravens can symbolize the connection between the material and spiritual worlds. I felt I was experiencing both:
the brilliance of the sun shining on down-to-earth plants
and the shrouded mystery that causes a bench to look like a whale.
I decided to claim the blessings bestowed upon me. I was willing to see everything as a blessing: lichen, dew
and the chair that invited me to stay awhile and ponder these things in my heart.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Do you ever have the feeling you’re underwater? Tasks are piled upon tasks are piled upon tasks. Everything seems tangled.
You lift yourself halfway out . . .
and just when you think you’re breathing freely again
you find that you’ve sunk beneath the surface.
But look around. You’re in good company. There is a surprising clarity. Colors are enhanced. Sound carries further.
Light ripples and radiates with every subtle current. Perhaps you can follow in the flow.
And end up on shore.
What wisdom can the exotic sugarbush impart? The pincushion protea begins its life closed, huddled into an egg shape, wary.
Little by little, it begins to open. Its strange, furry heads remain bent inwards, close enough to whisper to one another.
But then the sugarbush does something amazing; it reaches out to the larger world and trades in its baby fuzz for sleek, pointed tips. The entire flower looks like a joyful explosion. Curled satin ribbons form its center.
Ready to experience life it couples up: love entwined.
The older blossoms protect the younger.
Families develop. All stages of life are held on a single bush simultaneously.
And as its life nears its end, the sugarbush continues to reach out and remains ever colorful, ever joyful.
I came upon this directive as I walked along the Mendocino headlands: Be Sacred. Hmm.
As I passed a gully brimming with calla lilies, I pondered a film I had seen of Mexican villagers gathering armfuls of callas for a funeral. Are these flowers inherently sacred?
On a cliff’s edge, another message: We Love You Melody. It was rendered in bottlecaps. The love was implied by a heart shape. Had Melody gone to meet The Sacred?
A large bench welcomed visitors to take in the view: a roiling, turbulent ocean. When I sat down, I felt small—engulfed within the wide planks. Is part of our sacredness our admission that we are but specks in the universe, yet still important?
A nearby sculpted totem included recesses for offerings. Everything I passed seemed to be sacred in some way. Even the rocks had a holiness to them—their veins an ancient scrawled language. Is every created thing sacred?
I wondered if I was sacred by simply being. Looking out over the vast shoreline, I believed I was.
Whether I ponder with eyes aloft or downcast, my field of vision is inundated with flowers.
From the slender, graceful jonquil…
to the stand-tall red hot poker, my world is awash with color. We are all brilliant.
Even the toned-down flora draws me into its embrace. A pine cone titillates my senses with its preposterous texture and teetering, topsy-turvy “tentacles.” White magnolias with excessive, fluttering petals create an air of sumptuousness. We are all multifaceted.
Around the corner the same tree—a white magnolia—showcases stark minimalism with its leafless branches and smooth gray trunk. Stripped down to our core, we are all still beautiful and loved magnificently.
I thrill to the frills of a ruffled iris and to the undulating edges of azalea blooms. Our Creator is delighted by the complex curlicues that make us US. 
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 