My walk today seemed to focus on broad, strapping leaves. What wisdom did their wide, flat surfaces have to impart?
The first fountain of leaves—pleated and folded every which way—displayed dark green tops with silvery white reverses. We can have two very different characteristics to our personalities: one that we show the world, and another, hidden underneath. When we reveal our “reverse side” we show others that a vulnerable beauty resides there.
I discovered a purple flame of buds hidden in a group of moist leaves. Inside a crisscrossed web of white, the tiny flowers waited to burst forth. Adjacent to it a nearly spent leaf shone yellow, singed by burnt sienna flames licking its interior. Our inner selves tell us when we have to wait and when the right time is at hand. Listen and follow your holy flame within.
A red and gold leaf with striped edges seemed to be a visual depiction of Morse code. We can’t hear the language of the dots and dashes unless we wait in attentive silence with eager ears.
Towards the end of my walk, I came across what looked like black ornamental grass neighboring black and white leaves. But then I heard a whisper: The world isn’t black and white. Come closer. I am shades of gray, silver, charcoal-green and ivory. Always look beyond the surface.
I will.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
There is a lonesome quality to Death Valley. The sheer, vast emptiness mile after mile makes me question the existence of cities. Did I just dream them up to feel less lonely? Throngs of people living shoulder to shoulder seem impossible at the moment. Here, every living thing can stretch as much as it likes.
A small ghost town calls attention to the fact that people tried living here and even succeeded for a while. Vestigial cement-like walls remain, bisected with wood planks. Cracks and holes admit light; beckon eyes to peek through; frame wilderness.
The few trees I see have needles that resemble segmented reptile tails, stone-smooth and nothing like the leaves I know. Have I walked into a place between worlds, a mirage? A spiny cactus tethers my drifting mind to reality, its sharp edges reminding my ankles that I live within a human body.
I realize I must go back to the world of people, gas stations and motels. But before I leave, I see four wild burros, sleek and robust. A fluid black line drips from the cropped mane down the shoulder of each beast. White hair encircles soulful eyes and covers inquisitive muzzles. The burros are wandering away, but I sing to them and they stop, turn and stare at me for the next five minutes while I conjure a tune, lyrics, just for the occasion.
Sometimes I feel old. But walking in the ancient bristlecone pine forest among the oldest living organisms on earth—these trees—makes me feel young. One pine named Methuselah is over 4,700 years old, living more than half its life before Jesus was even born! I ponder what this tree has witnessed…
Approaching the forest, the landscape seems too desolate to harbor any flora. But as I gain elevation in these White Mountains—a high desert range—I am surprised by spheres of golden flowers, puffs of bristly brush and good-sized green conifers.
But there’s nothing quite like the wildly twisted trunks of these anthropomorphic bristlecone pines, flailing their multiple arms upward in pleading gestures. I wonder: Are they praying for us; for rain?
They have made adversity their friend, not living thousands of years despite their harsh conditions, but because of them. They’ve taken advantage of a climate in which few others can survive. Seeing them I ask: How can I approach adversity differently?
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Old logging roads form a number of trails near the place I now call home. They are used by hikers, joggers, ATV enthusiasts, mountain bikers, dog walkers, equestrians—you name it. Some of the roads get plenty of traffic, while others are nearly forgotten. But all of them have gifts to offer.
The sun shone through tips of prickly thistles, curvy-edged leaves and the fuzzy hairs fringing dried Scotch broom pods. Although these plants are quite ordinary on the northern California coast, the strong light gave me the feeling that they were extraordinary.
That feeling of specialness extended to the debris I encountered, too. An exhaust pipe looked as if it were sneaking into the woods to reunite with its muffler. A perforated piece of rusty metal brought garden-row order to the chaos of emerging seedlings. And a cobra-like bungee cord, caught mid slink, gave off an air of regalness despite its current state of being trod upon.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
When my husband, a friend and I arrived at Myakka River State Park in Florida, the ground was wet. A torrential downpour the night before, combined with a myriad of recent rains, had created moist, spongy walkways where there had once been dry, crackling palm leaves. At the visitor center we were informed that every trail was flooded.
With only one pair of sneakers, I wasn’t willing to destroy them for a walk, and neither were my cohorts. We reasoned that portions of the trails must be dry enough to walk on, and we would simply turn around each time we came to an impasse.
After walking for a while, we came to an area of the path that was flooded. Other hikers had placed various collected debris over the area in an attempt to make it passable. We did our part, searching for fallen palm leaves, shed bark, sticks—anything to add to the precarious “bridge.”
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Snow drifts down from the sky like shaved coconut, sweetening the landscape with its whiteness. I pass a melted spot along an asphalt portion of the path—a circle scattered with freshly cut wood chips. Its dark eye stares at me and I stare back, noting its conglomerate composition, which is made of many different stones joined together.
Snowflakes are falling individually and slowly; I can capture their shapes in the lens of my camera. One flake looks like six fir trees laid flat and merged into a single trunk. Another looks like a brittle star floating in an ocean sky. An X-shaped snow crystal begs the question: Is it missing two “limbs” or is it fully formed?
Finally I see a tuft of grass—bright green as if unaware of winter. The snow and ice have created a protective coating around the small outcrop keeping the blades pliable and nourished.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
The subzero temperatures have kept me indoors with shades clamped shut against the howling winds. I’ve been wearing an outdoor scarf doubled around my neck in the house, yet my fingertips remain cold. The only place to go is inside my head—to the possibilities of spring.
When I contemplate plants, I realize they contain all that is necessary to continue life anew through seeds, bulbs, corms, rhizomes, roots. When I ruminate on caterpillars, I realize they also possess all they need for complete transformation. Everything is inside.
If I keep “at it”—feed on spiritual exercise, bask in wonder, continually give thanks for God’s abundance—change is inevitable. I’m even beginning to see a different person when I look in the mirror. My smooth skin now has a pattern of dots and lines. It’s only a matter of time before I feel bumps rising from my shoulder blades. By then, I’ll be ready to fly.
Photo 1: Quaking oat grass. Photo 2: American dagger moth caterpillar; great swallowtail caterpillar; yellow woolly bear caterpillar. Photo 3: Giant leopard moth caterpillar; turbulent phosphila caterpillar; dogbane tiger moth caterpillar. Photo 4: Tent caterpillars; smeared dagger moth caterpillar. All photos © Sondra Sula.
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.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Near the North Aurora dam there is a big crack in the ice. The crack extends out from the east edge, cutting a diagonal line that ends mid-river, at the mouth of the dam. Water from underneath the ice flows down and over the shallow dam. This crack creates a large triangle, about two hundred feet on its longest side.
I imagine this triangle, this massive chunk of ice, cracking off. How exciting and frightening it would be to see it come crashing down the tiny falls, breaking into smaller pieces. I imagine the noise, the piercing cracks, the pushing of air from the wings of surprised mallards, geese, and herons, and the immense splashes of solid hitting liquid. All of this would take place rather quickly and then things would gradually go back to the way they were.
Sometime in our lives, we are living with a crack. We’re so afraid of a part of us breaking off and flowing down the river. We’re afraid of the repercussions, of getting hurt, of hurting others. But God is with us. Even when the piece breaks off. Even as we gradually get back to whom we once were. Even if we’ve changed and that triangle of us is forever gone, God remains with us.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 