Wet

If there were a theme to my walks in Mendocino County, California, it would be rain. The irony of this wetness during my time there resides in the fact that this area has been plagued with drought for years, so rain is cherished. Like a healing balm drenching everything from cactus to pine, water falls steadily from the sky day in and day out.

Occasionally, pieces of sun pierce the gray, lighting up crimson, blue, pink and yellow flowers. Raindrops are held on petals, balanced on buds, offered like sacrifices on the frilly edges of stigmas. I delight in the vibrancy and saturation of their hues.

Then suddenly, thick slate clouds gather, loud cracks and grumblings fill the electric air, sheets of water pour forth and I run for cover. The nimble flowers duck their heads, the strong keep their cupped faces upward, letting themselves be filled to the brim where only tension holds the watery ball from dropping to earth.

Every tiny, liquid crystal is a fisheye mirror, taking in the surrounding glory and pushing it back out—reflecting its own community and anything venturing close enough to become a part of it. Even I am welcomed as I approach, seeing my distorted face become part of the plant community.

And that’s when I understand our oneness anew—how God has always wanted us to know we are one giant organism working together, whether we accept our role or not. We cannot NOT be part of the whole. We simply are: brother cactus, sister pine, heavenly rain.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

My Mother’s Garden

“Garden Yellows” by Sondra Sula

This week’s walk takes place in my mother’s garden—a magical place in northern California that laughs at winter and continually offers an array of fanciful blooms on which the eyes can feast. The garden paths wind around every side of the house, inviting the viewer to linger, stoop, and inhale.

Stands of larger plants, like bamboo, tea tree bushes and rhododendron guard the perimeter like skilled geishas that keep strangers at bay while their beauty coyly entices. Tender flowers tucked into the interior flaunt silky crepe-paper petals, pliable crowns and intricately patterned centers. Even the gravel paths are rife with mounds of moss-like cushions in shades of emerald green that spring back like sponges when stepped upon.

“Magical Centers” by Sondra Sula

I am only able to enjoy this loveliness because my mother constantly works to maintain this cultivated eden. I only experience the joy and delight of observing the garden’s existence; I do not notice weeds in need of pulling or flowers in need of deadheading.

I believe God sees our peak bloom—our full, amazing potential—all the time. But that doesn’t mean we don’t need to weed, water and prune. Just ask my mother.

“Buds” by 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

Two Becoming One

“Cattail Eye” by Sondra Sula

“Yellow Milkweed” by Sondra Sula

I wandered off the ridge I traverse nearly every day and followed a deer trail down to a swampy area encircling a pond. As I tiptoed from one raised clump of grass to another, trying to keep my feet dry, I noticed an oddly shaped cattail. Two plumes had joined on a single stem, creating an “eye.”

I was reminded of the Bible verse in which two people join together to become one. Although this refers to marriage, I believe that every time we find common ground with another, we form a bond of unity. Friends often feel they have “like minds.” Twins have been known to sense one another’s feelings. New research suggests that some pets can pick up on human thoughts and modify their behavior even when separated by vast distances.

When two become one, a brand new “eye” is created with which to view the world. My hope is for this combined vision to generate a future of solidarity.

“Fields of Grass” by Sondra Sula

Her Final Walk

“On Her Way” by Sondra Sula

Sadie, the one-eyed wonder dog, and the only dog I’ve ever had, has passed on. But not before taking a final gratefulness walk of her own. At an impressive age of 114 doggie years, Sadie was slowing down considerably, having trouble seeing, eating, sleeping, walking, and at times even standing. A tumor on her side had kicked into high gear, growing wildly after eight years of staying exactly the same size.

“Sadie’s Sweet Sixteen” by Rob Sula

My husband wanted to take her for one last walk in the woods, and let her wander off leash. Sadie was always a runner. She could be a speck in the distance in less than a minute. Once, when we thought a harness was a secure walking option, she wriggled out of it in a dramatic Houdini move before we even made it to the end of the driveway. But on this day, we could surely outrun her.

She had to be carried to the car and laid into the back seat where I sat with her, stroking her regal head. When we arrived at the gravel parking lot, only wide enough to hold five cars and usually empty, my husband gently placed her feet on the ground. She was attached to her extend-o leash, and even with a gentle tug, I was afraid she would crumple. That’s when we all smelled a delicious aroma.

A heavily bearded man sat on a small stool next to his parked truck, tending to the tiniest grill I’d ever seen. He was cooking a steak, an activity I’d never witnessed in this normally deserted area. The smell seemed to give Sadie the energy she needed to trot on down the trail, her black nose sniffing the air. She stopped and rooted through forest floor debris, passed red-leaved oaks, rubbed against seeding goldenrod. And then she suddenly turned around.

At that point we removed the leash and let her walk freely back to the car. When we arrived, the mysterious stranger was gone, but the meaty scent lingered.

Back at the house, she collapsed into her padded bed and slept soundly for the first time in days. She could barely walk or stand after that, and stopped eating. We buried her the next day deep in the ground wrapped in her special pink blanket, the one from which she hungrily ate all the edges on the first night she found us. She was surrounded with her favorite toys and looked beautiful, even in death.

That night an image popped into my head while I was in bed, waiting for sleep to come. I saw Sadie in a circle of thirty or forty animals. Rabbits, groundhogs, squirrels, mice, birds—all of them had been her prey during life. But there was no judgment, in fact, all of them were friends, and aware of their roles in their previous incarnations. It was certainly not an image I had expected to see—yet it was profound.

I’m not sure what’s next for Sadie, or for any of us, but I like to think the wonder of who we are lives on.

“Sadie’s Last Walk” by Sondra Sula

The Long View

“Three Landscapes” by Sondra Sula

“Green Veins” by Sondra Sula

I like to get close to nature—literally. If I see an interesting leaf, not only will I walk right up to it, I’ll bring my eyeball to within an inch of its veiny surface. But there’s also something to be said for the long view, the vista, the place where trees blur against the horizon.

When I can’t see where the path is going because it bends beyond my vision, I must walk by faith, believing the path continues and leads towards a place I need to go. I don’t give up simply because I can’t see the journey’s end. And I also don’t take to the trail with blinders on, marching hastily through without stopping to enjoy the scenery.

If an obstacle is in my path, I can choose to go over, under, or around it. There are even times I need to go through it. Coming out on the other side is almost always accompanied by a sense of accomplishment.

“Overcoming Obstacles” by Sondra Sula

I’ll eventually come to an open area where I can turn around, take a breather, and see where I’ve been. These respites are helpful to reflect upon my progress, to feel the energy I’ve spent has brought me to a new place, that I’m not simply back where I started.

I may not be sure where I am on the journey, but I do know I’m closer to the horizon—and the view is a sight to behold.

“Cottonwoods” 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

Found Whole

“Searching for Statuary” by Sondra Sula

I looked over my my shoulder at a photo my husband had snapped that morning somewhere on the grounds of the Center for Prayer where our silent retreat was taking place. I didn’t know where he had taken the picture, and I couldn’t ask him because we were committed to silence all weekend. But I was determined to find the broken statue of Saint Francis with his head placed gently at his feet. The image was compelling in a way I couldn’t explain and I had to see it for myself.

“Old Rugged Cross” by Sondra Sula

Donning a jacket, I left our dormitory with camera phone in hand and a bottle of water—just in case the quest took a bit longer than expected. I soon realized there was a lot of statuary on the campus as I met up with a startled, spray painted Mary almost immediately. Her pupil-less eyes, pale pink lips, and prim veil were dotted with small bugs gathered within her graces. A small mauve buck, covered in ivory and lime lichen, proudly stood among the trees on his rectangular cement stand. A modern, expressionistic Jesus with a mottled patina looked imploringly at me, head intact.

I came to a small wooden cross, its white paint peeling to reveal the wood grain underneath. I hiked through forest trails, undulating fields of grass, and then crossed a bridge from the sacred grounds to a public river path.

After an hour I was spit out into a subdivision. I was lost. Houses in subdivisions often look the same to me, and in my experience, the roads wind about every which way, confusing everyone except the residents who have memorized their way to and from home. As I was pondering which way to go, I saw a map on a stand. The map showed each plot of land assigned to a number—probably for construction workers, as there were still many empty lots—and also the street names. But try as I might, I could not figure out where I was on the map, or in which direction the map was pointing.

I suddenly looked up and saw the water tower on the Center for Prayer’s grounds. Even if I couldn’t figure out the map, I could use common sense and intuition to get back. As I wound my way through the maze of houses and finally touched campus ground once more, I encountered a paper wasp’s nest hanging like a lantern under a bright yellow maple leaf canopy, as if welcoming me home.

“The Walk” by Sondra Sula

I saw a statue of Saint Francis, barefoot, with two saplings growing next to his toes. His head and neck were squarely on his shoulders. I bet the headless statue is right in front of the dormitory, where I started, I thought as my two-hour odyssey came to a close. But it wasn’t. I trudged up the stairs to our room, taking note of a sculpted sacred heart along the way. Where was the broken Saint Francis statue?

After dinner I took a short stroll. There he was. But his head wasn’t missing at all. It had been reattached prior to my walk. I was looking for something broken when what I was seeking was already whole. Perhaps I need to reexamine what I believe is broken in my life, for it may already be mended.

“Ways of Being” by Sondra Sula

Weathering Change

“Fleeting Friends” by Sondra Sula

“Bridge of Change” by Sondra Sula

Autumn is a season of change. I am reminded of this whether I look at the colorful leaves above me on the trees or as they crunch beneath my feet. Often fear accompanies change because the knowable is usually preferable to the unknowable. But faith balances on this very point where the knowable and unknowable converge.

This I know: the silver maple will turn yellow, the Virginia creeper red, the white oak brown, and the sumac every shade from gold to crimson. Winter will spring from fall, shake the deciduous trees free of their leaves until only stark branches remain, and cover the ground with a white blanket.

“Fire by the Fox River” by Sondra Sula

This I do not know: what will happen to me during these seasons—physically, emotionally, or spiritually. Will I gain weight as I shy away from walking in single digit temperatures or gain muscle as I have more time for indoor weightlifting? Will I get depressed as darkness encroaches or enjoy a time of fallowness and silence? Will I feel distant from God when I no longer have outdoor encounters with tiny creatures or feel closer to God huddled in a shawl, meditating?

To know God is to step into the Great Unknown and rest there, confident that every change can be weathered with grace.

“Resplendent Sumac” by Sondra Sula