This morning, the breeze was warm against my face as we walked to school. The birds flapped and fussed, the air carried a sweet, light scent (smelled like joy to me) and I DIDN’T EVEN NEED A JACKET.
In honour of this amazing spring day, I’ll share with you a few of the critters I “captured” during a recent hike. I’m guessing they’re just as excited as I am that spring has arrived.
I hope it’s beautiful wherever you are. Thanks, as always, for stopping by.
The Mr. and I have a long-running joke about my obliviousness. Apparently, at least in certain situations, I’m known for my lack of observational skill.
He teases that I’d fail to notice even obvious occurrences taking place around me, such as, for example, an exploding building or an approaching mob of evil clowns.
I agree that I may be slightly challenged in this regard. Sometimes I accidentally ignore people I know when I unexpectedly encounter them in public places. More than once I’ve had to apologize after the fact to friends and neighbours who have waved to me from afar, only to have me return their greeting with nothing but a vacant, unintentionally grouchy expression.
In my defence: I (usually) have no ill will against these people I’m supposed to recognize. I’m simply lost in my own little world. Evidently, when I’m busy doing something, such as walking or thinking – especially walking and thinking – my brain is only capable of a limited amount of sensory input. Friends and acquaintances, I assure you: my failure to notice you is nothing personal. I apologize for being rude.
(Strangely, though, I’m very observant when it comes to, say, the whereabouts of my library books, which household bills are due when, and whether the bird-feeder needs refilling. Make of that what you will.)
Through my dabbling in photography, I’m learning that the skill of observation can be improved. (Thankfully, because those evil clowns are super creepy and I’d like to notice them in enough time to get far, far away.)
Do you ever notice something for the first time and then begin see it everywhere?
Lines, for example. I’ve never, ever noticed lines as much as I do now, because I want to record them with the camera. Lines in the roads, lines in the trees, lines in the clouds. The grid of windows on a building, the curl of my daughter’s hair, the sweeping curves of hosta leaves emerging from the earth. (A-ha! The accompanying photo to this post! You knew I’d get there. Eventually.)
Being observant is being present. And I’m sure I’m not alone in the challenge of being present – really and truly aware – more often. If photography is helping me slow down and sharpen some of my senses – at least the art of seeing, of noticing – perhaps there’s hope for me.
If I smile and wave back next time you see me at the mall, you’ll know it’s working.
(I’m pleased to contribute this ribbed hosta to Tuesdays of Texture, a weekly feature over at De Monte y Mar.)
Thanks for showing us the way.
💗 Happy Mother’s Day 💗
(click here for some background)
Okay, let’s get the bad news over with: most of the lavender and viola seedlings turned brown and shriveled back into the peat. No doubt this had something to do with my failure to remove the tray’s clear plastic lid while the seeds baked beside a south-facing window. (I promise I’m not quite so neglectful with my other dependents.)
Good news: We re-seeded, doing away with the plastic lid, and the new violas sprouted today. No sign of lavender yet, but can you blame it? It’s probably terrified of us.
More news: the tomato and basil were indifferent to the life and death drama of the others. They’re up and at it, leaning into the light. I thought the developing leaves of the purple basil looked pretty in the soft glow of the window, so that’s my photo for today.
1) remember to water seedlings.
2) do not bake, suffocate, drown, step on, or otherwise injure seedlings.
3) hide seedlings from the cats.
4) cheer for/plead with the lavender.
I’ll keep you posted!
Two young, gleaming trumpeter swans have returned to our local pond. To better appreciate their spring makeover, have a look at the way they endured the bitter cold of early winter.
At some point, they must’ve gotten fed up with that business and made their exit – perhaps settling somewhere that didn’t necessitate hiding their beaks in their feathers to keep warm.
(I’d like to run away every winter, too, I just haven’t figured out how to make it work. No matter! Spring is here, and I have another six months to devise an escape plan.)