Fishermen and Flowers

My husband, Don, loves to fish. He tells me that every time he makes a cast he anticipates finding a fish on the end of his line. On the rare occasions when I go with him, I never expect to hook a fish, which may have something to do with why I never catch any. It's possible that we all have some of that fisherman's optimism, just in different arenas. I have friends who, at every mealtime, assume they will whip up something delicious to eat, and every day, gourmet meals appear on their table. Go figure.

When I walk in the woods, I always presume that I'll find something special, and I'm never disappointed. It may be a whiff of verbena or light playing on the trees. Sometimes it's the 4-note song of the Chickadee or the melody of the stream, and I carry the memory of the music back home with me.

This spring has been exceptionally wet and the lake has filled the valley below us. After a rain, seasonal creeks gurgle in every hollow, and waterfalls tumble over rock ledges.

There were treasures in the woods today. A tiny orange mushroom stopped me in my tracks like a crossing guard. Brilliant Fire Pinks are blooming on the rocky slopes, their sticky stems ready to ensnare small insects that venture by.

Down near the lake, a Trillium is just ready to bloom, and I hope to be there when it happens. Trilliums are best enjoyed in the wild. They are fragile flowers and picking them may stunt their growth for years. I've noted the location so I can find it again. Not that I don't trust you all, but I'm not about to divulge my secret spot.

Maybe I have more in common with fishermen than I thought.

Wet Weather Creek

It's been a rainy week, 

culminating last night in lightning and bowling ball thunder, 

and rivers of rain rolling from the sky.

In the middle of the night, I reached down to the side of the bed, 

and sure enough, there was Barley, tucked close, in his place of shelter,

This morning we walked to the hollow, and before we were half way down,

 we could hear the sound of water.  

Trickles along the path flowed into small streams and waterfalls, 

dripping off mossy rocks, and singing as they went.  

They gathered in the bottom for a chorus of praise.

In a calm pool in the bend of the creek, 

Barley lowered himself slowly into the chilly water and took a drink.

Rue Amemone

On the way back, we passed wildflowers, those jewels of the woods, 

rue anemone, wild sweet William, violet wood sorrel.

Violet Wood Sorrel

All of this is fleeting--the wet weather creek, the fading flowers--

even Barley's shelter in the storm.

  

But today I'm grateful for something permanent--

the shelter that is always available in Jesus, 

and His living water, that never fails to flow.

For He will conceal me in His shelter in the day of adversity;

He will hide me under the cover of His tent;

He will set me high on a rock.

Psalm 27:5

Whoever is thirsty, let him come;

and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life.

Revelation 22:17

New Palette

After winter's barren palette, dabs of color dot the countryside.

 Magnolia unfurls layers of color with each opening leaf...

hyacinths split the ground and bubble up like purple lava,

and St. Patrick's color returns.

With each new leaf and blossom, beauty is restored to the landscape.

But for me, beauty is not an end in itself;

it always points to its Maker,

the One who leads me by still waters,

Who restores my soul.

And I whisper my thanks.

Linking with Macro Flowers Saturday

Texture by Kim Klassen

Forest Music

In the summer, surrounded by green, it's funny the things I can miss. 

In the woods today, patches of moss catch my eye, 

 standing out bright against a muted background, softening rocks...

and tree trunks with their soft velvet. 

Along the trail, small streams, born from last night's rain, sing their first song, 

lifting their voices in chorus to praise their Maker.  

A waterfall adds to the melody...

and spills its foam into the current. 

 The nearby velvet, saturated, drips out a percussion...  

and even a bare winter woods becomes a cathedral.

The familiar path to the hollow is never the same twice, 

but it is always full of wonder and beauty, 

and with the little streams, we lift our hearts in praise.

Texture by Kim Klassen

Today we hiked in the Devil's Backbone Wilderness Area in the Mark Twain National Forest.  The trail made its way through tall pines and hardwoods and variety of wildflowers, and birds and butterflies were the only other creatures we saw.  We followed a stream to a waterfall that flowed into a pristine pool before we turned back, with a momentary regret, for home.  

Home again, to Don's loving arms and a waggling-tailed dog.  Life is good. 

Waterfall Hollow

This morning the air was cool and clean from recent rains, and Barley was feeling his oats on his morning walk. A creek had appeared overnight in the hollow and was humming to itself as it meandered down to the lake. Barley romped in and out of the water for a few minutes, then found a new scent to trail and made his way up the side of the hill like a mountain goat.  

On the way back we stopped by Waterfall Hollow. Actually, that's my name for it; Don considers it a grand overstatement, since it flows only briefly, and then only after a hard rain, but in spite of that, the designation has stuck. Three weeks ago we had 2 inches of rain after a series of smaller rains. The ground was saturated, and I like to think the resulting waterfall legitimates the name. Now Don's thinking about selling tickets for a walk down Waterfall Hollow. Seasonally, of course.