Frames

A few years ago, Don and I were having lunch with a friend of ours, a doctor, in a local cafe. Don had just brokered a deal in which the doctor had purchased a piece of property on the lake.  Having seen the property recently, I mentioned how beautiful it was, with sunlight sparkling on the lake through the trees.  The doctor turned to Don with a twinkle in his eyes, and said, "you know those artists, always putting a frame around something".

I suppose I'm guilty of that.  I'm often looking for something with which to frame a photograph or painting, and I do it in my mind without even being conscious of it.  We're encouraged by the popular adage to "think outside the box", which, at times, is very valuable. Last night, for instance, Don and I enjoyed watching the iconic movie, Field of Dreams which is definately an "outside the box" kind of film.  It removes the "frame" of time and space.

But it seems to me that there are many circumstances in which it is appropriate, even advantageous, to think inside the box, or, if you will, the frame.  Frames make things simpler, they isolate a manageable amount of information.  The noted 19th century German calligrapher, typographic artist and teacher, Rudolf Koch, put it this way: "the spirit needs fetters, freedom needs order, imagination needs solid matter".

We sense the whisper of Spring's approach in the song of the tree frogs, in daffodils pushing their way up from the soil, and in the return of the red-winged blackbird.  Just today I heard the cry of geese overhead, and looked up to see a large ragged formation flying north.  Their flight, which seems so free, fits into the frame of ancient established patterns.

I think it's only in heaven that there are not only limitless possibilities, but also limitless actualities.  Our friend, the doctor, left us recently, after a battle with cancer, to fly to heaven, where, we're told, there is "no more death or mourning or crying or pain".  And, quite possibly, I think, no more frames.

Hope of Spring

We've had an extra dose of winter this year, and people around here, myself included, are eager for any sign of spring.  The return of the red-winged blackbird is often a predictor of the season.  On most years, one day in the early spring, we'll hear a trill from the top of a tree, and see the flash of brilliant red wing patches against jet black feathers, and know that we'll be enjoying the company of the red-wing for several months.  Last week, when snow blanketed the ground and the lake still wore its icy fringe, there was one mingling with the local birds at the bird feeder, and eating sunflower seeds, just as if he belonged here.  They may be better weather predictors than the much touted groundhogs.  This week has been beautiful and mild, and it feels like spring is just over the next hill.

Bluebirds, too, are pointing toward spring.  They are the first birds to nest here each year, and last week they were out checking on the available birdhouses.  With those hopeful signs, I went looking this morning for a Harbinger of Spring, those tiny white wild flowers that are the first to bloom in the spring, and are ubiquitous throughout the season.  I didn't find one in any of the usual spots, but I did find a small patch of snow drops already up and blooming, their heads bowed in morning prayer.  The poet Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote,

O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

If Percy had lived in the Ozarks, he might have added a corollary:

O Spring,

if Blackbirds come, can Harbingers be far behind?

Morning Hills

The sun came shimmering up through the trees on the distant horizon this morning,
white against a warm peach sky.
Beyond our house, east toward the sunrise, is a valley stretching up to distant hills,
and though the landscape is constant, the view is always changing.
Earlier this week, the trees were covered with frost, glistening with iridescent diamonds.

Sometimes the trees stand out in stark relief, outlined by fog.

At other times, the sky takes center stage, displaying its brilliant colors.

We've watched wave after wave of blackbirds fill the sky in swift migration,
or a lone vulture soar on the breeze.
A procession of seasons washes over the hills.
It lifts our thoughts to God, fills our eyes with wonder, and our hearts with gratitude.

Many, O Lord my God,

are the wonders You have done.

The things You planned for us

no on can recount to You;

were I to speak and tell of them,

they would be too many to declare.

Psalm 40:5

   

Frost

The thermometer dipped below zero overnight for the first time this winter.  Dawn revealed a landscape sparkling with frost, which drifted down from the trees and rested on the snow like glittering manna.  Every diamond-studded weed and flower displayed its splendor, and that of its Maker. 

He spreads the snow like wool and scatters the frost like ashes.  Psalm 147:16