Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Popping Forth Those Pinon Seeds



We have had a bumper crop of pinon seeds this year. The big pinon jays have been gorging themselves, and no doubt hiding a few as well. A friend shared with me their beaks are the perfect length for planting. They will bury a seed near a mature pinon tree, in its shade, at exactly the perfect depth. It will grow as the sheltering tree ages, and when it's time the seedling will have matured to take its place. Now isn't that a marvel?

For me, these seeds are the most beautiful nuggets of burnished copper brown that I wish I could string on a necklace. I've been collecting them to make a collage. Sweetie often passes the bowl wistfully, "Are you sure I can't just eat these?"  No, not yet. :-)

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Close Up


This morning I came in to my work room and thought about turning on the computer. Parlez was lounging in a sun beam on top of my folders, notes and papers. I greeted him and he looked over at me squinting and said, "Mama, you're not going to work today are you? It's so beautiful today and autumn is at its height. You really should be outside." I grabbed the camera and he stuck his nose into the lens, trying to see if there was anything appetizing. Nope. No mouse. No kangaroo rat (a gift last night). No mountain beaver. And the lizards are gone for the year. Well, I guess I'm going to quit this taco stand and see what's going on outside. And with that he jumped down and scooted out of his kitty door. If you click on this photo you will see a very persuasive cat telling you to go outside and have some fun. Go on. Try it. :~)

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Gift from a Squirrel


Last winter I was feeding the birds a mix of yummy seeds, mostly sunflower. I didn't see many squirrels because Parlez was on the scene, newly arrived, and keeping guard. Several months later I was out on the rebounder trampoline and I noticed a couple of sunflowers energetically sprouting out of a neglected pot. I wondered how they got there, as I hadn't planted them. And then I realized a squirrel must have stashed them for the winter where they had lain dormant and unclaimed until now.

Later in the summer as they grew and bloomed, one attracting the most amazing fluorescent green fly, I studied it and the pattern of the zillions of yellow petals. Remembering the Italian for sunflower, girasole—literally meaning to circle or follow the sun—I was transported back to dozing on a train through Tuscany and awakening at the precise moment we were running along fields and fields of sunflowers in full bloom. It was so beautiful, all that yellow warming the countryside. Now, out of my reverie, I marveled at how one seed planted by a squirrel could turn into such a beautiful flower. And that one flower could create so many more seeds to make many, many more flowers. I think of this now at harvest time, the gift of seeds.

Summer passed and I saw this one above, spent, getting ready to shed its seeds for another batch of beauties the following year. That same day I went for a walk in the arroyo. It was the chamisa's turn for center stage, the sunflowers had all gone. Or so I thought. Walking in the fall sunshine I was contemplating the quality of grace. Startled I heard what sounded like a pack of barking dogs. I looked in their direction and saw none, but instead one stellar, golden sunflower perched all alone on the edge of the arroyo. Sitting about two feet tall it looked down over to me, smiling and waving. Grace.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Headline News: Morning Glory Climbs Avocado



Beauty is not a luxury but a strategy for survival. —Terry Tempest Williams

I've been watching this little seed sprout for the last several weeks and little by little it has found its way up an avocado we've been growing from seed. I added some soil to the top of this pot and there must have been one little morning glory seed in it. I can't wait to see what color it is. Heart upon heart ascends; it knows the way. 

Monday, October 13, 2008

Take a Walk With Me Through Aspen Vista





I've seen a lot of cathedrals in my life, but this is my favorite. Last week, after the first snow in the mountains miraculously the aspen leaves remained on the trees. What glory is was to be up at 9,000 feet among this beauty. Yellow and blue. Golden and Hue. 

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Me and My Shadow





And sometimes my shadow comes through the tall grass with gifts. 
This little one I couldn't let go of for a long time.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Those Amazing Ants Are At It Again...



The amazing ants are at it again. I walk carefully down the path, always being aware of their industry. This particular morning I had to squat down and take a good look at these feathers, courtesy of the pine siskins, courtesy perhaps of Parlez. Sigh. He would wait behind a flower pot and when these happily fed birds flew by below six feet, he'd jump up with his mouth open and presto, sometimes he'd catch one. Sometimes some feathers fluttered, and that was good fortune for the ants. They did manage to get both of these down their front door. It took about a day. But they did it. 

Why? I have no idea. Just part of the great Mystery.

Another type of blue view

Ahhh.

Sometimes, when the computer just hammers up your head, when you let it, as I do often, it's nice to just go outside and smell the roses. Or notice the heavenly blue morning glories! We are in the midst of early fall blue skies and still warm sun. These little beauties are still going. They are just yummy.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Butterflies are free







The Painted Lady butterfly. 
Hundreds of these little gems are flocking to the chamisa to supp on the last beads of nectar before the first frost comes. Their bodies look as though they are made of gold dust. What a delight they've been.


This year, unlike any other in the 13 years I've lived in New Mexico, is full of hundreds upon hundreds of painted ladies. Recently I was walking down the arroyo amidst a vast avenue of chamisa bushes. All around me these magnificent creatures were flying and lighting on the blooms, dipping their proboscis into them and sipping nectar. One bush had at least 50 butterflies drinking from it, and when I approached on tip toes they caught site of me and elevated into the air all at once. What a wonder. I once heard of a man who said the collective flap of butterflies' wings could create a hurricane. 23 million Monarchs gather in Mexico so I would imagine all of them lifting at once could indeed create some energy. For more on this theory click here

Regardless of whether it's true or not, just the idea of this movement and how it impacts the earth is a mighty fine thing to ponder. Such fragility and strength, all in one tiny being; a being that actually tastes with the front of its legs! Walking in the arroyo I watched the ladies and then I wondered what the difference was between these, and Monarchs. Just then an orange and black butterfly, twice the size and with double wings flew by. Wonder and ye shall receive. :-)

This is the story of the geneology of the monarch butterfly and the amazing journey they make each year, which I lifted from the World Wildlife Organization's website, here


The Monarch of Migration
The Monarch butterfly is known by scientists as Danaus plexippus, which in Greek literally means "sleepy transformation." The name, which evokes the species' ability to hibernate and metamorphize, is actually inspired by the Greek myth of Danaus, in which the daughters of Danaus, king of Libya, flee Libya for Greece in order to avoid marrying their cousins. The long, migratory journey of the Monarch butterflies is reminiscent of the daughters' flight.

Adult Monarchs possess two pair of brilliant orange-reddish wings, featuring black veins and white spots along the edges. Their wingspan is about four inches, and they weigh less than half an ounce. Males, who possess distinguishing black dot (stigmata) along the veins of their wings, are slightly bigger than the females.

Each adult butterfly lives only about four to five weeks. But one of the many wonders of the Monarchs is the annual creation of a unique "Methuselah generation." As autumn approaches in their sites of migratory origin, a very special generation of butterflies is born. Unlike their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents -- all of whom had ephemeral lives measured only in weeks -- these migratory butterflies survive seven or eight months. In human terms, given our average life span of 75 years, this would be like having children who lived to be 525 years old!

This generation performs the incredible feat of flying from Canada and the United States to the center of Mexico -- after which they begin the northward journey again. Once they reach the United States, a kind of relay race begins: their short-lived offspring, with only four or five weeks to live, continue making the trek northward over several generations.

Of all migrations by small creatures, few are as astonishing as the one performed by the Monarch butterfly. The embodiment of fragility, these insects travel between 1,200 and 2,800 miles or more between their starting and ending points -- a feat without parallel. What is even more remarkable is that the ones that return to the places where Monarchs hibernate have never been there before. These are the great-great-great-grandchildren of those that performed the intrepid journey from southeast Canada and the United States to central Mexico.

Like several species of birds, bats and whales, the Monarch butterfly of Canada and the United States migrates to places where the climate is less extreme. Winters are too cold in the places where the butterflies reproduce; Monarchs would not be able to withstand either heavy snowfall or the lack of plants on which larval caterpillars feed. As such, the Monarch heads south each fall, where it will stand a greater chance of survival-as well as the chance to "return" to reproductive sites in North America and give rise to future generations of reproductive adults that will complete the annual cycle.

The Monarch butterflies that migrate southward in the autumn are guided by the sun's orbit as they travel through North America. Even on cloudy days they stay on track thanks to an internal biological compass that functions according to the movement of the sun.

The migration moves at a pace of about almost 50 miles a day, though there are some butterflies that have flown up to 80 miles in a day. Throughout the migration, they continue to store and replenish energy each day by extracting nectar from flowers they encounter along the way. But the butterflies also suffer from illnesses and infections that can be fatal, and must face other dangers including bad weather, predation by birds during hibernation, and big losses in the population due to winter storms.

At the end of October and the beginning of November, after traveling two months, the butterflies settle into hibernation colonies in the mountains of central Mexico, where the States of Mexico and Michoacan meet. There they will spend the winter hibernating.

From mid-November until mid-February, the Monarchs' hibernation colonies remain relatively stable. During the second half of February, when temperatures rise and humidity decreases in the forests, the butterflies come down from the slopes to mate. And the butterflies that survive the hibernation in Mexico return in the spring to the southern United States.


Perhaps these magnificent creatures have come here to symbolize our own transformation and a call to the dance of joy, even in these uncertain times.