The muse is returning me to the blog after a long hiatus, and suddenly I am bursting with things to share. I’ll try to keep it focused and hope I can fully communicate the fullness and richness I am feeling today, for the urge to share and spread that quality is what leads me to the site.
 
The title of this post, "God's Half Acre," came to me this morning as I was sitting and deeply appreciating what was going on in my little domain in southwest Florida. Our property is just over a half acre in size, so this is a kind of literal tagging. I know there was a book and movie of that name which was much darker in tone than what I am writing about, but the headline sticks and overrides that.  And this is not anything special, since I realize of course that every half acre is God’s, since God as I know it is embodied and manifest in every single bit of creation. But this is the one I am currently experiencing, so here it is.   A short morning walk around the land today brought many things to observe, including:
 
**The (Great Blue) heron that caught a huge dark fish in the next-door pond—a fish seemingly far too large to get down its throat (herons swallow their food whole).  The bird kept worrying the fish, bringing it to the bank and spearing it repeatedly with its sharp beak (it flipped around for some time before it died), then repeatedly re-catching it in its beak, approximating how to position it. In the process the fish was perpendicular to the beak, hanging out the sides rather than aligned with it. The heron kept dipping the fish in the water, probably to help lubricate it, and after many, many minutes of effort, the fish did actually get aligned perfectly and swallowed, somehow making it down that long thin neck. It seemed to defy the laws of physics, and even I felt exhausted after watching the process.
 
**While this drama was going on, I looked up the drainage canal and saw four other birds getting their morning meals too—a smaller heron, an egret, a woodstork, and an ibis! The weather has been dry and the water level is low, which must make for easier hunting for these birds. I often see them, but not so many different species at once in such a small area.

**And I looked up from the water’s edge to catch a ruckus above—a small bird (probably a mockingbird? I couldn’t see clearly) dive bombing a much bigger crow, over and over. It was likely defending a nest, which seemed very brave, especially as there were other crows screaming and flying about and only one small attacker.
 
**There was a wealth of other activity nearby, from animals unperturbed by all this drama. I  became aware of the staccato tapping of a woodpecker; a pair of bunnies brazenly and calmly chewing their way through the grass; the black rat snake slithering under the bushes (I hadn’t seen it in months, and was happy to know it’s still here, as it’s harmless and its movement is truly beautiful to watch); the countless little anole lizards that dart around and posture for mating—one is always catching their motion out of the corner of the eye; legions of spiders tending their webs and obviously helping to control what must be a legion of even smaller insect life. How much more goes unnoticed?

**And none of this is to mention the flora, which was deeply in my awareness too—the slowing growing pineapple, the stunning bromeliad flowers, the grace of the palm fronds and swaying Spanish moss, the unbelievably quick growth of the vines of the purple yams (ube) that overnight wrapped themselves around my hammock, calling to mind the speed and magic of Jack’s beanstalk. And so much more, always the background of green.
 
That was just this morning’s greeting the day. I am aware of so many other little miraculous, wondrous things—my decanter of kombucha, something else alive, with its healthy scoby getting noticeably larger by the day; a vase of tulips that a kind friend brought which had sat outside in the sun and got very droopy, but revived joyfully when fed more water and an asprin (!); the banana fiber (abaca) soaking in a green translucent bowl on the table. There’s a long story around that and I will likely share it in depth when it has reached more of a conclusion, but the short version is that after a banana tree fruits, it dies. It seems wasteful, and since I knew that abaca is a prized fiber in Asia, I kept thinking I had to be able to do something with all the fiber in the about-to-die central stalk. I’ve been playing with processing it, though I have none of the right tools, and I do have a small amount of smooth flax-like fiber now.  

I am not a Pollyanna who only sees the wonder—though I would like to be!—but my inspiration to share on this site comes in those times when I do. If any of this touches you, and if I can help anyone cultivate that state, then hallelujah.
 
I have been writing a great deal and may share more of that output another day. My visual art practice has been slower, but I am posting a few images here of some of that more recent work. Now that we are coming out of covid isolation, I am envisioning exhibits of my work manifesting easily. If you can help broker that, please let me know.
 
Thank you so much for your presence.

There’s been a long hiatus since I have shared here. Lots of events in the outer and inner worlds, and a time of gestating, growing new creative bones and fingers. So today I offer some of what has fed me in the last few months—i.e, I offer some images from my environment, and some writing gems, little pieces that have come through me in my “Writing From the Inside” sessions. (The images are just some that want to be shared; they are not directly related to the writings, but I am always wanting to include photographs that capture what I see and experience.)

IMAGES TO SINK INTO:

WRITING GEMS

For several years now, I have been facilitating writing groups where participants free-write from prompts of various kinds—word phrases, images, objects, music.  My initial publicity for the “Writing From the Inside” workshops included this description: “We use the process of writing…to deepen our awareness and appreciation for all that is…. We create a safe, playful and sensually engaged space where the words and images can come out. The intention is to use writing as an act of discovery, a spiritual practice that takes us beyond journaling to open the channel to the wisdom that comes through.”  At any given session we typically work with two or three prompts, writing for 15-20 minutes on each one, and sharing our words with one another. I try to provide prompts that can take us in diverse, unpredictable directions, and it is amazing to see how many interpretations emerge in a given group. The individual writer’s voice clearly comes through, and we can honor both our own and that of our fellow writers.  
 
During the pandemic, the groups have been virtual, but the magic of the process is in no way diminished; the Zoom platform, which can be quite intimate, is actually perfect for this kind of writing. One of my groups, which started online in March, is still meeting weekly—a clear testimonial to the fact that the experience continues to deepen.  I am a full participant in these groups, and thus have regular opportunities to open my own creative channel. Over time, I have learned to really let go with my words. The experience is always interesting, but sometimes I am astonished at what comes through. Below, I share a few writings that came from word prompts in the last six months or so (the italicized titles were the actual word prompts). These are not edited in any way (take them as spontaneous outpourings, not polished pieces), and they are in no special order. I believe they hold the energy of my deepest vision. If you take the time to read them, may they also fill you with that energy and vision, and with the brightest light.
 
 (If anyone is interested in joining a writing group of this sort, do contact me.)


The Painter of Dreams
Awash in color—the green robes, the crazy sparkling diamonds that flash glints of yellow and pink and blue. Ice blue: that color of ice floes, icebergs, the unimaginable depth of sea ice. Oh, the fullness of the color, the painful beauty of red leaves fallen upon deep green moss. Color over all. I live in color, in the intense vibration of hue. Not shaded, not tinted, not tonal: pure hue, uninterrupted wavelength. Sunflowers screaming out yellow across the field, all the heads with their brown centers following the sun. Black silhouettes of children playing by the grey rock wall, saturated cerulean sky, and the clouds pillowing white. Red wing blackbird in the adjacent meadow, glossy black with that shock of orange-red, the punctuation, the staccato emphasis or heartbeat. Or the colors of the mandrill—red and blue—oh my! The intensity of parrots, coded as if they and not the flowers were attracting the bees. Oriole orange, peacock green shimmer. And yet none of it is really there on a feather—only refracted light!  Here, before me, clear red hibiscus, with blue tones. Who painted this saturated scene, this screenplay? Who coded us to see it? Could we stand on a pastel runway, bubblegum pink and grass green, Easter basket colors, with the volume dialed high to maximum? Could we wash in the symphony of color, the depth of lapis lazuli, could we rub up against the smoothness of the deepest jade? Awash, wash me in colors, paint this dream into being, and oh we cannot sleep; we can’t go back to sleep.
 


A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide—hide, even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here, there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling, to you, to us, to all,
resonant, resounding, abounding.
 
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink ‘til there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core.
Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding/hosting lifein its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people, to all life forms.
It shines opalescent, glinting, glimmering, shimmering, sliding, surrounding, sounding, to be known, to be, to be lived and entered.
The sweetest poem, most haunting, most fundamental,
of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to enfold, to be touched, and known
as home.
 
 

The Magical Broom
It swept away, on its own, like the [broom in] the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, but it was never mindless or on automatic. It targeted the little dust motes, even minute ones, and took them to the dust bin.  It swept away tears, which instantly became small and silky soft fibers, adding comfort in the sweeping. It swept away shards of broken dreams and shattered lives. It swept rhythmically, its movements creating a kind of sine wave, mapping out a gentle heartbeat in its arcs, the embracing enfolding of a restfully swaying hammock.  It swept, swept, carrying away the tedium of women sweeping the hearth, like Cinderella, those who had to take care of others and were imprisoned in their roles, unable to determine their own direction. It swept clean the stoops, white steps on old houses, signaling the goodness of those within, and it swept away cobwebs, scattering spiders and clearing a way through. It swept away sand, like the woman in the dunes and the existential dilemma, but it was loving and revealing, not Sisyphusian. It swept in, also, swept in freshness, a clear breeze of promise, and blessings, riding that breeze. It swept the chambers of the heart, yes, making it ready, and then turned around and swept in the light. Light sweeper, this magic broom, light sweeper.
 
 

The Poet’s Promise
As the poet promised, there would be a reckoning.
As the poet promised, we would rise up on our haunches, and bray at the moon.
As the poet promised, the winds would blow hard, scattering the papers to the wind.
As the poet promised, we would drink from the river, tasting of melted snow and faraway mountains.
As the poet promised, we would join hands and circle around, steps entrained.
As the poet promised, the sun would set bright red, and the birds would fly back to their roosts to rest.
As the poet promised, we would weep where the trees fell, and then sit with   them as they returned to soil.
As the poet promised, we would climb to the crow’s nest to look out over the vastness of the sea, watching jumping fish and manta rays, jumping for joy.
As the poet promised, we would smile and reach out our loving fingers, feeling the velvety skin.
As the poet promised, we would breathe slowly, coming to rest, letting it go, and going on.
 
 

A Dowry Box for a New Kind of Marriage
Cross over that threshold, open the door, after all the ceremonies and hoopla have ended. The threshold, the doorway, liminal moment. What’s that in your arms? That large, lovingly fashioned basket, made of gleaming fibers, some that still smell fresh, like sweetgrass. Some bits of ribbon caught in, lending shots of color and joy.
 
What does it hold? What have you brought with you? A small bottle with your baby’s breath, exhaled in and caught with a stopper. Somehow, it smells like baby’s head, and the outside, though glass-like, feels like a plush blanket. A piece of velvet, made from the velvet of reindeer antlers, transmuted into silky green cloth. Your fingers feel the nap. A small compact, which when opened makes the sound of wind through the pines. An Egyptian paste bead, that penetrating turquoise, that when held takes you to the energy of the mystery school, deep in the pyramids, and brings you to the sense of your initiation and presence. You are always adorned with that color, that knowing. Some nature materials: dyed porcupine quills, the perfect geometries of cowfish scales, a tiny turtle shell. All friends, bits and pieces of magnificent design that bring reverence and gratitude and delight.  And more: soft socks to keep your feet warm, and a hat that matches, so you feel cozy and complete. Lovely handmade paper and flowing pens, art brushes and endless colors. The perfect fruit, which is ever-replenishing and just-right ripe, but morphs regularly from peach to fig to sapodilla.  It tastes of the real garden of Eden, where nothing is forbidden, and all is freely given, where the trees smile with their bounty and say yes, eat this, it’s our endless gift to you.
 
 

Carrying the Fruit
We marched down the tree-lined, dusty road, weighted with baskets of fruit: peaches, warm from the sun, giving off their scent-call, and plums...beaming their glossy purple with that hazy covering. There were baskets with pecans and brazil nuts, and others with bursting tomatoes and peanuts, ready to boil.
 
This was a parade, a harvest ceremony, among the tall magnolias. There was a grace in this landscape, large luxurious trees in no hurry to grow quickly or to develop defenses against the cold. Like the live oaks, they felt free to spread out and settle in, bend down and touch the ground. Ceremony, yes, and some of the women in vaguely Greek attire, evoking clingy, graceful garments, even though without the fine old wool they didn’t quite capture its hand.  It was a play, an enactment of something that had never been: not here, with these fruits, not like this on this soil. Once there had been harvest feasts, rife with fish and fruit and game, but never a procession like this, with studied solemnity. We who carried the fruit were focused on the isness and literal poundage of the bounty, the peach smell coating all and singing of fecundity and sweet. It took effort to hold these baskets, up before our chests and bellies, and yet we brought something necessary to the land, some kind of re-inscribing of original grace, unscarred by what had happened there before.  
 

 
A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide, hide even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know
it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, rest, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling,
to you, to us, to all, resonant, resounding, abounding.
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink till there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core. Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding life, hosting in its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people,
to all life forms that fill its lines, opalescent nacre, glinting, glimmering, shimmering,
sliding, surrounding the poem
to be known, to be, to be lived and entered. The sweetest poem, most haunting,
most fundamental, of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to be touched, to enfold us
and known as home.
 
 

In the Grove
A straightforward scene, tessellated into mosaic form, going in an unexpected direction. The tree leans into me as I lean into her, vibrant, my energy following her limbs and climbing up and up.  The tree speaks: sit here in the crotches of my limbs, riding me like the finest steed. We will take off into the beyond. Steer me with the branches, feel me coursing through you and carrying you. There, beyond, beyond, beyond. Para gate, para sam gate.
 
It’s alive, this journey, every molecule alive in its beingness, an invitation. Aliveness in the grove, in the garden, in the meadow. Aliveness in the leaf, in the bark, in the molecules, in the sky. Every line an energy mark, punctuating space and time. We are mark makers, marking places, imprinting them with the impression of aliveness. We are aliveness marking, energizing, jump-starting–we are the imprints, the light language, the quickness, the quickening. Set yourself down in this grove, out of the sunlight, and take it in your pores. Be fed with this sense of excitement, knowing, take it in as the fuel for creative fire. And in turn, thank us; through this moment of fully tasting the aliveness, imprint it in your memory and be awake! Be aware, remember aliveness, life force, beyond the beyond and within the within.
 
 

Clarion Call
Clarion call: sharp and piercing
calling all:
wake up now.
Hear, here, right now.
Calling you, calling you, come.
You can’t ignore this sound
sounding in your bones, alerting cells
hear, here, now.
Impelling forward, pulling,
not to battle, but to awaken out
of the trance, to awaken
calling to being
calling clear
wake up to all we
really are.
 
 

I loved the sensual layers of worn-down sandstone, kissed by pastel lichens, and the little micro-environments for ferns, mosses, and spiders. And I loved experiencing the varieties of fungi that are so vital to the forest, and so magical. To fully appreciate them we usually need to change our sense of scale--to enter into their world means getting very close and seemingly small enough to take them in.

The real surprise of this walk was that the trail led from the woods into a cornfield; the path was a wide passage between the rows. Clearly, this was a right-of-way, and totally unexpected.  I had many feelings stepping into this new environment. This was acreage planted in field corn, with soil that had been heavily tilled and probably treated with fertilizer and pesticides. The corn was the type grown to feed the livestock kept in feed lots, or to process into the fructose corn syrup additives found in so many processed foods. It represented everything wrong with our agricultural system--the opposite of the regenerative agriculture that would build strong soil and help sequester carbon and clean our planet. I am learning more about that, and understanding how commitment to that kind of relationship with the land (our mother) is absolutely at the heart of the oneness and unity we must grow into.

Despite the sadness of standing in this manifestation of such short-sighted monoculture and all the implications of not living in a cooperative ecosystem, this part of the trail still brought a gift: a chance to experience this plant with full attention and appreciation. I don't think I had ever lingered in a cornfield at just this time of the growing cycle, when the crop was dried out but not yet harvested (if it had been sweet corn, it would have been cut down long before). There was an accompanying sound---a distinctive whispery crackle that would rise and fall with the intensity of the wind in the dried stalks. There was aesthetic delight in the many shapes and textures, and in the plays of color--subtle variations on the stalks (a deep red at the joints, eggplant hues on the roots) and husks (from a creamy off-white to shades of purple); the sharp contrast between the dark dried-out corn silk and the pale husks; and the bright bright yellow of the crop itself. There was the warmth of the sun shining through the few still-green leaves, and the discovery of the tiny hairs that grew up the stalks, perhaps to protect them, or let in moisture. There was the pleasure in seeing the patterns of the ripe ears, which at this point in the season were in different positions, some playfully pointing toward--or away--from each other, some seemingly following the push of the wind. And the amazing roots, those sturdy mandalas that gripped the ground in no uncertain terms. This is a really strong plant, growing so high and solid in a single season, and, especially because I was there with the observant camera's eye, I was given the chance to fully take it in.

The final impression from the walk that I want to share today is the patterns and the greens from the just-cut grasses in a field beside another section of the trail, the sweet contours of the land, and (if you can imagine) the fresh scent as those plant essences rose into the air. Every one of these little environments offers gifts; every one has stories to tell, associations to evoke, appreciation to be felt. And they want to be appreciated. I am grateful that I was able to take that in, even in the places where I felt some sadness or sense of disapproval.

I had expected to be including more about some of my art this month, but this is what came forward. There's always more, but I will stop here. It seems appropriate to quote Janet Conner, who recently wrote  these words in her weekly newsletter (see janetconner.com/):
"If it's meant to be sung, sing it. If it's meant to be lived, live it. You have no option but to live the art that wants to be lived." 

That's it: this, today, is the art that is meant to be lived by me.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2020, LATE  MORNING
Today is a hard day. It's bright, stunning autumn, almost equinox, and it's Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish New Year, which is always about new beginnings, starting again. The tradition is to eat sweet, round foods--apples and honey, pull-apart challah--to evoke a sweet year to come. The sweetness also ushers in the Days of Awe, the period of reckoning and making amends for wrongdoing, leading to Yom Kippur, when the gates of heaven are fully opened for 24 hours. 

And this is the day when Ruth Bader Ginsburg died, and there is so much grief and fear and panic arising in the collective. I have also just finished watching a moving, heartbreaking film, "My Love Awaits Me By the Sea," made by Mais Darwazah, a second-generation Palestinian documenting her first trip to the homeland. It's heartbreaking, for oh so many reasons, including my helplessness at watching the people I "belong" to--the Jews--continuing to oppress another people ever-more deeply.  This ability to keep building walls and seeing "others," rather than seeing our essential unity and oneness, is running through the whole world, and is shown in shockingly stark contrast these days. It is truly overwhelming.  Whatever we believe, whatever "side" we are on, we are all tasting the poison and suffocating.  One of the Palestinians in the film who is living in the West Bank said that whatever happens, it will take many many years for his people to undo the walls that have been built inside them. Yes, there's the truth. We have to keep dreaming the new world we want to see, to transcend the limited story we are all caught in, and to really make amends. Build--create--something really new, stripped of old assumptions.

So it's a day of the sad and bitter, although there's also some sweetness. I must  go out to a beautiful place to help soothe my heart and give me comfort and hopefully strength. I do still believe what I wrote early on in the pandemic experience, about holding on to and remembering the joy (see April 2020 blog post), and I do, although the sadness has to be allowed in beside it.  

EARLY EVENING
It's true: after several hours outdoors with the land, I feel refreshed and lighter. More sweetness, and much more space to hold the sadness. I want to share some of that here, and since much of the feedback I've received about this (he)artspace blog comes in response to my descriptions of the natural world, I know that instinct is a good one.  Here are some impressions from this afternoon and other recent autumn explorations. (Remember: click on the images to see the whole view, and you can easily scroll through with the arrows from there.)

The place I walked this afternoon was on the expansive grounds of Holy Wisdom monastery, a lovingly-tended mix of woods, prairie and meadow. The land is stewarded by a group of ex-nuns who wouldn't submit to the Pope, and left the church to find their own ecumenical community. It is a deeply resonant conservation space and retreat center. One of my fondest memories of this place is the time I spent collecting cup plant stems in the fall, and since I literally found myself in a shutting-down-for-the-season cup plant forest today, I wish to share more about that.

Cup plants (silphium perfoliatum) are amazing. They are one of the tallest plants of the prairie, frequently 8 and sometimes 10 feet tall, standing up against the sky. (And for those unfamiliar with prairie plants, the roots may go down equally far under the ground.) The plant is perennial and long-lived. Its stem is square (yes!) and pairs of leaves emerge from it, across from one another, forming a kind of cup that insects and birds happily drink from. The yellow flowers that appear at the top of the stems are daisy or sunflower-like and cheery, and their seed heads are exquisite little mandalas. The plant has many medicinal properties as well.

I have long been intrigued by the square stems of these plants and have used them in a number of pieces, especially in large outdoor installations. The first of these, "Holding Space," featured the dried stems as unadorned linear elements. I liked the Baraboo quartzite rock that I positioned at the base of the stems so much that it also found its way into "Praise Song," which I shared in an earlier blog (August, 2019). There, I wrapped the stems in handspun and vegetable dyed yarns.

It seemed fitting to bring these installation shots to today's posting, for they may help indicate how integral my nature adventures are to my art (and vice versa). The "Praise Song" title of the last piece seems a fitting place to stop today, bringing my musings around to where I began- to the idea that we can always remember and cultivate the joy and wonder, for it helps us open to what it really means to be alive and embodied.

Madison, Wisconsin, where I have lived (at least seasonally) for more than 40 years, is built on a series of lakes. The one closest to my house is the smallest of the lot. It's name, "Wingra," comes from the Ho-Chunk word for "duck." The lake is spring-fed and surrounded by a natural preserve (the Arboretum, owned and operated by the university); there are only 3 houses anywhere on the shore. Only minimal motors are allowed.  I have spent a great many hours with this place, both around the perimeter (walking, biking, taking generations of children to the zoo or playground, collecting watercress at the spring, watching muskies [muskellunge] jump over the fish ladder in the spring, etc.), and traversing the water in a kayak. I walked down to the lake today and realized it would be a wonderful to bring some of the Wingra reveries to this audience --to select scenes, stories, and some of the words generated over the years and to share them here.

Part of what stimulated me to think about sharing about Lake Wingra today was the fact that I gifted a friend with one of my older art pieces that incorporated literal lake detritus, and as part of the gift, I pulled up this narrative that I had written in 2012.

Layers and layers of discovery, deeper communion with the lake.

A similar kind of discovery came about in approximately 2011. That August, I came upon a patch of lotuses in a particularly shallow end of the lake--an area where upright flowers were pushing up among distinctly round, non-waxy looking leaves that typically held themselves above the water surface. These were definitely not water lilies. I had thoroughly explored every area of this lake, and lotus plants had never been there before. How did they get there? I was excited, for I knew about lotuses, both from their symbology in Buddhism and from their role in biomimicry as a design inspiration. By observing the way water sheets off the lotus leaf--the leaves are said to be self-cleaning because the water and dirt never sticks to the surface--people discovered ways to mimic the physical structure of the plant and devise other self-cleaning substances, such as paint, glass, and fabrics.

This form of lotus is an Asian variety that is considered invasive, and the lotus patch grew exponentially year by year (one lily pod produces a great many seeds), leading me to worry it would take over the entire lake. But after a few prolific seasons, the number of flowers diminished significantly, so that may be keeping it in check.  When they were abundant, I would note where the flowers were and return a few days later, happy to push through the patch--thick and not easy going--to collect pods. When fresh, they are a lovely green, but they turn deep brown when dry. They are lightweight--quite spongy inside--and they shrink as the moisture evaporates, allowing the  seeds to fall out. 

I've enjoyed just looking at lotus pods lined up (upside down, like little caps) on a windowsill, and I've used them in both two and three dimensional constructions.
They always bring me back to the lake, and they always make me smile.

I've written many poems while floating on Wingra, jotting them down on damp paper, dictating them into my phone.... always seeming to catalog the ever-changing awareness of shared life. Here are a few snippets:


Heron tracks in the beige sand,
ducks on a log, quietly preening,
brown on brown
with orange feet, lined up
gull flies in, stark white
with yellow feet and beak
blue sky in the water, rippling
sun gleaming, then covered by cloud
A large clam shell, unbroken,
waiting near the shore
Tiny silver fish jumping, for reasons unknown,
arcing above the water, glimpsed in a flash.
Strong paddling homeward
as evening comes on.


Heron standing guard
as ducks preen
Blackbirds cry at cranes.
Muskrats draw lines with their bodies,
swimming straight.


Abounding green: duckweed, cattails, lily pads.
Swallows and damsel flies
add flashes of blue.

Today, I reveled by the shore, muddy sand squishing in my toes, fully feeling the summer. I do know this place in other seasons, though, and offer a few parting images as a reminder of its other moods.