Sacred in the Ordinary, Installation #7: Beauty in a Seed Pod

Sometimes, words simply cannot describe a moment 

when pure magic meets the morning.  

Such was the case during my walk-about this past Saturday morning.  The temperature was in the 40s, the sky was blue, the sun was shining.  Many times I have strolled alongside the front edge of the brush-line on my way to get the morning paper.  Many times I have scanned the multiflora rose that invades the hillside.  Many times I have marveled at the lines created by the various wild grasses.

And during each of those strolls where I surveyed the natural landscape,
I have passed a cluster of tall stalks, each sporting large seed pods that have the texture of aged and ancient driftwood.

I have stopped to study their curious textures.  I have stopped and taken in the interesting vignettes they create with their empty husks.


Yes, countless times I have glanced at those tall stalks crowned with those ancient looking seed pods, and each time I simply continued on my way to the mailbox.









But not this past Saturday morning.  On this morning, Mother Nature had woven her magic.  On this morning, sun-reflecting, cotton-candy white floss-like fibers were spun like pure angel's hair from the seed pods that had opened.

Pure magic. Pure wonder. 

So pure, that I will not attempt to describe the experience with words...but rather, 

will bow to their wondrous beauty by sharing these photographs that I snapped 

on this magical Saturday morning of Milkweed** seed pods 

that had burst open in all their glory.  

**Asclepias L. (1753), the milkweeds, is a genus of herbaceous perennial, dicotyledonous plants that contains over 140 known species. It previously belonged to the family Asclepiadaceae, 

but this is now classified as the subfamily Asclepiadoideae of the dogbane family Apocynaceae.

Milkweed is named for its milky juice, which contains alkaloids, latex, and several other complex compounds including cardenolides. Some species are known to be toxic.

Carl Linnaeus named the genus after Asclepius, the Greek god of healing, because of the many folk-medicinal uses for the milkweed plants.

Pollination in this genus is accomplished in an unusual manner. Pollen is grouped into complex structures called pollinia (or "pollen sacs"), rather than being individual grains or tetrads, as is typical for most plants. The feet or mouthparts of flower visiting insects such as bees, wasps and butterflies, slip into one of the five slits in each flower formed by adjacent anthers. The bases of the pollinia then mechanically attach to the insect, pulling a pair of pollen sacs free when the pollinator flies off. Pollination is effected by the reverse procedure in which one of the pollinia becomes trapped within the anther slit.

Asclepias species produce their seeds in follicles. The seeds, which are arranged in overlapping rows, have white silky filament-like hairs known as pappus, silk, or floss. The follicles ripen and split open and the seeds, each carried by several dried pappus, are blown by the wind. They have many different flower colorations.

Sacred in the Ordinary, Installation #6: Music of the Soul

Alas for those that never sing,


But die with all their music in them!


~Oliver Wendell Holmes

This daily inspiration (thank you, Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes!!!) arrived by e-mail this morning.  I read it over at least three times before I sat back and let the words take hold inside my head.  Once they took hold, I sat here and thought about how many times I have "turned off"--or maybe I haven't allowed myself to "turn on"--the music in my spirit.  Why?  Usually it is because I have allowed the clutter of the days to push the songs away.  Now, I have enough where-with-all to know that when I invite music into my day, I sing.  So why do I ever push the songs away? 

Why?  While I'm questioning things, a one-liner quotation that I keep on a shelf in my studio sneaks into my thoughts--"Ideas become real at the point of action."  OK.  That does it.  This morning I choose to accept the invitation to let my thoughts sing, to let my ideas sing, to let my hands sing through creating.  And so, here is one of the word-songs for today.

It is the first day of February, and the weather here in Western New York continues to write its own musical score of surprises.

Yep - just yesterday, I awoke to a chilled breeze rushing in through my bedroom window (I keep that window rolled open ever so slightly to allow in nighttime breezes) and our landscape covered in snow--snow that  looked like beautiful, creamy shaving cream.  The song for yesterday was slow, comprised of deeper notes, calmer notes.  

That was yesterday, when the temperatures were in the lower 30s in the morning, but by the end of the day, had risen into the 40s...and were predicted to rise even higher by today...go figure.

This morning...I awoke to a new song, a song of soft breezes, warmer breezes playing through that same window next to my side of the bed.   Hmmmm...."A sure indicator of the promise of a good day," I think to myself before throwing back the comforter and greeting the day...and it doesn't look like I will be disappointed.

When I walk into the dining room, I stand at the front windows and take in the landscape.  While grey rain clouds stretch from east to west across the upper skyline, green grass stretches in rolling waves across the lawn below.  Sure, here and there, little blobs of shaving cream snow appear...but, mostly it is green lawn and trees and brush without a speck of snow lying on branches.  The overnight rains have performed their magic, erasing the snow.  This morning's song begins with a lightness, comprised of brisker notes, lilting notes.

Hang in there with me, I'm getting to the part where Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes' words arrived with a purpose for me today.

It is during these winter-going-into-the-promise-of-spring mornings that I find myself mesmerized by the birds that return to the brush line at the far end of our front lawn.  I am mesmerized by all of the birds, but I am in love with the cardinals.  The male and female cardinals return in force.  They find their separate perches and sit, doing their bird yoga-zen thing for scores of minutes.  Stately.  Regal.  Brilliant.  They sit as if knowing they are performing for an audience.

If the temperature is just right, they leave their brush-line perches and fly like little bottle rockets to the garden beds surrounding the two berry-laden shrubs that stand on either side of the front sidewalk.  There, they begin an operatic performance.  They dance alone or in pairs, they pick and pick at the mulched bed--finding precious berries that have dropped from the shrubs.  They hop about, drunk with happiness. They fly from shrub to shrub to shrub, sometimes clutching branches that hang at an awkward angle, sometimes clutching branches that literally hang perpendicular to the ground.  And they sing--beautifully they sing.  No, it does not matter to them, the angle of the branch; they celebrate the day and they sing. 

As their celebrations fill the air, their songs fill my soul.  And so, I believe that today I choose to be like a cardinal celebrating the promise of Spring...I choose not to let the music die inside of me today.  No, today, I sing.