Stop and Stare…at a Tradition.

DSC_0239 - Copy.JPGMorning dew on this California poppy in our backyard simply cries out to be touched, or at least photographed. I started planting poppies when my son was born in 1985 and continued this tradition on his February birthday every year since. This is one of those seedlings.  Note: there were a few years when I substituted nasturtium seeds for poppies due to supply and demand.

 

Final Mystical Resting Place…

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This is how I found the dime-sized butterfly.

Is this real? That was my first thought yesterday morning after I saw a dime-sized butterfly “asleep” on a ceramic flower inside the house. I’ve never seen a butterfly this small. It was certainly dead.

I asked for help in identifying the insect from_https://www.butterfliesandmoths.org. An expert said it was a Pieris rapae (small white) and that the size is attributable to “poor quality host plant.” So, that was the scientific explanation, not the mystical one.

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Full view.

A Meaning of Life…

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Orchid

If the arc of an orchid

Fails to hold

Our attention,

Life is not

Balanced.

 

I’ve rewritten this “poem” because it is never finished–it is always in my thoughts. We are surrounded by beauty,  too often unnoticed when life is hectic, or overrun with suffering.  Orchids are nice but they won’t stop violence. But if we lose the ability to slow down and recognize fragile beauty, we weaken ourselves in the daily struggle to instinctively recognize what is right in the world–we allow anger to the direct our thoughts. Do you find joy in watching parents guiding their young children safely across the street? Or, do you find the question far-fetched? Peace.

 

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Place in the World

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/place/”>Place in the World</a>

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self-timer photo of me at Sammy’s Beach

When I lived in major cities like Manhattan or Los Angeles, I often dreamed of a secluded, quiet place to be. Now in the late years of my life, I go almost daily to the solitude that is no longer a fantasy. I call it “Sammy’s Beach,” in honor of our late, beloved bear of a dog. Here I can sit or stand and be thankful, hearing only the lapping of ocean waters.