PHOTO: Mary van Balen I took advantage of a day off to accomplish a number of things: doctor appointment, hair cut, and repotting plants. The day was too beautiful not to spend some of it outside and my hospitable friend, Melanie happily offered her time and her place. We have walked paths that wind across her property in every season. We have watched for comets and stars in dark hours of the morning. As I drove to her home, I felt my spirit become lighter anticipating a shared few hours.
As I approached her driveway, I noticed bluebirds on telephone wires. I slid my camera into my pocket as we began our walk. The day was bright and warm for November. We wandered through her garden, edged with drooping sunflower heads and tomato plants that had littered the ground around them with small, orangey red globes. Mint was as pushy as ever. Her basil plant had been huge, and the blue berry bush still sported green leaves.
We saw bittersweet and avoided stepping on too many walnut hulls in an effort to save our shoes. On poor tree had numerous broken branches rubbed clean of bark and shredded by rutting deer.
When I walk slowly like this, I often look down at the ground, my eyes searching for familiar plants and flowers.
“Look, Melanie, a wooly caterpillar.”
The words were barely out of my mouth before she saw another, then I saw another.They were easy to spot once we knew they were there. Melanie said she had seen lots this year. We inspected the width of brown and black segments, trying to remember what folklore said about them predicting the harshness (or mildness) of the winter ahead. I took a few photos, amazed at how fast those little critters could move. I wondered what moth or butterfly they became.
Melanie and I walked around the pond and circled by the bee hives. The man who cares for them had winterized them, but bees were busily flying in and out. In November. That seems late to me, but I am not a bee keeper. We watched for a while, and when after a simple lunch, when I left for my appointments, I stopped in the drive long enough to watch the bees again and take a few photos. Buzzing became louder, and when a bee landed on my hand, I decided the time had come to leave.
As always, an hour or a day with my friend, sharing the glories of creation, nurtures my soul and heals what is hurting. When I return home and light my beeswax candles, I will remember this morning and in the re-membering, will be open again to the healing and warmth of its grace.
From the Exultet:
We sing the glories of this pillar of fire, the brightness of which is undiminished even when its light is divided and borrowed, for it is fed by the melting wax which the bees, your servants, have made for the substance of this candle.
Let it mingle with the lights of heaven and continue bravely burning to dispel the darkness of this night!
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