Of acorns and spiderwort #phenology

Today is very much the antithesis of a February blizzard day. The sky is full of popcorn clouds. The breeze is very slight, barely tempering the warm air. Nature seems to be enjoying a lull but perhaps that's just projection on our part. Out in the garage there's a garden cart that needs assembly. For today, tomorrow seems soon enough to get to that. We're not feeling lethargic, just plain, ordinary lazy, calm and content, for a change.

wild spiderwort in a field of grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

Out in the fields there are scattered spiderwort blossoms. Wikipedia lists some fascinating uses of this plant:

Native Americans used T. virginianato treat a number of conditions, including stomachache. It was also used as a food source.^[19] The cells of the stamen hairs of some Tradescantiaare colored blue, but when exposed to sources of ionizing radiation such as gamma rays, the cells mutate and change color to pink; they are one of the few tissues known to serve as an effective bioassay for ambient radiation levels.^[7][19]

from little acorns grow...

Photo by J. Harrington

The density of Summer leaves makes them difficult to see, but acorns, which we usually associate with Autumn, are starting to develop on local oak trees. One indicator of our imaginative ability to actually "see" reality is whether we can envision a mature oak when we see just an acorn. Are we similarly challenged when we look at the opportunities in our lives?

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

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