What's the point? #phenology patterns

One area of my education that is sadly lacking includes painting and art history and related topics. I know there's something called "Pointillism" and that it has to do with painting of and by dots. That's both the extent and depth of my knowledge on that theme, but it's enough to help me recognize that nature often imitates the art that imitates nature.

pointillated aspens

Photo by J. Harrington

We have several clusters of aspens on our property, mixed in with mixed conifers. I don't know, but am suspicious that the aspen clusters are all clones, part of one grove. This Spring, their leaf development is reminiscent of the reproductions I've seen of some pointillist paintings. The mixed oak leaves in our woods have now developed to the point that the spaces seen between bare branches are occluded. When the breeze rustles them, they whisper a soothing susurration. The word for music that's played in a pointillist manner is punctualism or klangfarbenmelodie. Once again I'm in over my head, past the tops of my ears.

a lawn being pointillated

Photo by J. Harrington

Ground cover such as our white violets(?) and the ground ivy encroaching on the "lawn" from the wood's edge, often creates impressions of splashes of one color from different multitudes of flowers. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that we form our impressions of cultures, communities, clans and congregations from a multitude of individual impressions, cultural or social dots, to which we are exposed daily. Each by itself may not make sense enough to create a coherent impression. It's how all of us connect the dots differently, be they ever so small, that makes all the difference in the stories we tell about the pictures we see, the music we hear, and the lives we live.

Patterns for Arans

By Linda Norton

We could paint semi-darkness in semi-darkness. And the ‘right lighting’ of a picture could be semi-darkness.                                                             Wittgenstein
                                                            from Remarks on Color

These islands lie off the west coast of Ireland

as if nothing matters.

The people have lived here for centuries

with only a thin covering of soil over the surface.

Great use is made of the seaweed,

the cattle swimming out.

The women here are justly famous.

They weave their own tweed

and make a type of belt called criss.

The heavy Atlantic seas,

the slip stitch.

The difficulty of the patterns

are never written down.

Most impressive and rich, the trellis pattern

and the rope, the tribute to the hardworking bee.

But sometimes their knitting shows mistakes,

with a true Irish touch of nothing

really matters, a careless nonchalance

of the crossing of their cables.

And note mistakes in the simple patterns:

forked lightning or cliff paths,

small fields fenced with stone,

the ups and downs of married life,

the mosses.

The openwork has a religious

significance or none.

Sometimes the clarity of the pattern is

lost through the use of

very fine wool.

Green from the mosses, brown

from the seaweed, grey and cream

color from the stones and pebbles:

many are distinctly over-bobbled.

No matter. They are too lovely

to be lost. Wool and knitting

leaflets can be obtained.

In no case is the whole pattern given.

There are certain gaps and yawns

and part of the pattern is left out

as if it doesn’t matter,

or was too lovely,

so was lost.

Some of the simple patterns

are charming for children’s jerseys.

This one, for example,

would be lovely on a child.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Over almost as soon as it started #phenology

Blooms have faded and are largely gone from the pear tree. Local trilliums have finally bloomed. Hoary puccoon is starting to flower, as are columbine plants. Years past, we've had scattered single puccoon plants. This year there's a whole cluster.

a host of hoary puccoon

Photo by J. Harrington

hoary puccoon beginning to bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The front "lawn" is overrun with violets, ground ivy and wild strawberry, inhibiting mowing of the few remaining clusters of grass. The butterfly plants we added last year may or may not have made it through the Winter. The Better Half is both more experienced at gardening and more optimistic than yours truly. Over the next week or two we'll see who called it. Probably turn out that some, but not all, of the plants will need to be replaced, in which case we're both validated.

A hummingbird has been using the deck feeder several times a day, or several hummers have been feeding there less frequently. Rose-breasted grosbeaks and red-winged blackbirds arrive regularly. Baltimore orioles have disappeared for several days now. I hope they come back. Maybe I'll try adding some orange halves to the mix.

A week or so ago one of the prairie fields in Carlos Avery was treated with a controlled burn. For several days about all you could see was char. Then we got a little rain and a little more time had passed. It's greening up nicely now. See:

resilience of green after controlled burn

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you realized it's only two weeks until the start of meteorological Summer? Even before that, cultural Summer begins with Memorial Day weekend. When Spring started, snow was still a dominant factor in our weather. Yesterday, southwestern Minnesota reached its first 90℉ for the year. Spring's transitions may seem to take forever to arrive, but they never seem to drag out like our Winters (wrote the writer who doesn't ice fish, snow mobile, cross-country ski, etc.). Since, before we know it, we'll be in the midst of the dog days of Summer, think about playing some hookey and relishing in what's left of Spring. Next week might be a better time to try that, according to our local weather forecast.

In Perpetual Spring

By Amy Gerstler

Gardens are also good places

to sulk. You pass beds of

spiky voodoo lilies   

and trip over the roots   

of a sweet gum tree,   

in search of medieval   

plants whose leaves,   

when they drop off   

turn into birds

if they fall on land,

and colored carp if they   

plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal   

human desire for peace   

with every other species   

wells up in you. The lion   

and the lamb cuddling up.

The snake and the snail, kissing.

Even the prick of the thistle,   

queen of the weeds, revives   

your secret belief

in perpetual spring,

your faith that for every hurt   

there is a leaf to cure it.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.