Whimsy

I have been writing and editing a manuscript for the last eight hours, and at this point in the day, processing information has become an intractable goal, but I'm not quite ready to peel myself away from my keyboard yet.  Something was missing from my day.  Too much biology and not enough creativity.  Not enough whimsy.  So I've come back to my neglected blog to write something brief about whimsy.

Did you know that my built-in thesaurus widget doesn't even have an entry for whimsy?  I don't know what to make of that.

In my biologizing, I often don't get enough built-in whimsy and have to create some for myself.  I think that's partly what drove the start of this blog in the first place.  I need to have a creative outlet of some kind.

Taking photos is one way for me to find that outlet.  Eating M&Ms is another (wait, that's a whole different kind of outlet).  

I've noticed that kids, in general, are really good at getting whimsy.

They live in the moment and aren't ashamed to have glow-in-the-dark stickers on their ceilings and walls (wait, neither am I, evidently).  They wear capes, catch fireflies, wonder where the airplanes go when they pass out of view, and stick olives on their fingers (wait, I do that too). They don't sit at their computers for 8+ hours a day.  They don't read re-caps of the most recent debate (wait, I don't do that either).  They don't make lists (unless they're of supplies for an upcoming adventure). 

My niece looking for some whimsy in her backyard with her "goggles."

My nephew, clearly having whimsical thoughts of some kind, judging by the look on his face.

So I'm taking a whimsy time-out this afternoon.  In a few moments, I will ask Beagle if he wants to go for a W-A-L-K.  I'll throw him and my camera into my car and drive to a prairie park so we can romp.  I'll take some photos of the fall views and let my fingers stop reaching for the next letter, the next word, the next paragraph.

Interrupting starfish

Have you heard the interrupting starfish joke?  If not, ask me sometime, and I'll tell it to you (or find a 9-year old and ask him or her).  

On my last several runs, I have been the interrupting biped to three or four deer standing peacefully along the trail.  Each time, they seem singularly unconcerned with my approach.

The trail is covered in many places with fallen leaves so that as I run along, I don't even recognize the deer blending in with the fall browns until I am already fairly close.

At that point, I become aware of the subtle white edge of their drooping tails.  They are so unconcerned with my approach that they stand, watching me come nearer while their tails hang down in calm.  Eventually, they turn their dark eyes on me, flip up their white-flag tails, and silently step down off the trail, in no particular hurry.  They disappear into the brush before I get to the spot where they stepped down.

They make no pretense of not being aware of my inferior running ability (even among other bipeds, my running ability is inferior) and do not perceive me as a threat.  Perhaps they can see that I do not run with a rifle.

And that the Beagle would rather roll in the leaves than chase them.  Actually, that's a lie - he would definitely rather chase them.  The deer must understand that a leashed beagle is a safe beagle (when the biped he is running with does not carry a rifle).  

Last night as I ran, I watched my tall shadow fall to my left onto the thin line of brush and trees that separates the trail from the farm fields.

For the record, this is not to my left but to my right.  But it is the only photo I have of the line of brush and trees.

A while ago the fields looked like this.

Then this.  

And then this.

And now, the fields are empty.  Empty of their crop, at least. Now they are full to the brim with cool, dusty air.  The cool, dusty air that flows in and out of my lungs as I can't help but think of how it does so differently in birds' lungs and how my metabolism is turning certain things into certain other things and how my muscle filaments are ratcheting against one another with each step and how no normal person should be thinking of these things as she runs.

And then I hear "Into the Mystic" in my ears, and my brain shuts up and listens to the music.  And the air hanging over the empty fields is just cool, heavy air.  And the birds are just birds.  And my muscles and metabolism are just affording me movement.     

A few of my favorite things

I love taking photos.  Some of the shots I end up getting end up making me really happy.  So to facilitate that happiness, I decided to pick some of my favorites and print them as 8x10s (as large as was feasibly manageable).  

I had a really giant bulletin board donated to the cause that can accommodate 28 of these favorite photos.   Some of these you've seen on this blog before.  All plants and water and rocks and skies.  No kittens or mittens or brown paper packages tied up in string (no offense to those who would choose those for their wall of favorites).  

This monstrosity/piece of simple happiness now leans against the wall at the back of my desk.  So as I sit there to analyze data, write manuscripts, edit manuscripts, read manuscripts, I can take a frustration break once in a while and let my gaze wander across my favorite photos.

It's a little like being able to walk from room to room in the more pleasant wings of my brain, looking at these peaceful colors and lines.  I don't have proof, but I would bet that my blood pressure lowers every time I glance up from my work.

As you can see, I have one open spot left to fill.  I'm waiting for the photograph that belongs there.  I don't know from whence it shall come, but I can't wait to get there!

Angel Oak

There exists in the low country of the Southeast, an aged tree. A tree known as the Angel Oak. The Angel Oak is said to be 65 feet tall, over 25 feet around and, wait for it... over 1,500 years old. The Angel Oak is a live oak - a still living, breathing, growing live oak.

Around the time of this aged oak's purported sprouting, Justinian was the Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, silkworms had only just begun to be cultivated (by Byzantine humans) to produce silk, St. Benedict (near and dear to my own heart) was busy founding the Monte Cassino Monastery in Italy and the first pandemic of the bubonic plague hit Constantinople (now Istanbul).

These were the times of King Arthur, Beowulf, Gregory the Great and Mohammad. This was when one tiny acorn took root and sprouted in sandy soil in what is now South Carolina. Maybe its continued existence today tells us that the larger trees around it fell down at the precise times at which it needed to expand and use more space but not so early as to expose it too harshly to the elements. Maybe it tells us that there was never a single year of weather since sometime around 500 A.D. that this individual vegetative structure couldn't withstand.

Think of the bazillions of acorns this single tree has produced. Think of the amount of carbon it has drawn down from our (troubled) atmosphere. Think of the plethora of birds that have nested in its branches, the ants that have traversed millions of miles along its bark, the countless other living things who have used it as shelter, a landmark, food.

These days, we can think of the thousands of humans who have made the trip to see this magnificent being. To take photos of it (plural, because one photo will not do, cannot even include the entire expanse of the tree). To eat a lunch or have a soda under its shade. These days, the tree is surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. It has visiting hours. It has beams and rods propping up its various drooping parts. It has a gift shop. It has signs that say please do not sit, please do not carve, please do not climb. People do these things anyway. Maybe not the carving so much, but sitting and climbing. It is irresistible.

If a tree can be majestic, then this one certainly is. I can think of no better word to describe it.

Majestic