Not So Plane

I enjoy seeing sycamore trees in the winter. I believe they're called 'plane' trees in Europe, but to me they aren't so plain at all. Their white hide makes a sparking contrast against other trees, basically providing a line drawing of basic tree shape that almost glows in the sunlight. 

Yesterday afternoon, a flock of grackles was perched in a nearby plane tree, all of them facing into the sun. Then they seemed to have gotten a message from their leader, and all of them were gone. 

And More

 These delicate-appearing flowers live under the shade of a large maple tree at the Riviera Clubhouse, where I swim during the summers. They are a few feet from the beautiful lilies I posted a few days ago.

More Pink Beauty

  My supermarket orchid, before she dropped her blooms

 and the Baby Leaf began to grow.

Waiting for Pink and Green

Combined with the winter, this Covid stay-at-home regime has finally begun to take a toll on my morale. I poke my nose out the front window, my arm metaphorically draped around the shoulders of my amaryllis plant, looking and anticipating warmer weather. I look forward to flowers like the hibiscus above. The sepals at the base of the bud remind me of the prongs that hold a jewel. Then again, maybe that's exactly what it is - another jewel in its setting

 I don't like the cold; as a child, our home was never warm in winter and I find myself returning, unwillingly, to days spent wrapped in every blanket I have on my bed. And then I remind myself - at least I don't live in Texas. 

Three Kinds of Leaves, One May Be Coleus

 I am dredging my image files simply because I don't want to go outside. How much, if any, vitamin D can I absorb from the reflected glory caught by camera pixels? 

Some Kinda Beautiful

 I don't know what kind of lily they are, I just know that I fell in love with their mauvy grace the first time I saw them many years ago. They appear, three to a stalk, some time in July, stand tall for a few days, then wither and lie down. After that they are done until the following summer.

These flowers live in the shade of the Riviera Club clubhouse, where I often go to swim during the summer. Like much of the country, this area is expecting what may be the biggest snow storm of the season. There won't be any lilies in sight.

 

Little Rituals

I have a little painting I've been working on. I made sure my palette was clean, I saw my brushes were ready, and that the colors I wanted to use were at hand. I filled a jar with clean water. Now ... can anyone tell me why I felt it necessary (and it was a conscious decision) that I put on a bra before I could begin my work? I did it. I said, "I need to put a bra on before I can work on this."

It's not my only little ritual: before I go to a swim meet, I exfoliate with salt, then shave - all in an effort to save nanoseconds as I compete in the 70+ brackets. (I hope you all can *hear* the sarcasm) And before I can paint, I put on a bra.

Fall/Falling/Fallen

 

One day last spring, this leaf appeared on a tree. Like billions of others, it budded and gave the tree an aura of exuberant life. Dancing in the breezes or swaying with the swooping drama of storms, the leaves took in sunlight and made us oxygen. Then one day, usually around Labor Day, they begin to look a bit tired, and the leafy gowns begin to droop and fade, changing color for one last hurrah, before they are swept away in the cooler winds of autumn; the trees get a signal to release a hormone that causes the leaves to fall off.

It's an interesting process, described here. 

Indy Through the Bus Window

 

Monday afternoon I went to Eskenazi Hospital to get the first of two vaccines against the Covid-19 virus. For all the effort I took to make the appointment, to show up early (the alternative was to be late), and worrying about the results, the actual jab was, really, nothing. I spent more time on the bus than I did at the hospital. 

I'd worried about missing my place in line, but once I'd gotten a mask from the receptionist at the entrance, I was nearly alone in this little adventure. There were others there for the same reason, but we were definitely outnumbered by staff. I walked in, got my paperwork, was summoned by an EMT who swabbed my arm, pinched my deltoid muscle, and Poof! sent me on my way. I didn't even feel it; if there was a microchip in that dose of Moderna vaccine, it is a miracle of the tiniest miniaturization ever achieved by science.

Dashing Through the Snow?

 Every winter, as though it was on the teachers' plan for the semester, we'd spend a portion of our music classes singing "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go! The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh o'er the white and drifted snow-oh!" I always wondered "What river?" "What woods?" and, especially, "What snow?" Every winter was the same: We'd get snow, of course, but never enough for a horse-drawn sleigh. That is, not until The Blizzard of 1978, when I happened to see a nice bay horse drawing an actual open sleigh along the street. Of course, I'd heard the bells first, then went to the door to watch, for the first and only time, as a one horse open sleigh traveled gaily through the neighborhood. Today, while I waited for my bus, I was reminded of that sleigh. The snowflakes blew around me, an inconvenience, like dandruff, instead of the white stuff that inspired songs with laughter and bells.

Six Weeks of One, Half Dozen of the Other

 Either way, it's about a month and a half to spring, when I can begin to once again see the edge-lit leaves of iris plants. But today puts another hash mark on my odyssey, as it is Day #331 of my Covid Groundhog Day. A full year of this isolation will be marked March 9, by which time I will have had both my initial and follow-up vaccinations against that evil virus. I don't expect much to change, however, as we begin to emerge from this long, four-year winter. But I am certainly happy to be able to greet each day able to breathe freely, to see the daylight, and to look forward to the sunlight on flowers.

Big Leaf, Little Leaf: So ...

 Ta-dah!

It's Madonna and Child!

Lit From Within

 I don't know what they are called, but these beautiful red flowers caught my eye last August during a walk around the grounds of Newfields. The insides of the flowers seemed to glow with the heat from the sun. I'm sure any bee or hummingbird would find them irresistible.

Theme Day: Smile: Music to My Eyes

 I was on a bus heading north out of the downtown area, browsing through a fashion magazine to pass the time. The colors and the patterns of the clothes were jarring, incompatible with those outside the bus window - sandstone, gray, and limestone, asphalt and metal chrome, a rather mundane bass line overlaid with the bright dresses. And then, there it was, just in the corner of my eye - a grace note, fluttering above the cars and over the bus - a butterfly, wending its erratic path on a quest, perhaps to meet a bazillion of its own kind in Mexico.

As I watched it make its way, determined in its direction, however much it was tossed in the air currents, it reminded me that the object of travel "is not the destination, but the journey." And it made me smile.

The first of each month marks the Theme Day for City Daily Photo photographers all over the world. To see how other participants have interpreted the them in their city, just click on the CDP badge to the right of this post.