Finding Yourself in Fading Chlorophyll

 

When I was little, I thought leaves were green.

Of course, they’re not.

Fading Chlorophyll -sig

The chlorophyll, which has been covering their color, is fading. Soon, the maple leaves will be candy-apple red. Oaks will darken into deep purple, bright orange, or brown. Elms and birches will turn mustard yellow.

It’s amazing watching the leaves change. They show us their true colors then they drift down from their branches.

We go for a walk and see edges losing chlorophyll. On our next walk, the leaves have more of their natural pigment. “Look at me! I’m orange!” They let me take pictures, those patient leaves, before letting go. We find them in the grass the following week, pick them up, bring them home and give them a place of honor in our mini-pumpkin pile.

I’ve always loved autumn.

This year, though, for the first time, I realize I’m a leaf. I thought I was green but that was just hiding my true colors. What are they? I’m not sure. But I’m ready to find out.

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

ThoughtBubble

Do you ever wonder who you are underneath? Have you ever thought that the roles you play in life might be your chlorophyll? If you showed your true colors to the world, what would happen?

 

Pause and Smell the Roses

 

It all started with a writing prompt.

Every Friday, I participate in #FP (@FridayPhrases) on Twitter. A few weeks ago, the theme was “pause” and one of the tweets I wrote was this:

Sarah B FP Pause Haiku

This morning, I did pause. And was rewarded with red squirrels, grey squirrels, and chipmunks racing through bushes, chasing each other. Mourning doves cooed. Chickadees tweeted and blue jays squawked, fluttering from maples to pines.

I watched the clouds drift from brushstrokes into dragons and marveled at how the sky directly above the tree line is a watery blue which deepens in hue as your eyes travel upward—so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t absorbed in its color.

I sat on my porch peeking between branches, at the ground, in the sky, dipping my finger in dew drops on our mini-pumpkins, all the while enjoying the intoxicating smell of my morning coffee and sipping the delicious brew.

I looked, listened, smelled, tasted, and touched. I used all my senses to appreciate the world around me. I didn’t stop. I paused. A minor distinction, perhaps, but a world of difference to me.

People are always saying I need to ‘stop’ when what I really needed was to ‘pause’.

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

ThoughtBubble

When is the last time you paused? Took life in? Enjoyed the moment? Take a pause today, gentle readers.

 

Poetry is Every Day

 

Sarah B Natl Poetry Day - sig

Although National Poetry Day is a British holiday, I am honoring it anyway. A bit late, too.

Poetry is so diverse. It can rhyme. It can flow and roll or it can punch you in the gut. It can make you cry or laugh. Or both.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

I can feel the rhythm as I read. And the words… Love. But who doesn’t love Robert’s stop in the woods that snowy eve? (Don’t answer that. If you don’t like this, I’d rather not know. I’m not sure we could be friends anymore.)

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Oh, how many times have I warned my son to beware the Jabberwock, I do not know. But he was reciting it at 4 years old. All chortling in his joy.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

Let’s just bask in the beauty of these lines and not continue to the hateful fantasies Oberon plans to inflict upon Titania. Good times. Gotta love The Bard. (If anyone calls me on this being a play not a poem, I shall hex them with a ladybug infestation. You have been warned.)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Ah, Dylan. I’m raging, dude. I will not go gentle.

Okay, let’s get serious. Because poetry is serious. Actually, it’s not. It is what it is. People say they don’t “get” poetry. I get that. I used to say it. But poetry is what you make it. It’s what you take away from it.

Shakespeare, Blake, Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Poe, Longfellow, Burns, Frost, Thomas, Browning…so many, many more. They each have touched me and changed me. It could be a single poem or a collection—doesn’t matter.

Emily Dickinson is the poet who has influenced me the most. Maybe because she’s awesome. Maybe because her words came along at the right time in my life to resonate deeply with me. I don’t know. But I have a book of her poetry with faded highlights from over twenty years ago. Those words are nostalgic and beautiful.

Sarah B Emily Poetry - sig

Poetry is everywhere.

It’s the clouds drifting through the sky, the squirrels scurrying up a pine tree, the leaves losing chlorophyll and blazing bright red, your morning coffee with steam swirling out of the mug, a hug from your child. It’s a book of words highlighted by your own hand twenty years earlier. Some writers can weave words so prettily it makes you cry. And I love them. But there are also words that fill your heart when you live in the moment.

Poetry is every day.

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening – Robert Frost
Jabberwoky – Lewis Carroll
Midsummer Night’s Dream / Act 2, Scene 1 – William Shakespeare
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas
This is my letter to the World – Emily Dickinson

 

My Sunday thoughts in…way over 200 words.

 

Where’d You Get That Photo?

 

All the images on Lemon Shark (and Lemon Shark Reef) are mine. Meaning I took them. With my camera. You’re envious, I know.

Some blogs have a credit under the photo or at the end of the post. Some have a copyright. I hadn’t thought much about it but, when I did, I figured it’s my blog and my photos are on it so people will know they’re mine. Of course they don’t. I’ve even been asked where I got them. ThoughtBubble

I feel like I should credit myself just like I would credit anyone else if I downloaded it. (Part of me just wants props for setting up and snapping pictures to go with specific posts. Pun intended.) For this story about Princess Penelope, I defrosted some frozen peas, picked out the really round green ones, and did a photo shoot on my son’s old toddler mattress. I did. Let’s move on…

Does it spoil images to write on them? I’ve seen poems and quotes but also copyrights and URLs. I wonder if I should leave them alone. On the other hand, mine are window dressing on my blog, not a photo contest entry. Are they really ruined?

Do you copyright your pictures? How? Put a note in the ‘caption’? Write directly on the photo? What do you think of the one below?

 

Asteraceae_1 - Sarah B

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

 

* After I wrote this Thought Bubble, I found this amazing post by Sacha Black (with a note from Geoff Le Pard) on how to create the gorgeous pictures she uses on her blog. (Notice she puts her URL on the photos.) I tried it on this page and I don’t think it takes away from the photo. Actually, I kind of like it.

* Update: 10/6/15 Those photos with poetry and quotes on them? This is what I was talking about. Sue Vincent posts these on her blog. They are stunning—check them out.