Hmmm, if I had the chance, would I trade the blooming promise of spring for a warmer climate where winter is just a footnote on the calendar?

I ponder that question from time to time in the forlorn depths of winter. Around mid-January, when I’m scurrying from the car to the store and back and slip-sliding on icy sidewalks, it seems like a trade I would be willing to make. But eventually, and inevitably, the calendar page turns to April and the tide of the season begins to turn.

“Every April God rewrites the book of Genesis.” ~ Austin O’Malley, American Physicist, 1858 – 1932

Slowly at first, in fits and starts, as if not quite certain that it can work its miracle yet again. Gradually it builds momentum a few warm days at a time. Intrepid wildflowers spring up overnight. Tentative buds appear on the Pussy Willows. The days begin to stretch their legs and push into the evening hours.

When the first Mourning Cloak butterfly appears, chocolate brown and yellow fringed, and flutters about, I begin to have faith that spring has really taken hold. Then the Red Admiral butterflies begin dashing madly about and the verdict is in.

Sometime in late April the big push happens. Nature opens wide her palette of colours. In a matter of days, or so it seems, the trees go from brown and bare to frothing with green. Where a few days hence only a smattering of yellow appeared, a wildflower patch bursts out in a chorus of colour.

It’s around this time when I shake my head and wonder: How could I give this up? This quintessential rebirth and renewal. The awakening and revival of the earth – and with it, the revival of my spirit and my enduring love for the fruits of mother earth.

And yes, of course, the wondrous migration of the birds which reaffirms that all is right and noble still. And that the cycles of life, which give meaning and purpose to our existence, our still intact despite our human indulgences which threaten them.

“Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colours, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Austrian Poet, 1875 – 1926

Perhaps I could find it within me to sacrifice April on the altar of endless summer. But May, when the doors swing wide open and spring charges forth with reckless abandon, I simply cannot envision living without.

Spring is the metaphor of renewal that keeps me young at heart even as the years turn my hair to gray and the not so graceful aging of my fragile frame becomes more difficult to disregard. I think I shall have to stay here where chance has put me on this earth. I have become accustomed to the seasons and caught in an endless love affair with the “painful sweetness” of spring.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of “Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel” – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael’s website at www.mdyetmetaphor.comor the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.

~ Subscribe to “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” at its’ internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: How To” instructions page in the right sidebar. If you’re reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.

~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com

Hmmm, how much of life do we overlook because we’re preoccupied with… getting where we’re going… glancing over our shoulder for who might be chasing us… looking ten steps ahead for what danger might be waiting there?

The Kingsolver quote at the top of this post is my favourite opening paragraph to a novel. I love it for the eloquence of her language, her gift for turning a phrase and how it so elegantly sets the tone for all that follows.

But it also speaks to how much our state of mind, and our presumptions, colour and even mask what we perceive. We are a self-absorbed species. An inordinate amount of our time is devoted to calculating where we stand in relation to each other. Am I falling behind you, getting too far ahead to keep tabs on you or just plain paying attention to the wrong person?

I find myself less and less inclined to expend my brain power calculating my latitude and longitude relative to the other guy. Admittedly, this is partially because I am one of those somewhat peculiar people who prize solitude. Not every waking moment, of
course. But some of my most soul redeeming and insightful experiences come in solitary moments.

As Kingsolver so eloquently points out, solitude as we think of it relates to the absence of other people. I frequently seek out the solitude of a woodland path, a serene meadow or a murmuring creek. I get rather perturbed if a chattering group of hikers disturbs my quiet communion with nature.

But I am far from alone at those moments. I am, in fact, recalibrating my senses to the frequency of other living things. I am most at peace when I am in tune with “the beetle life underfoot”.

Peering through my binoculars at a tiny skipper (think very small butterfly) takes me to a place where the concerns of day to day life fade away. I can become wonderfully engrossed trying to determine if I can detect the pale spot band of a Crossline Skipper or the glassy white spot on the forewing of a Little Glassywing.

The scale of the world around me changes at these moments. Skyscrapers, multi-lane expressways and Wal-Mart’s the size of football fields become blasé. There are an infinite number of small wonders awaiting me that change my perspective.

I am quite certain that my body moves with a different frankness when I embark upon these odysseys into the wonders of a few square feet of meadow. I only wish I could spend much more time in those explorations.

Solitude is really more of a presence than an absence for me. It is a presence I can only discern when I shut out the busyness, worry and self-consciousness of man-made things. Every tiny marvel of nature becomes a metaphor for sanity. I discover wisdom and
reason there which I’m often hard pressed to find in the things of man’s making.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of “Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel” – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael’s website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog. Visit www.smashwords.com to download a free preview of the e-book version.

~ Subscribe to “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” at its’ internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: How To” instructions page in the right sidebar. If
you’re reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.

~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com .

Although I hate to admit it, my memory is becoming rather cranky with age. It decides what it does and does not want to record with a will entirely its own. I can be in the car five minutes from home, telling myself not to forget to stop and pick up milk, and still forget to do it. Notes on the table and in my shirt pocket are exercises in futility.

And yet, I can recall certain moments from months of years past with crystal clarity. Etched in mymemory like it was only yesterday…

A Silvery Blue Butterfly. A beautiful specimen perched so cooperatively on the pine needles at Kortright Centre for Conservation. Not the most striking of butterflies. But etched in memory for… the contrasts of soft blue in its wings and vibrant green in the pine needles it rested upon… the subtle blend of background shadow and foreground sunlight… the subtle markings of its feathery antennae…

A Unicorn Clubtail Dragonfly. Found at the back end of Ken Whellan Resource Management Area on a trail not much used. Not an uncommon sighting. But etched in memory for… Perched so elegantly on a bent stem of grass at the edge of the stream… Intersecting curves of grass stems arching over it as if in worship… Bulging green eyes, clubbed tail and clear wings with fine filaments of black…

A Hickory Hairstreak Butterfly. Awaiting me at Pinery Provincial Park on the shores of Lake Huron. Etched in memory for… the mere fact it is so seldom seen… the thin but graceful spot band arching across the wings… faint blue spot enclosed by orange chevrons… cluster of broad green leaves like hands bent in prayer…

A Giant Swallowtail Butterfly. One of hundreds on Pelee Island in August. Etched in memory for… the flash of sun-yellow against silky black… graceful perfection of its curving, white fringed wings… the peacefulness of its nonchalant pose at the edge of a woodlot…

These precocious memories will never leave me. They will always be within reach when I need to calm my troubled mind. My memory, it seems, is partial to metaphors. For each of these creatures is an indisputable metaphor for the wonder and beauty that exists in nature’s boundless inventory of small scale miracles. So easily overlooked, but so unforgettable when once we behold them.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of “Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel” – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael’s website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.

~ Subscribe to “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” at its’ internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: How To” instructions page in the right sidebar. If you’re reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for
postings once a week.

~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.

I’m in fall bird watching mode now as the nesting birds succumb to the seasonal imperative and begin winging their way south. Those of us afflicted with the bird watching obsession get rather caught up in building our day list, our season list and our year list.

Fall migration birding can be a feast or famine scenario. Depending on the weather conditions, the trees and fields can be buzzing with birds or frustratingly quiet.

Yesterday was a famine day. On those days I accelerate my pace trying to cover as much territory as possible to round up a respectful day list. Occasionally, Mother Nature reminds me that I should be less concerned with numbers than with the wonder of each and every one of her winged creatures.

As I was hoofing it down a trail in one of my favourite birding spots, a Northern “Yellow Shafted” Flicker passed overhead and landed in a tree. Flickers are large woodpeckers – 12” tall with a 20” wingspan and large curved bill.

Flickers boast quite eye-catching plumage. They have a brownish barred back, spotted belly, black whisker stripe below the eye and black breast-band. A red nape adorns their rather regal grey head.  But Flickers are quite common so I rarely take the time to properly admire them.

On this day, I mentally ticked off the species on my day list and was about to continue on to the viewing platform overlooking the marsh. Fortunately, at that moment the Flicker lifted off and took wing. The angle was just right for me to catch the striking flash of golden yellow under the wings.

I stopped in my tracks and tried to recall the last time I had taken note of this exquisite feature. I’m a bit ashamed to admit that I couldn’t remember. I realized that Mother Nature was telling me:

Slow down. The graces I have for you today take time and patience to experience. Isn’t reveling in these graces worth two or three less species on your day list?

The answer, of course, is yes.

The exotic face pattern, swept-back crest, red bill and rainbow iridescence of a Wood Duck…

The snow-white plumage, yellow dagger-like bill and s-curve neck of the stately Great Egret…

The sun-yellow breast, black necklace and yellow spectacles of the Canada Warbler…

All of these are worth pausing to stop and admire again and again. It matters not whether I have 45 or 50 species on my day list. What truly matters is that I take the time to find and delight in beauty wherever it presents itself. I need to dial down the RPMs so I catch those moments of grace. Letting them slip by unnoticed would be shameful waste.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of “Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel” – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael’s website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.

~ Subscribe to “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” at its’ internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: How To” instructions page in the right sidebar. If you’re reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.

~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.

I’ve just returned from a few days spent on Lake Erie’s Pelee Island – the most southern area of Canada. Pelee Island, a 90 minute ferry ride from the mainland, is home to many creatures, trees and plants not found anywhere else in this country.

I went there in search of a couple of butterflies that call Pelee Island home – the Hackberry Emperor and the Tawny Emperor. So why does these two beauties occur nowhere else in Ontario?

The answer lies in the interdependent relationships in nature. All butterflies are associated with specific plants or trees on which they lay their eggs and on which their larvae feed. Hackberry and Tawny Emperors are associated with the Hackberry Tree which appears nowhere else in Ontario other than Pelee Island.

Hackberry Trees grow well in the unique Alvar habitats – a thin layer of soil on top of limestone – which are characteristic of the island. But how did Hackberry Trees come to be on Pelee Island? It is quite possible they found a home there because of migrating birds. Pelee is a major stopover for many migrating birds in the spring as they make the lengthy and difficult crossing of Lake Erie.

Some of these birds are seed eaters. They make many stops, on the journey from the southern U.S. or South America, to rest and feed. Seeds which they consume on the northward journey may be expelled in their droppings during their Pelee Island stopover. Hence, trees or plants, which would otherwise not occur on an island, find a home there.

And so, if seed eating birds become extinct, no seeds are transported to new places during the wonder of migration. No Hackberry seeds transported to Pelee Island means no Hackberry Trees and, consequently, no Hackberry or Tawny Emperors. Interdependence is a governing factor in nature but it doesn’t stop there.

Pelee Island is well known for its winery. Grapes grown there produce world-renowned wines. This is possible, in part, because Pelee Island is located at an ideal latitude for vineyards – equally close to the equator as parts of Northern California and Spain.

Other factors also come into play. The nutrients in limestone (found in Alvar habitats) are ideal for vineyards. But how can you get these nutrients out of the limestone? Viticulture experts plant weeds between the rows of grapevines. These weeds take root in the limestone and draw out the nutrients. The weeds are then cut down, left to decay and release their nutrients into the soil for the grapevines. Interdependence at work again.

One more example. Lake Erie is the shallowest of the Great Lakes. The waters of Lake Erie therefore heat up considerably during the summer. In the latter parts of the year, when the weather becomes cooler, Lake Erie acts as a thermal blanket releasing heat to the island which extends the grape growing season.

Human beings have a profound impact on Mother Earth. We have, unfortunately, the power to disrupt many of nature’s intricate interdependencies. All too often we consume without regard for the effect our consumption is having on the earth.

Pelee Island is a living metaphor for the wonderful and delicate interdependencies which underlie the health of our planet. We need to count these interdependencies are blessings and consider ourselves as guardians of them.

We have the power to sustain or destroy. Let us choose the latter.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of “Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel” – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael’s website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog. Visit www.smashwords.com to download a free preview of the e-book version.

~ Subscribe to “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” at its’ internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: How To” instructions page in the right sidebar. If you’re reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.

~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.

The helter-skelter world, which we launch ourselves bravely into each day, exacts a hefty toll. We need a refuge we can escape to where we can rest and rejuvenate our wounded soul.

Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.  Ralph Waldo Emerson: American essayist, philosopher, and poet

In a world that charges madly on in a race that never seems to end, I need nature’s slow dance of serenity. The playful, elegant fluttering of golden wings over a meadow splashed with a palette of wildflowers.

Nature is an infinite sphere of which the center is everywhere and the circumference nowhere.  Blaise Pascal: French mathematician, physicist, and religious philosopher

In a constantly shape-shifting world where what was truth yesterday is irrelevant today, I need nature’s unassuming constancy. The teeming life of a cattail marsh where dragonflies waltz to the bullfrog’s symphony.

Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven. Rabindranath Tagore: Bengali poet, novelist, musician, and playwright

In a locked down world in which we need keys, pass cards and fobs to get in and sometimes even to get out, I need nature’s open arms. The Cool Hollow Trail that always sighs its welcome beneath a canopy of willows.

There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story. Linda Hogan: Native American poet, storyteller, academic, playwright, novelist

In a world where the din and clamour of machines, discontent and greed assaults my senses, I need nature’s noble peace and majesty. The slow grace of the seasons and the effortless exuberance of swallows in flights of fancy.

Nature is my living metaphor of serenity, constancy, open arms and the peace that surpasses all expression. Like a moth to a flame, I return to it again and again. I never tire of it nor it of me.

I long for spring and another walk through Cool Hollow.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of “Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel”. Visit Michael’s website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.

~ Subscribe to “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” at its’ internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: How To” instructions page in the right sidebar.

~ If you’re reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings every 5 to 7 days. Categories: Shifting Winds, Sudden Light, Deep Dive, Songs of Nature, Random Acts of Metaphor. Or subscribe to my Twitter page (mdyetmetaphor) to receive a tweet when a blog posting goes up.

Most of nature is bound to form and substance. But the wind knows no such boundaries. It exists, it would seem, only in relation to the things it acts upon. But we miss much of the majesty of nature if we rely only on what our senses can interpret. The wind is the unseen spirit of nature.

A frame of reference is helpful. Colour, as we perceive it, is comprised of infinite combinations of four primary colours: red, blue, yellow and black. Nature too has four primary elements: sun, water, soil and wind.

The wind is the rebel amongst these four siblings. Yes, if faithfully fulfils its duties in the alchemy of nature. But the wind has a repertoire of faces that puts its brothers and sisters to shame.

Did you know that there is an official scale of measure for the wind? It’s called the Beaufort Scale and it is meant to impose scientific order on what we can’t lay our hands upon. But the categories within it are the outward markings only of a deeper current. Follow me as we take a poetic ride through the 12 moods of the rebel wind.

Beaufort #0: Calm – Less than 1 mile per hour

Smoke curls and rises like the exhale of a butterfly in a prayer of exhortation at the dawn of desire.

Beaufort #1: Light Air – 1 to 3 miles per hour

A pregnant rustling in the leaves, a wisp of breath against your face, the gentle incandescence of hope stirred.

Beaufort #2: Light Breeze – 3 to 7 miles per hour

Ripples waltz across the slumbering and silent river awakening the fevered dance of affection.

Beaufort #3: Gentle Breeze – 8 to 12 miles per hour

A first autumn leaf of yearning, tinged yellow-red by want, takes flight toward its intended.

Beaufort #4: Moderate Breeze – 13 to 17 miles per hour

Illicit desires unburdened on crumpled sheets of paper scurry along the sidewalk in aimless fits and starts.

Beaufort #5: Fresh Breeze – 18 to 24 miles per hour

Supple branches of the willing willow sway to the restless chords of music rising from the hollows of desire.

Beaufort #6: Strong Breeze – 25 to 30 miles per hour

Unsanctioned passion and rebellious want whistle in the wires.

Beaufort #7: High Wind, Near Gale – 31 to 38 miles per hour

Desired obsessed with itself rattles and moans in the windowpanes in a restless night of the soul.

Beaufort #8: Gale – 39 to 46 miles per hour

Tidal waves of love…

Beaufort #9: Strong Gale – 47 to 54 miles per hour

crest on the open sea…

Beaufort #10: Storm, Whole Gale – 55 to 63 miles per hour

drawing courage from the deeps…

Beaufort #11: Violent Storm – 64 to 72 miles per hour

thundering toward a fated shore…

Beaufort #12: Hurricane – Over 64 miles per hour

all caution to the wind.

The wind is a metaphor for the gamut that our passions run from the rarest of rare moments of perfect peace to the tortured, thrashing darkness of despair. We each ride our own winds of emotion. We are the 5^th element of nature.

If you’re reading this on Facebook or Goodreads, visit “Michael’s Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm” blog at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog for more of Michael’s metaphorical musings.

Did you enjoy this posting? If so, I invite you to subscribe to my blog to receive new postings automatically. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the “Subscribe to this Blog: “How To” Instructions page in the right sidebar.