​ 
She stands alone in the center of the garden
unplanned, unplanted--there by her own volition
her heavy head demurely cocked to one side
ringed with a bright halo of startling yellow.
 
I think of her as Mother Earth towering
over all the variations in her kingdom:
of vines, stalks, pods and sprouts,
sharing space with bugs, bees and bunnies.
 
The breeze ruffles her pedaled skirts
raising them Marilyn Monroe style
as if to share the joy of a delicious day
in her walled garden of delight.
 
Her 8-ft frame admires the low growing
tomatoes, basil, beets, beans,
potatoes and peas surrounded by
raspberrry stalks and asparagus ferns.
 
A volunteer herself, she is as startled as I,
by the surprise crop of winter squash
now vining every surface and spawning
butternut every few feet.
 
Her bright smile seems to foster growth,
presiding over the autumn red potato harvest, 
the delight of berries and Indian corn
and me. I stand amazed at the explosive greatness 
 
wought by God’s gifts of sun and rich soil, nitrogen and rain,
blessing Mother Earth’s domain and my paltry labor. 
With thanks we accept this hearty harvest, knowing
frost will soon descend, laying fallow this square of earth.
 
 
We conspire to endure, even in winter
gathering sights and sounds into barns,
sustaining long sedate, gray days 
transforming them into seeds of hope.
 
Farewell my Garden Goddess--
your seeds and blessings will last long after 
your frame weathers gray
leaving enduring images of your sunny smile
and promise of more sunflower-kissed, summer days. 
 
C. Rottman, 9/10/18

Lens of Love
 
The broad picture shows in wide angle
Many loves, many places, over time
God seen broadly,
Infiltrating every inch, each universal angle,
love of all, created by his words. 
 
Narrowly focused lens, reveals
loves in time for this time,
God in Christ close-up,
deeds revealed, love unfettered
words of life, giving selflessly,
one living thing to another.
 
Close up lens pointing laser-like 
in particularity to a love now,
God’s Spirit inspiring the moment,
a sacrament to the holy:
God with us, Emmanuel.
 
 
C. Rottman, 7/25/18
 
 
 

​ We have all tried to do it: opening, unfolding, tapping into our form of artistic expression when we have time and inclination.  It usually begins with pondering, which could be a form of meditation if it were not for some urgency we feel to make that first brush stroke, or first word or initial note on a staff.  An impulse like boiling water that cannot be controlled unless we turn down the heat.  We feel a deep desire and compulsion. Then, nothing.  The blank page or canvas mocks us: “You have lost your touch.” “What you imagine will never come true.” ”There must be better ways to spend your time.”
I had a long talk with my daughter yesterday.  It was not the first time we tried to find parallels between her visual art and my word art. She had just spent two days ready, by time, place and material, to begin, but unable to put her first mark.  A block appeared like a lock on her means of expression.  We reviewed her works of art, many of them on the walls around us in my home. “How did they come about?”  Assignments, motivation, and message were all a part of her finished works.  Did she know what they would say, to her and others, when she began? Probably not.
My art is less cumbersome.  It can begin with a few scratches on the back of an envelope.  The trigger that launched the scribble may be forgotten, as I write to find some clarity. During my most recent writing I snatched time when it came, wrote without a plan and watched the pages pile up.  Only later, did I see the meaning and message within those pieces.  Writing was a release. Somehow, my hopes and fears found words and expression. 
Today both of us face the unknown.  I want to imagine her brush spreading oil paint on a small canvas as she searches for meaning through color and shading and image.  I can only hope that she found the key to that lock that was preventing access to expressions of her heart.  She will create beauty again.  In time, her meaning will take form.

My resolve of two years ago, evaporated like may New Year’s resolutions: unfulfilled, not accomplished.  Maybe I rushed my return, as a tribute to my husband, Fritz, on the first anniversary of our parting.  I learned the difficulty of projecting my altered life into a space so small.  So much to work through, most of very private, not suitable for public viewing.  No words or thoughts came easily.

Now in my third March since his passing, I hold in my hands the book about our changing relationship in the face of his illnesses, both mental and physical. “A Memoir of Parting,” contains a series of dated personal essays, written during our final years together. With blog entries that follow, I will post selected passages from the book, which reveal not only a story of his demise but also of our love: long-standing, deeply treasured and full of God’s grace. Carol    
​                
   ​A Memoir of Parting                       
This book marks the journey Fritz and I took into the murky world of dementia. I sensed the need to keep some kind of balance as his equilibrium was slipping away. Writing has been and continues to be my means of survival—a way to make sense of troubled thoughts. As changes upset our daily lives and our relationship, I tried to express them in words. This book is a string of personal essays marking travels—not to the exciting places we used to visit, but a more pedestrian path leading to the end of the road. (p. 10)

“I don’t know if I can keep it up,” I complained when my Publisher suggested a blog would be good for marketing.  At the time the whole concept of blogging was foreign. He set up the site for me and the “sight” of its pages took me by surprise.  Rich color on a black background—what could be more appealing? My husband’s photographs brightened every entry.  My short posts didn’t have to tell the whole story when accompanied by a picture of the nature I wanted to share. Both illuminated the same scene.
If life had continue on its steadily, but slowing pace, I would have gone on to write of the endless natural phenomenon witnessed daily from my long walks down the driveway or around the prairie.  He would have delighted to download his images on the computer for us at the end of every shoot. His pictures put a sharper focus on something I had been contemplating. We heard God’s gift of nature singing every day.
The blog stopped abruptly in mid June of 2012 when his mental and physical energy waned, forcing us to realize that his days of communing with the natural world were numbered.  The Prairie project that we started together was now thriving on its own with wild flowers gaining abundance every spring and prairie grasses standing tall.  I became preoccupied with his needs; the heart went out of my writing about beauty and promise.

Instead I wrote about our relationship and its everyday changes: a memoir unfolding while it happened.  My words were not the stuff for a blog. No image could capture reality.
Now my prairie partner is gone from this earth and the land he loved so deeply.  I moved to the city to ward off the loneliness of a Michigan winter on snow-covered acres, without him.  I just passed the year mark of his parting and desperately want to go on. 
I am discovering “urban beauty” from the windows of my condo and on walks down city streets.  I inherited his Nikon.  With an eye for beauty but not much skill, I do my best to photograph the ordinary and the unusual.  So let me also resurrect the Blog.  You have been patient; it is my hope you will rejoin me on the journey.  Maybe we will even sing a bit.

(6/4/12) Mondays always feel like new beginnings.  I’m rested, I’m ready for a challenge and I’m motivated.  As the week wears on, my enthusiasm wanes as I play catch up in finishing all the projects and connections that began on Monday.  Saturday is double full.  But Sunday washes away all that angst with its peaceful, worshipful moments.  Yesterday it was too hot to go for our usual Sunday afternoon hike, giving me hours of uninterrupted reading time.    “I will make all things new!” is God’s promise in Christ.  This morning after reading a piece in the NYT by Diane Ackerman, “Are We Living in Sensory Overload or Sensory Poverty?” I sat on my deck with my first cup of tea—looking, listening and feeling the air around me.  I’ll admit, I have been living in poverty.  Usually that first warm drink accompanies while I’m reading the paper.  High interest, diverse subjects and tantalizing political opinion.  It leaves me well informed but poor.
     Today the bird feeder is empty.  So even without the sight of birds to distract my attention, I hear happy birdcalls from far and near.  The air is fresh.  All things are new. In the distance, circles spread on the lake surface where hungry fish rise to capture insects.
     Soon the dog and I are walking along the driveway, our daily survey of the changes from the day before.  His sense of smell dominates; my sight takes first place. And there they are: the first tiny purple blooms on the round ball of milkweed buds.  Could her sister-flower, the butterfly weed be bursting too?  I almost ran to see the most likely plant, the one I’d been watching far down the drive.  And yes, there is the blush of orange ready to delight. Now I am rich!  If I keep looking and listening and smelling, the wealth will keep pouring in.

Every thing is early this year, so we should not have been surprised when the “burners” called and said they were coming TODAY.  I watched the breeze whipping through the trees and bending the dried stalk of wild grasses, and concluded that this definitely was NOT a good day for the burn.  

We had not even put the notices in the neighbor’s mailboxes so they would not panic when they saw the billowing smoke.  Both of us voiced our concerns but no one listened.  The professional burn crew arrived along with some college students, who were conscripted as extra helpers, in case the fire got away from them.  Not a good sign.  Then I noticed a guy with a red jacket who turned out to be the Township fire chief.  He trusted the burners more than I did.  Nagging in my mind was the controlled burn that got away in Colorado and was still burning.


Because of the winds the team did a total back burn.  In other words they went against the wind, because to go with the wind might cause an out-of-control blaze.  The most crucial part was the perimeter—start the fire along all sides of the 8 acres and let it burn to the middle.  The winds were muted on the side near the woods .

The prairie burn was not as spectacular as other years, as generally the flames stayed low to the ground.  But I wanted to take a video so I was right in the middle of the smoke and debris.  At one point a tall dust-devil swirled madly right in front of me, which I captured on my iPhone.  I have not yet learned how to get that video clip on this website so you get just one moving frame. 

Today the air is calm and the vast field is a sea of black ash.  Early spring, high winds and worried residents aside—the job is done.