When the River City Wild Ones (www.rivercitywildones.org) asked to come for a prairie tour in September, I hesitated. The fields of wildflowers had already shed their blooms as the tall grasses began to tower over them. Early morning sights are best, with sun over the dew-covered plants, all going to seed. As far as mid-day, eye-catching beauty is concerned—there was not much. In the same way as I had done in early spring (See "Only a Snapshot, 7/5/10) I hoped that visitors could see the land I love—dressed in its Sunday best. We set the date but several times before the appointed time, I resisted my husband’s pleas to “call this off; there is nothing to see.”
The tour evening came with more unpredictability: the sky overcast, gusty winds pushing the tall stalks back and forth, and light rain. I doubted anyone would come. I should not have doubted the Wild Ones! Almost 30 strong arrive right on time eager to explore. They brought a little roving microphone, which allowed everyone to hear whatever we could add to their observations. They brought abundant knowledge of native plants and enthusiasm for the wild things at Flat Iron Lake. We were blessed by their presence.
The evening concluded with eats on the deck overlooking the lake, while folks meandered back from the beehives, the vegetable garden and the fields. We should not have worried about presentation. Part of nature lore is the natural progression from birth to death of all growing things. It is easy to identify wildflowers by their blooms, but much harder from new, budding growth or from drying stalks.
I began All Nature Sings in November—the hardest month to be stirred by thoughts of love. But seeing the cycle of months and seasons is vital to getting the whole story—not just the most exciting part. As I walk down the drive today, watching the milkweed pods burst with silver seeds and seeing the bronze glow on the Indian grass, an old song runs through my mind: “Darling, I am growing old—silver threads among the gold…” True lovers know that old age has a purposeful loveliness all its own.
The tour evening came with more unpredictability: the sky overcast, gusty winds pushing the tall stalks back and forth, and light rain. I doubted anyone would come. I should not have doubted the Wild Ones! Almost 30 strong arrive right on time eager to explore. They brought a little roving microphone, which allowed everyone to hear whatever we could add to their observations. They brought abundant knowledge of native plants and enthusiasm for the wild things at Flat Iron Lake. We were blessed by their presence.
The evening concluded with eats on the deck overlooking the lake, while folks meandered back from the beehives, the vegetable garden and the fields. We should not have worried about presentation. Part of nature lore is the natural progression from birth to death of all growing things. It is easy to identify wildflowers by their blooms, but much harder from new, budding growth or from drying stalks.
I began All Nature Sings in November—the hardest month to be stirred by thoughts of love. But seeing the cycle of months and seasons is vital to getting the whole story—not just the most exciting part. As I walk down the drive today, watching the milkweed pods burst with silver seeds and seeing the bronze glow on the Indian grass, an old song runs through my mind: “Darling, I am growing old—silver threads among the gold…” True lovers know that old age has a purposeful loveliness all its own.
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