A View of the World

Thistle

Thistle © 2012 Bo Mackison

The faster one goes, the more strain there is on the senses, the more they fail to take in, the more confusion they must tolerate or gloss over — and the longer it takes to bring the mind to a stop in the presence of anything. ~ Wendell Berry

Not so long ago I had a reaction to a medication. Instead of making me drowsy, as had been predicted, the chemicals from the medication flowed throughout my body and made it utterly impossible for me to quiet myself. The reaction – medically termed akathisia – makes it impossible to quiet oneself both inside and outside.

My body had to move. I paced. When I sat, my leg jumped about. You’ve heard the term “crawling out of your skin”? That was exactly what I wanted to do. My insides seemed intent on crawling to the outside. Yes, I called the pharmacist. Then I called the doctor on call. And within a few hours, I had a second medication that was supposed to diminish the side effects of the first. Unfortunately it didn’t take effect immediately.

However, there was a big change. I now knew what was happening, and I had been assured that my frantically moving body would return to normal. I just had to hang on and tolerate the ride until everything returned to normal.

Wow — easier to say than to do.

After another hour of pacing and near panic, I finally hit upon a solution. My body, and therefore my mind, too, were racing along and I couldn’t keep up. I had to  s-l-o-w-t-h-i-n-g-s-d-o-w-n. Yes. Slow. Things. Down.

And then I discovered a work-around. I went outside and took gulping breaths of sweet May air. Then I slowly paced myself so I was breathing deeply, slowly. And finally, I noticed that I was standing barefoot in thick, not-recently-mowed grass. Deep tufts of grass. I stood there. I concentrated on my feet coming into contact with the black earth. And there I stayed.

For nearly an hour, I stood and breathed. And realized this utterly amazing thing. I was standing on the earth, the planet Earth. And so was every other person on this huge earth – in some way or other. All seven billion plus of us – all connected to the earth. So not all of us earthlings were in solid contact, as I was, but all were still connected. No one was going to fling away from Mother Earth, suddenly unleashed by her gravitational hold.

Isn’t that an amazing thing? Wherever you are, anywhere, always, we are attached to the earth or near it.  We can always reach down and touch that huge planet rolling through space. You imagine a photo of the earth from a satellite or NASA mission, and see the swirling earth planet, and then realize you can TOUCH it. With your feet. With your hands. How awesome is that!

That is how I managed to calm my body. I touched the earth. I repeated that I was okay, that I was connected to everyone and everything by the mere presence of all of us together on this huge traveling earth in the unimaginably huge universe. I concentrated on feeling a part of the whole.

Gradually, the feeling of connection took over, and I stopped hurtling through the barrage of out of control feelings and movements. I slowed down, way down. I re-connected to all. And there I stood. The side effects lessened and I felt okay again.

I also learned a valuable lesson. I was able to manage the out of control feelings and connect to the present moment by connecting to the physical Earth, by accepting life as it was at that moment, and by slowing myself down.

Wow, right?

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Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Sometimes she puts down her camera and just stands in the grass.

In All Things of Nature

The Spanish Bayonet agave is a wicked sounding plant, and no doubt if you bump into it or step upon a fallen spike, it gives a wicked stab, too. But just as you can’t accurately judge a person by his or her name, or a new food by its appearance, you cannot know a plant by its name, nor a casual glance.

It usually takes time to get to know a plant, or a person for that matter.

Sotolillo

Sotolillo © 2012 Bo Mackison

When I first saw the Spanish Bayonet agave, it was a mass of red tinged, spiky green stabbing sticks. Those who knew the desert well called that bundle of danger an agave plant, or according to some botanists, a very close relative of the agave. I thought perhaps they were being generous.

Spanish Bayonet in Bloom

Spanish Bayonet in Bloom © 2012 Bo Mackison

In all things of nature, there is something of the marvelous. ~ Aristotle

Then one day when I was out and about in the Sonoran desert, I saw the Spanish bayonet, but it was no longer simply a spiky plant. Its center had opened, the heart of the plant, and bursting forth was a mass of purple florets. This spiky plant, this plant which has red-tinged tips and a vague look of battle, had always had this beauty in its heart.

It was unknown to me, a newcomer to the desert. But what a wonderful gift for me – a surprise bouquet!

Spanish Bayonet

Flower Spike © 2012 Bo Mackison

One looks, looks long, and the world comes in. ~ Joseph Campbell

The sotolillo – the name I have since learned is the Mexican name of the plant, and one that I quite prefer – offered even more delight at my next visit, a week or so later. The bouquet in the middle of the spikes had stretched – like, I imagine, Jack’s beanstalk grew – and it   stretched towards the sky, a full ten feet high. Lovely!

There is one last photograph of the sotolillo blossom that I will save for Sunday’s post. It is a beauty, perfect for Part II.

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Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC, living and photographing in southern Arizona. She remains amazed and grateful for the opportunity to see the diversity and beauty of the Sonoran Desert.

Rays of Sunlight

Rays of Sunlight © 2012 Bo Mackison

Rays of Sunlight © 2012 Bo Mackison

Spiritual and creative journeys are not so much about growing in certainty — in many ways it is about growing less certain — it is about about learning how to move deeply into the heart of mystery, into the great unknown.

During the first few days of each new month, I look for a photograph for Photo-Heart Connection from last month’s photos. I look for one that speaks to me in a special way, perhaps one with a message I overlooked the first time I worked with the photograph. Here is my choice from the many photos I took in March.

I took this photograph of three simply carved chairs in the stunningly decorated church at the Mission of San Xavier del Bac, just south of Tucson, Arizona.  Construction of the church began in 1783 and was completed fourteen years later. It is the oldest intact European structure in Arizona and is a National Historic Landmark.

The church is filled with original, hand carved statuary and murals on many of the walls – many of the murals depict items that could not be obtained in 18th century Arizona. There are paintings delicately rendered as substitutes for wall coverings, draperies, wood, and marbled surfaces.  Dozens of statues were also hand carved, painted, and then finished with materials brought from Spanish missionaries from Mexico into Arizona.

Whenever I take photographs of the Mission at Xavier del Bac or other holy places, I am often filled with a depth of connection and  spirituality that I seldom encounter in other buildings.

When I took this photograph of the sacristy, I was aware of the rays of sunshine illuminating the armrests of two of the chairs. I loved the contrast, the symbolic meaning of light opening a dark space. When I checked the photos on my computer, again the contrast struck me — this time between the ornate — the heavily ornamented walls and niches — and the simple — the carved chairs illuminated by a shaft of light coming through one of the few windows.

It was a photograph that made a heart (and soul) connection.

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Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. She has been living in southern Arizona for the last two and a half months, and has taken many photographs of holy and sacred places. She joins other photographers at Kat Eye Studio and posts a photo taken the prior month that “connects with her heart’ during the first few days of the new month.

 


Lessons from Desert Flowers

Rock Gilia

Rock Gilia © 2012 Bo Mackison

       The desert’s beauty suggests patience and struggle and endurance. Even in the brightest colors of its brief spring flowers, there is something austere. ~ from The Desert Year by Joseph Wood Krutch

Most of the desert flowers are mere specks on the ground. If there are dozens of them, the color is fairly noticeable, but if there are only two or three quarter-inch blossoms sprawling against a bit of green leaf and a lot of gravelly desert floor, it takes some careful observations to see those pretty little things. Of course, in the desert, the smaller, the better chance at survival. A flower, or leaf on a shrub for that matter, that is minute requires considerably less moisture for survival than a flower or leaf a hundred times that size. Adaptation of the species, as we know it.

Blooming Aloe

Blooming Aloe © 2012 Bo Mackison

Notice how present a flower is, how it has surrendered to life. ~ Eckhart Tolle

Of course, the cacti and the succulents found in the desert have a totally different way to guarantee a flowering season, necessary for the continuation of the species. (No flowers, no seeds. No seed, no new flower).

This aloe is a succulent and has adaptive measures for desert survival. Succulents (and cacti, too) have the ability to suck up water when it does rain and then store it in large quantities. These plants send shallow roots in a wide circumference around the plant, and so the root absorbs the water before it evaporates. And when a succulent, like this bright-orange, flowering aloe, traps water in its system, its waxy surface helps keep the water in the plant and reduces water lost to evaporation.

We humans could learn much by consulting with nature and her ways:

  • Assess our weaknesses and strengths – bolster our weaknesses and play to our strengths.
  • Be resourceful and use our resources wisely. Do not use more natural resources than we need. Consider needs vs. wants.
  • Share your beauty, whether it be small and hidden, delicate and ethereal, or bright and showy.

 

Trees are Sanctuaries

Looking at the Past

Trees are Sanctuaries © 2012 Bo Mackison

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. ~ Herman Hesse

Trees Are Sanctuaries

1806, The People Build the Church

They make the brick, kiln the lime, raise the walls, lay the roof,
paint murals and sacristy ornamentation, build niches for the statues of the Saints.
They clear the land, build the fences, plant corn and wheat,
and from the priests’ cache of pods and seeds, they plant and then tend
fruit orchards, nut trees, and olive trees.
They learn the ways of the missionaries,
they marry, raise children, care for their sick, weep for their dying, bury their dead.

1827, Weary, Ill, and Wary of Raiding Enemies

Many of the People wrap the statuary in leathery strips of yucca,
the bundled saints cradled like newborn babes
protected from summer’s heat, shifting winds, monsoon thunderstorms,
from damage to their wooden limbs or chipped painted robes or eyes of porcelain marbles.
They walk north, leave the Tumacacori Mountains,
settle in another valley with another priest and another church.

1848, Tumacacori Mission, Deserted in the Desert.

No missionary priest leads his people, crucifix in hand,
his carved cross held high, a silhouette in the blue bowl of sky.
No one gives signal to the last few of the Desert People
who now abandon their homes, possessions, crops;
abandon their church, stacked bricks of adobe, and
precious, the limestone wash, white like angels’ wings;
now the church is an apparition towering amidst the desert grasses, agave, mesquite,
standing in the foreground of the mountains.

2012, A View through the Window

Open to the cool desert nights,
no roof for protection, no doors.
Only the ruins remain,  maintained as ruins.
But the window opening frames the cottonwoods, green and tall,
lining the Santa Cruz River, growing.
They hold my fascination. When I walk to the river,
they form the arched roof over my head,
provide a spongy carpet of decaying leaves under my feet.
Wisps of white cottony fluff, seeds for the future, drift on the southwest breeze.

The trees are the sanctuaries.

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Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC, living and photographing in southern Arizona. There are also days Bo wanders through Mission ruins, thinks of days long past, and writes poetry.