ZOOM of THE INSIDE OF AN ARTICHOKE.

This post is in response to an invite from High Calling Blogroll member Claire Burge --
to submit a zoomed photo image.
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In a vacant lot, casually tossed aside, I came across an over-ripe, somewhat dried out artichoke. The leaves (or green petals)were starting to brown. But it had the most glorious purple-stranded topknot! There was no garden near the lot. But I’d seen artichokes growing in a neighbor’s garden a full block away. Perhaps an animal dragged the booty away. Or maybe some kids played with it.

I used my scanner to capture some effects of the lovely, wiggly scrolls of the topknot. But alas, I didn’t get around to taking a photo – which would have showed more effects of the cluster. For I got to wondering what might be inside such a treasure. And so I sawed it in two on my bandsaw. (I thought the object would fall away into two halves, a top and a bottom, and after I saw what it looked like inside, I could easily photograph both that, and the topknot. But I was wrong.)

The inside of the artichoke revealed a mass of white threads. The whole top half fell away into a scattering of fragments. Some dribbled to the floor, some fell in the sawdust bin collector, and a few ungainly strands rested on the sawing platform. Thus, I had nothing left of the once-clustered, squirly, swirly purple topknot. So I lost my chances for a photo.

But what I did have – the sawed bottom half – became a one-of-a-kind art object. The strange, loose inner
texture made it impossible to saw a smooth, straight line across petals that moved when the blade struck them. (It would probably be impossible to ever duplicate this particular result.)

This view reminds me just a little bit of a towheaded child’s hair against a browned face, ringed by a fringed parka. (Look with the eyes of the imagination, not those of deep scrutiny!) But how wonderfully beautiful are the whitened hairs!

And, what exactly is within me? Only my Maker, God, knows. The Scripture says “he makes all things beautiful in his time…” (It also says he even knows the number of hairs on my head.) If to me, a lowly, dying artichoke appears wonderful and surprising inside, I trust that God sees my heart and soul with the eyes of his incredibly creative imagination. It’s not my own character or righteousness that makes me beautiful to him. But he promises that he always sees me through the beauty and wonder of Christ-in-me.

And again, the Bible says, “…He [God] guarantees to bring us to himself.” (Eph 1:14] (sigh of relief!)
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photo and text copyright (c) 2010 by Marilee Miller

THE WATER JUG

this is in response to L. L. Barkat's invitational:
"ON, IN, and AROUND MONDAYS" for Sept 6.

http://seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com



A few days ago I posted about an arrangement I'd placed on my dining room table.
I'm still looking at my mini ocean beach scene. Today I'm focusing on the jug of drinking water in a ripply, molded plastic bottle.

THE WATER JUG

Keen; light. Glistening.
Ripply. Pure water for drinking.
Clear water for imagining
I'm seeing water of mini ocean beach!
This sight is welcoming.

God will quench my thirsting;
I will come to Him praising.
My pretend-beach-scene's stirring
My hopes of surviving.
I’m seeking. God, toward you I reach,
In peaceful homecoming!

THE MINI-BEACH on my DINING ROOM TABLE, #2

Sorry, I haven't got the hang of blogger yet. Once I posted the photos, I couldn't find a way to enter the text. Please see previous post for the images.

This is an answer to L. L. Barkat's invite "On, In, or Around Monday," writings about "place", that is, my response and observations about being in a certain place or site.


seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com



The Mini-Ocean-Beach on my Dining Room Table

I have a treasure trove brought home from the beach.
(The first time in some years I was actually strong enough
To walk down the slipsy hill, through loose sand,
And get down to the ocean’s slipsy sneaky incoming wave-edges.)

Now I’m at home, at my favorite perching place,
My dining room table. The table is a constant.
But he mementos or “specials” parked on it, change.
Appear or disappear with my mood or my whimsy –
Or with the commonalities or surprises that come to hand.

To commemorate that lovely, inspiring visit
To the beach, I build a memory-garden:
The homeside mini-beach comes to live on my table.

Here, I may explore the intricacies,
Look closely at small or lovely details,
And for each new zoom in, for each new view
Where my eyes focus on pieces or particles (or the whole),
Say “Thank you, Lord, for creating such detail,
Such beauty. Thank you for encouraging my soul.”

A tray full of beach sand, with its amalgamation
Of shell-chips, gravel-plenties, and wave-smoothed rocks
(a fourth inch, half an inch, even one and a half).
Yes, even one small piece of round-edged glass!
That’s my tableside beach, a reminder to worship God.

A drinking-water jug, with crinkly clear plastic modelings,
That’s my ocean -- a faintly imperfect analogy, but
Its reflections echo the flowing He, my Maker Creator,
Sends along the shoreline in delicately thin waves of the sea.

A years-dried-out, curvaceous clustered seaweed balances
On the neck of the water jug, to aid the “beach mood effect.”
(Gathered long ago on another outing to an ocean beach).
A weaving of ragged tendrils, a magic swirl of little tubes,
And at the bottom, where once the hold-fast attached to rocks,
An array of the most incredible, knobby barnacles.
There are snarls of tendrils in me; meandering pipes;
And sharp-edged barnacles to prick, but also to gleam.
But may He remind me of my beauty in him:
For he sees me, not as a pressed amalgam of twisted lines
And peculiar quirks, but as a unique unity of beauty,
For my strangeness is covered over fully so that he beholds
In me only the righteousness of God in Christ.

Thank you, Lord, for my tableside beach
To call my heart ever nearer to you, a worship-tool
To banish my fears and cares in the contemplation
Of your intricacies, and your Holy Design for my life!

copyright (c) 2010 by Marilee Miller
Feel free to link to this post, and to make a copy for your own personal use, but please do not copy this for any public purpose.

THE MINI-OCEAN-BEACH ON MY DINING TABLE --

copyright (c) 2010 by Marilee Miller
Feel free to link to this post, and one copy allowed for personal viewing pleasure only, but please do not copy images for any other purpose or public postings. Thanks.

Images for Myrtle Tree Writing

In Which I Palm Off on You a Variation on a Requested Theme.

This post is for Theme Thursday, for which the topic this week is “palm”.
http://themethursday.blogspot.com/2010/08/thursday-august-12-2010-palm-link.html

Note: The pictures which illustrate this writing are in the newer post above this.
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In Which I Palm Off on You My Variation on the Requested Theme


We do not have palm trees here----

May I palm off on you, the special species, our native myrtle?
Umbellularia californica.
Half-opened-billowy-umbrella shaped:
A broadleaf (not needled) evergreen tree.
It almost always grows in even form, rounded, without being pruned to shape.
A shade tree, pleasant to sit under in summer;
Keeping the landscape green in winter.

Its leaves are simple and flat, leathery, dark green.
I take color crayon rubbings to show their ribby lines.
But the most distinctive leaf feature is not shape nor color, but its pungency.
Some people can’t stand to mow their yards which have thickened
With dead, gradually fallen mutter of brown leaves,
Because the aroma when leaves chopped or lacerated is so strong.
(The myrtle’s near relative, the bay tree, furnishes leaves for pickling or flavoring.)
Some entrepeneurs have distilled from aromatic leaves a perfume.
I never cared much for its scent, myself.
But little vials of the stuff made a good tourist grab.
The wood of myrtle, hardwood strong with patterned grain, became transformed
By careful craftsmen into many a gentle piece of gorgeous furniture or smart knicknack.

The bark is chippy-rough, with many a seam. Distinct, tough, patchy.
How great is the flow of scrawly texture.
Myrtle flowers, waxy off-white, unshowy clusters -- slowly grow into nuts.
Peel off the punky outer husk (walnut-like) of nut, and within lies a hard smooth roundy shell.
But inside that shell, the firm nut flesh is acrid-bitter to the taste.
A handful of shucked brown nuts would fill my palm.
The pioneers used to fatten their pigs on myrtle nuts.
I guess the Indians (now called Native Americans) soaked and leached them until edible
(a last resort when other foods were scarce.)

But artist that I am, I found another use for myrtle nuts!
For every nut has a “nose”. A doll-sized nose.
(Isn’t God clever with his endless statements of variety in Nature?)
And thus, with a little time and my creativity a mini-doll may grace my palm.

I’ve wandered far from palm tree theme Thursday.
But besides our hands (palms for accepting or giving alms) --
and date-palm trees -- and palming-off magician’s tricks or shoddy stuff, or in my case,
substituting what seems a better thing instead of the Thursday theme –
Dash with me into my own familiar realm (of myrtle trees in the yard beyond my palm-hand).
And if that’s not enough, there are always psalms to say,
And thoughts of other palmy balmy beauty things.

Copyright © 2010 by Marilee Miller
By all means link to my post, but please ask permission to copy for public viewing.

The Anguish and the Beauty of Special-Needs Parenting

The anguish and the beauty of special-needs parenting.

Looking out my window. Neighbor lady patiently
Trying to coax her foster son into car.
Huge boy, adult body, child mind.
Waiting-watching parent, trying to encourage. Showing patience.
Patting him. Gesturing. Taking time to unwind.

He’s in, he’s finally in!
That is, his head’s inside; upper body leaning;
But he refuses to sit.
His legs are still out.
No matter the gestures, no meaning;
And then finally he sits.
Hurray!
But no, he doesn’t turn and slide.
His legs are still out.

Patient she is, this caring mother.
How quietly-sturdy beautiful.

I leave the window. Five minutes pass,
And I, returning, see the boy, huge boy,
Still sitting in the car, on the seat;
But his legs are still out.
Moreover, he’s crossed his arms and clenched his fists,
As if confronted by horrid-monster-mists.
He shakes his crossed arms violently.
His head is going, “No, no, no!”
And mother still encourages; does not shout.

Brave mother. Beautiful.
A beauty only God can see –
And me, a neighbor, watching,
Admiring her beauty full.

Her name won’t show in a record book;
She doesn’t have time to have a blog-brag,
Or to do “great things” so our community can look.
Sometimes her feelings must flow limp rags.
But there she stands, in patient time.
God bless the son and “fare him well”.
God bless this mother, brave-quiet and beautiful:
One of the unsung heroes of our time.

copyright (c) 2010 by Marilee Miller