Peonies in the Kitchen During Finals Week

Three weeks ago, as I was entering finals week at Parkland College, where I teach English and Humanities, I turned to flowers to ground me. Marilyn, my spouse, had planted a new peony bush in front of our two older ones. The new bush had two deep crimson blooms, and they were already opening when the old plants’ pink buds were still tightly closed. I cut those two flowers and placed them in a vase on the kitchen counter, where I saw them every time I looked up from grading papers. 

That week, in addition to the usual grading marathon, I was also saying goodbye to students to whom I had grown attached. My classes had become genuine communities; students chatted with each other instead of staring at their devices before, during, and after class, and we often laughed together. I had grown to love them and often been inspired by them, these students who came from so many different places: a night-shift at the hospital, thirteen years in the army, successful treatment for depression, a mental-health break from the U of I, a job lifting boxes for UPS. The semester was ending, and they were moving on: one transferring to Columbia College in Chicago, another to the University of Missouri, most returning in the fall for more classes—but not to our class. Our communities were temporary by definition. 

I was exhausted, ready for summer, and I was also sad to be saying goodbye. 

That week, I found myself checking in with the peonies each day, burying my nose in the petals, inhaling their fragrance, and taking photos. As the week went on, the peonies opened fully, then started to lose their petals. Eventually, the fallen petals dried up in a small pile around the base of the vase. But I wasn’t ready to let the flowers go. Finally, a couple of days after I had submitted grades and the semester was officially over, when Marilyn asked me yet again whether I was done with those peonies, I said yes. I photographed the dried petals; even at that stage, the peonies were beautiful, and then I said goodbye. 

 

Two of my South Asian Cultures (HUM 109) students working on a rangoli together in class. Rain kept us indoors, but a sense of discovery and play filled the room. These two students had not worked together before. Their creative collaboration was typical of that class.

[I read this reflection during the annual Flower Communion service at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Urbana-Champaign on Sunday, June 2, 2019.]

Spectacular Prairie Skies

A recent evening storm that came literally out of the blue reminded me again why I love the prairie skies and Meadowbrook Park. As Marilyn and I began our walk around the prairie, I exclaimed at the blue-violet sky in the west. I wanted to gather the blue-violet in my arms and offer it to Amy, my beloved friend, whom I miss so much. She loved that color. On that evening, with the sky changing and the wind picking up, the thought of gathering the sky in my arms and handing it to Amy made me smile. I imagined her up in the sky like I used to imagine a white-bearded, smiling god when I was a child.

As Marilyn and I rounded the curve, stopping to photograph the western sky, a woman and two children joined us on the path. They had been heading home through the prairie to the nearby neighborhood.

"We had to turn around and come back to the park when we saw the sky," the woman said, laughing.

The sky was becoming more dramatic by the minute, and then the wind picked up in a way I had only experienced at sunset at Lake Michigan. There the waves became bigger and faster; here, the wind became louder and stronger.

I looked up.

"That's not a tornado coming, is it?" I asked Marilyn, the native Midwesterner, the one I have to urge to shelter during a tornado warning.

"No. It's not green," she said, not sounding as certain as I would have liked, as I noticed a twist of grey in the orange sky. Our car was on the other side of the park; turning back wouldn't be any faster than moving forward, so we kept going, walking, laughing at the wind and then the rain, stopping to watch a deer and her baby, and being greeted by a rainbow when we finally got to the car.

I felt like I'd been to another planet and back again.

At Home Now on This Flatland

I had lived for seven years in a Pennsylvania valley before I moved here to east central Illinois in 1997.  In those seven years I remember watching a sunset once: I was somewhere near the mall at a point high enough that I could see the sun go down behind the mountains.  I don't know if I could have seen the sunrise; besides,  I don't think I woke up early enough very often.

When I moved here for my first (and current) full-time faculty job, I lived in a townhouse that had windows facing east and west.  I lived on the southern edge of town, and from the window of my second-floor study, I would watch the sun rise across a cornfield as I got ready for my long day of teaching.  

Watching the sun come up in that big sky, I felt like a child who had recently been swaddled but was now all limbs.  I missed the embrace of the mountains and felt exposed on this flatland. 

As the years passed, my relationship with the big sky changed.  I became used to the openness and began to think of the sky with its changing clouds and colors as the mountains of the Midwest: a formation of white clouds in the winter might look like snowcapped mountains. The sunsets I often watch as I leave work are part of the familiar delight of the end of the day. 

Earlier this month, on my first day back after the winter break, I noticed the brilliant sunset once again and had to stop and take photos as I left the campus. The campus and the landscape are now home to me.

February Afternoon in Meadowbrook Park

On the Sunday of Valentine's weekend, Marilyn and I took a walk in Meadowbrook Park.  While I, too, look forward to the spring, that walk reminded me again how breathtakingly beautiful the snow is. Despite the below-freezing temperatures, I took my gloves off again and again to take these pictures of the prairie in the snow.  They seem like a good way to close out this snowy February (though I hear we will be getting snow again as March gets going). 

All lit up in November

Today is Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. We will light candles tonight to take the place of diyas, the traditional clay lamps.

Looking out this sunny morning, I see a different kind of light: the trees aglow in fall color. Their flaming colors are perfect for Diwali.

Here are some photos I've taken with my phone the past two days.  May the light of Diwali and of this fall be with you throughout the year.

Flying Home

Last Labor Day, we flew back from a quick visit to Marilyn's sister in Virginia.  As we took off from Chicago, where we changed planes, and headed home to Champaign, I took these photos. 

When I moved to east central Illinois sixteen years ago, I was struck by the vastness.  Seeing the sun rise over cornfields from the window of my study startled me and left me lonely.  I was still new to the Midwest and felt exposed in the openness; I missed the embrace of the Pennsylvania valley I had left behind.  

Now, I look forward to the big sky and the view of the horizon.  This flatland is home.