A Colorful Surprise

Recently, I was looking through photos taken in Bombay last summer and came across this one of a paan waala’s stand.  I took the photo on Colaba Causeway near a small bookstall where Marilyn and I had bought a couple of books that the seller recommended. 

The colors of this display stopped me; I don’t eat paan, but I asked the vendor if I may take a photo.  He nodded in that minimalist way many Bombayites have.  I was grateful.

What a delight it is to see these colors again and to be reminded of that hot afternoon of shopping for kurtas and books—and of our break for a cold fresh lime soda at Café Mondegar. 

Haiku for Autumn

Frosty September

morning, woodsmoke in the air.

Sunday papers wait.

(Composed Sunday, September 23, 2012)

Morning in the backyard.

Afternoon in the college parking lot.

When I Looked Out the Window

It was after six in the evening, and I had been working almost since the crack of dawn. 

After preparing for classes all morning, I had tried to inspire three groups of English 101 students to approach revision with enthusiasm--or at least without trepidation.  In between classes, during office hours, I had discussed drafts with at least half a dozen students.  One young woman, dressed all in black, underestimated her writing skills and was in tears at first, but she left the office with a plan for revision, and she even smiled.  Another, who is facing pressure from her parents to get excellent grades, seemed optimistic after we discussed how she could add to her draft and relieved when I offered to extend the deadline.  Fueled by those small successes and by the coffee I sipped during office hours, I had worked with another half a dozen students over the next two hours in the college's Writing Lab.  I had explained comma splices and discussed the First Amendment.

By six o'clock, I was beat.

But before I could go home, I needed to revise a literature test for the next day.  So I climbed the stairs back to my office.  Just as I reached the top, I glanced out the window. 

Below me, in the sun shining from the west, bushes of red roses whipped in the wind around golden prairie grass.  The petals were almost translucent in the light. 

As I walked down the hall to my office, I smiled.

Chicago in September

I love this city.

That's all I could think as I walked along Michigan Avenue last night with Marilyn. And I kept saying it out loud, turning around, looking up and all about me, and grinning from ear to ear. I probably looked like the stereotypical tourist.

We had driven up after work on Friday, delighted and slightly surprised as always by the ease and speed of the trip. The bright lights of the buildings as we drove north along Lake Shore Drive were enchanting.

We went for a walk after we checked into our hotel near Water Tower, unable to resist the city though we were both exhausted.

The evening was cool and windy, the air refreshing. "Sweatshirt weather," we said simultaneously, and then we laughed. Most of the shops had closed, so we moved easily along the sidewalks, reaching familiar landmarks more quickly than we expected.

Today dawned sunny and crisp, and we walked around the city some more. These are some of the photos I took on this sunny Saturday in Chicago.

Being Home

The fields on the drive home from the airport.

Recently, after nearly a week on picturesque Prince Edward Island, Canada, I returned home to the flatland.  I left behind rolling fields of clover and goldenrod and potatoes, and views of water from nearly every window of the house my brother had rented for the family.  I was a little sad to leave.

I flew in to landlocked central Illinois in the evening, and on the drive home, I marveled at the golden light on the cornfields.  The sky was dramatic--as it so often is here in the Midwest--with layers of rich gray that made me want to reach for my watercolors.

Early the next morning, before darkness had lifted, I stumbled to the bathroom still half asleep.  In the hallway, I bumped against the ironing board on my right, Marilyn's work clothes laid out on it for the day.  Touching that old ironing board, I felt a rush of affection for the ordinariness and predictability of my life. 

I was home.  And it felt good.

Beautiful even during the drought.

Marilyn stopped to show me horses she had seen on a recent drive home.

Last Friday afternoon, on the way to work, the sky seemed almost unreal--and yet very Midwestern.  (By the way, the slope leads to a bridge going over a highway; the land is still flat.)

I parked the car on campus and then had to take another photo.

I pulled over to admire the big sky while driving home from Saturday errands.

This was my view of the backyard as I ate lunch and read on the deck on one of my last days before returning to work.  A hummingbird has been visiting the zinnias quite regularly but isn't in this photo.

Paying Attention to the Petunias

Not watching the clock constantly—that is my favorite thing about summer break.  As I transition to the fall semester, I mourn the loss of the peace of being in the moment, really being in it, without one eye on the clock that will tell me to move on to the next responsibility. 

Every year, I wonder how I will cope with the change from contemplation to rushing, from solitude to teaching multiple groups of students five days a week.

A pot of petunias reminded me how I cope. 

The pot is in a corner of the deck; pale blooms with dark centers flow out of the pot like an extravagant bridal bouquet.  I noticed this cascade of flowers on a recent evening as I ate dinner outside with friends.  My eyes were drawn to the petunias even as I listened to the conversation and joined in the laughter.  The beauty of those blooms filled me up. 

Paying attention to the petunias grounded me and refreshed me.  On busy days, focusing on such beauty, even for a few minutes, will bring peace.  When the rushing is wearing me out, I will remember to pause and to pay attention to the petunias. 

August Haiku on Prince Edward Island

Lone lupin swaying
among Queen Anne's lace, purple
cone and white doilies.

(Thanks to my sister-in-law for spotting the lupin and to her and my nephews for working on the haiku with me).