After Dark . . .

In today’s photo challenge, the phrase “After Dark” has implications that range from nifty to naughty. What kept running through my mind, however, was part of the chorus from a well-known old hymn . . . “For the darkness shall turn to the dawning . . .” (We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations, H. Ernest Nichols, 1896). Since I didn’t arise at dawn with camera in hand, I pondered other possibilities.

The next part of the hymn verse says, “And the dawning to noonday bright . . .”) I noticed the usual “June gloom” that pervades San Diego County broke up earlier than usual today, promising noonday bright. Noonday bright does not bode well for photographers. Too much glare. Too much color distortion. Too many shadows. Too harsh.

I might have some trouble with this “After Dark” challenge, I thought.

Enter my longtime friend Lynn Hall. (Lynn with two “n’s,” hence always “Lynn Two;” I, of course, am “Lyn One.”) This has been our standing joke for the some 30 years we have known each other.

Lynn is my Earth Mother friend. She gardens with a passion. She meditates with all of creation as she weeds and digs and plants and harvests. She dines with gusto on the fruits and vegetables she grows and readily shares them with others. When I visited her this morning, she offered me fresh strawberries she plucked from her plants as we strolled by. She gave me kale and beets to take home. This generosity is not only part of her character; it is her spirit. It is her way of celebrating her Source and sharing it with others.

As we ambled about the garden, admiring the produce and enjoying the morning sun, unusual for early June, I noticed brilliant splashes of color along one bank. Here her flowers provided panoramic adornment. She told me a story about the multi-hued poppies in one area.

When her brother-in-law Dennis died two years ago, Lynn’s daughter gave poppies to everyone attending the service. Now those seeds have blossomed into a brilliant carpet of yellows, golds and pinks in Lynn’s garden.

“This is Dennis, scattered on the hillside,” she said.

After death, life.

After dark, light.

On my table

When my friend shared a list titled “June Photo Challenge,” it intrigued me. I hopped aboard, and each day already has brought delightful surprises. The process of finding an opportunity to snap a photo that will match a particular topical phrase has provided blessed moments of reflection. A backstory unfolds with each photograph. It doesn’t even matter much if the photos are particularly good ones. The exercise has offered me time to pause and contemplate, time that I might not otherwise have taken for pleasurable pursuits.

Pleasurable, that was, until today.

Today I experienced a bit of dread when I read the Day 3 phrase: “On my table . . .” All I could envision was the public humiliation that would follow once I shared a photograph of my workspace table, which, right now, has piles of books, a journal, two cameras, papers and letters, three framed photographs and a bowl of cat food on it. Amidst all that is my laptop. Ugh!

Then I thought about my dining room table, which sports a 25-year old sculpture called “Circle of Friends”. This had visual possibilities until I remembered that one can find this sculpture in nearly every sidewalk shop in Mexico. I like mine, though, because it connects me with a real circle of spiritual warriors in my life who have similar sculptures in their homes. It also symbolizes the many circles of friends and family who have gathered around my table over the years for food and games and conversation. Additionally, on this particular  morning,  the telltale dust of a few days would never pass the white-glove test, and I can hear my mother’s tsk-tsk-tsk voice in my head.

As has happened each day, however, I found myself serendipitously inspired as I walked into my living room. Why had I had not thought of this particular table before? Made from a kwihi tree, native to the desert-like climate of Aruba, the table has survived numerous moves since my parents bought it in Oranjestad around 1960. My father managed the only resort hotel on Aruba at the time. This table became a major piece of memorabilia from their years on the island. They always said it looked like a couple dancing, if observed from the proper angle.

I’m not sure exactly when it came into my possession, but it has traveled from Aruba to Arizona to South Carolina to several spots in California. It did not come lightly in any sense of the word. It weighs well over 100 pounds because it is, after all, a tree. As I recall, some sibling dispute arose over it, as well. Nonetheless, it has weathered the inevitable complaints of movers who struggled with its bulkiness and weight. It is my living room’s conversation piece.

Today on the table are two books: The View From Diamond Head, Royal Residence to Urban Resort and The Graphic Work of M.C. Escher. My teaching colleague and friend from MidPacific Institute, Allyson, gifted me with the first book upon my departure from my three years on Oahu. It reminds me not only of her generosity and kindness; it helps me recall my view of Leahi (Diamond Head) from my classroom window in Manoa. It brings back memories of my trek to the Honolulu landmark’s summit and my idea that I would make my fortune by opening a booth to sell Tylenol at the trailhead, where weary tourists would pay handsomely for relief from the aches and pains sure to follow their hike.

My choir colleague with the voice of an angel, Lisa, gifted me with the second book after we visited an Escher exhibit in San Diego’s Museum of Art. She was visiting me from her home in Albemarle, North Carolina, on her debut trip to California. We laughed and sang our way through San Diego County from the moment of her first view of the state, eyes agog at seeing palm trees everywhere, to her departure a week later. As it happened, she, an Escher enthusiast, topped off her Balboa Park experience with a tour of his work.

Thank you, whimsical photo challenge, for directing my sight to what’s “on my table”.