Up the Sunbeam

-- O nce again, the high country has filled my heart (and my camera's memory cards) to overflowing. I have just returned from another trip to the mountains with my parents who love them as much as I do! This time they took me on a  lake cruise  that explores the wonders of the 55-mile long, 1,486-foot deep Lake Chelan in North Cascades National Park in the state of Washington. I may have seen more waterfalls on that day trip than I think I've seen the rest of my life put together! The spring melt was at its height and every place along those steep mountain faces where water could gather and run headlong down to that deep, cold lake, it came in a rush of blinding whitewater. There were so many waterfalls I kept having to run from one side of the boat to the other to capture the next and the next and the next (such a fun problem to have)! A t the north end of the lake, after a short bus ride, we reached the p ièce de résistance of the tour , Rainbow Falls, a 312-foot c...

-- In a jubilant rush from the steep slopes of Mount Sir Donald and the glaciers in the surrounding crown of peaks, come the spectacular liquid jade waters of the Illecillewaet River and Asulkan Brook in my beloved British Columbia.  The two rushing flows come together in a veritable cacophony of sparkle and sound at a place picturesquely called "The Meeting of the Waters." It is a place of contrasts, at once ancient and permanent as well as endlessly new and changing, both a crashing cymbal and a love-tender lullaby. It is a place both exhilarating and hypnotic, thrilling and stilling, wild and loud and boisterous while simultaneously a place of deep peace and heart-quiet. I have a feeling I could spend many months there with terabytes of memory cards and still not capture all its moods and secrets and longings. I perpetually frame pictures, no matter where I am or what I'm doing.  On a bright September day I looked around this magical place, and true to ...

It used to bloom. Sometimes it still tries, but it didn't bloom this year. Our crape myrtle, my husband's favorite tree with it's riot of ruffled clusters of bright raspberry flowers, should be capable of growing into a shady green canopy to cool all beneath from the blazing Contra Costa sun . . . but it hasn't. We had such high hopes for it wh en we planted it shortly after we moved into our house in 2000. Shown here (long before I had a good camera) on that fateful Tuesday morning, Septem ber 11th, 2001, when we knew the world would never be the same and nothing made sense, our crape myrtle was healthy and growing, still young and spindly, but go ing places. It proudly held our courage-flag as we tried t o keep hope alive in the midst of so much death and destruction in an event that felt i ntolerable. That was 2001--this is 2009. Wh y, after more than 8 years does that t ree look like t hi s? There are thousands of these trees in this a...

"For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground;" Isaiah 44:3 (NIV)   A dry and thirsty land . . . This time of year in California, all the grasses that looked like emerald velvet in February, turn a dusty gold, toasted to a dry crisp in the relentless sun. It has its own beauty, especially when contrasted with the deep green of the majestic oaks that grace the hillsides, but it is very dry. Yesterday my family and I went for a hike (my idea) on an unfamiliar trail at the height of the afternoon sun, and I paid dearly for it. I am very sensitive to the heat, and I was unprepared for the sustained climb of this particular trail or the heat of the day and I wound up with a throbbing headache I have yet to completely shake loose. I got to thinking about how thirsty I was up there, how dry and hot and dusty I felt. My desperation for water and cool shade was so intense, I could not go further without respite from the scorching sun above. I finally ...