Sunflowers

Sunflowers track the sun only when they are in the bud stage.  (This is an example of heliotropism, aka, science.)  When they turn into flowers, they face east, in this case away from the evening sun.  This may protect  their delicate petals from too much sun exposure.

I’ve been in Moosup, which has been pretty light duty, really.  Nick can do stairs and take care of many things himself, and my mom has been scheduling the pills and nurses, so my part has been to keep Mom and Nick company and to buy groceries with an emphasis on salt-free items as well as fruits and vegetables.  Today, for the first time, Nick will be up for an expedition and so we’ll go for a drive.

Yesterday, I went 15 miles from Moosup to Buttonwood Farms in Griswold, CT, to take pictures in a field of sunflowers.  Like the hatchery, I expected to have it to myself.  So I was quite surprised to see a whole thing happening.  Scores of cars lining the roads, a hundred people, long lines to buy ice-cream, a farmer pulling a train of little carts, painted to look like black and white cows, completely filled with children, another ride for grown-ups where the farmer stopped at intervals to expound I assume, on interesting facts about sunflowers.

I thought, “Where did you people come from?  I’ve never seen you outdoors for any reason.  Why aren’t you home playing video games?”  But there were so many people.  There were many professional photographers, or at least people with very expensive cameras.  There were also people from China. You don’t see that every day in Griswold. 

It was a beautiful evening.  Great cumulus clouds had been building all day, so much that I was sure there would be a storm, but the clouds began to dissipate as the air cooled toward the evening, and the light was unexpectedly breaking through.

I took my pictures and then sat on a hill, facing the sun and waiting.  This was new… so much of my time in nature is spent alone, or rather, with Wilson and Molly.  But here I was with many people, all of them strangers, and we were all there and instinctively happy together, to see the big sky and the clouds and the setting sun and the light splayed across the fields, dimming and deepening. 

 

Here are sunflowers in the few moments before the last light.

Here is the farmhouse across the street, with reflected light from the setting sun.  The farm house is actually cream colored.  You can see the light is very red.

I drove back to my families’ house along dark winding roads and saw a line of little animals.  I thought they were ducks, but as I drew closer, I saw that they were baby skunks.  They were completely destabilized by my arrival.  Two went across the road.  Two more started to follow, but changed their minds and scurried in the opposite direction, then they changed their minds, then changed them again.  Then they walked along the side of the road for about 10 feet.  Then they went back into the road again.  Then one changed his mind and in turning, bumped into the other and then they circled around in a panic, and then they finally made it.  Phew.

I stopped for groceries and decided to buy a six-pack of beer.  The clerk carded me.  I said, “Really?”  She gave me that look that only a sixteen-year old can give.  I said, “Thank you very much.  I haven’t been carded in thirty years.”  I thought, “I’m old enough to be your mother.  I’m probably old enough to be your mother’s mother.”  But I gave her my driver’s license and somehow she determined, my apparent perpetual youth notwithstanding, that I was over 21.

Quite an interesting day…and one more thing.  When all schedules and plans have been disrupted by sudden illness, when I’m busy taking care, it’s good to have my photography.  It's something to return to, something that’s mine.  It helps to bring me back to the will for what I do for anyone, and to the nourishment for my life.

I wanted to crop this to just the flower, but my sister Amy said not to do it.

Science

This is an osprey observing me through her feathers,  and me observing her, upon my return to Block Island.

My niece has a friend, a scientist, and I suggested she show him my blog.  She said, “I don’t think so.  Not just yet.”  She tried to be kind.  “Your blog is…not very scientific.”  My niece thought it might be better to introduce him to me slowly, so he doesn’t run away.  I think this is wise, but not because of science.

I hope you will forgive this little digression into my father's pictures from the Peribonka trip because the story I am about to tell is a little about science and a little about my family and who we are and who we were and especially about my brother Nick and the people who took care of him at the hospital.  It's also about science and love put together, as you'll see. 

This is me in the yellow shirt, then clockwise to my sisters, Amy, Cathy and Mary.  Mary was the only one to notice my brother Nick sneaking up behind.  This is taken at our base camp.

My brother George...remember I said the pike were as big as he was?  Well, I guess that memory is myth as much as anything, especially when it comes to fishing.

But I did remember the driftwood correctly! 

This is my father, having a wonderful time. 

My mother, not so much.

My father took this picture, loving what I love about photography.

One of the wonderful things about photography is that it has many points of entry.  If science is your thing, you can enter there.  Or if you’re into soul or feeling or memories, you can enter that way also.  You can do each thing or all of them together.   In my case, I take pictures the way I cook.  I actually do know things, scientific things, despite what certain people think, but I lead with what I like.  I taste the soup.  Does it need little more salt, a little more depth of field?

I’ve been thinking about this all week, how science and feeling, technology and insight work together, especially in the context of what’s been going on…my brother’s open-heart surgery.  I asked my husband about it.  I said, “How would you want a surgeon to feel when he was touching your heart?”  He said, I would want him to be detached and objective.  I would not want him to be all dreamy with reverence for my human life.  I would want him to do his job.”  So there you are. 

But this same surgeon, this knowledge guy, this procedures guy, this science guy, was in my brother’s room when my mother called.  He answered the phone by laughing and saying, “Nick Bochain’s administrative assistant!”  And he had obviously taken the time to learn about my brother.   “You are going to have your operation and have a normal life.  That’s why we do it.  It’s just like your father.  He had this same operation and then he lived another thirty years.” 

He didn’t have to say that.  I mean, it wasn’t rocket science to get to know my brother and our family and our families’ history and to use that to address my brother’s concerns.  But what a concept, especially today, when doctors often have less time with a patient than the guy in Bangalore has when he talks to you about your phone bill. The doctor had to make a decision to do this.  All of the people who worked with my brother had to make the same decision.  And they did.   They knew him.  I found that extraordinary.  It made all the difference in the world.

Hartford Hospital has a wonderful reputation for cardiac care.  They didn’t cut corners on their professional standards in order to be kind to my brother.  They accomplished all things, not just the doctors, but the nurses, the nurse practitioners, and the other specialists and the people who brought dinner, as well as the people in the gift shop.  They did it with such seamlessness that I have to believe that someone is setting the tone for this, that this is how they function, that they do this all the time.  The way things are, I think this might take as much skillful intention as the surgery.

I think when you know something, when you’ve known it for a while, it sort of gets into your system.  Then you can really do something, because you can use your knowledge as a whole person.  That’s the way a microbiologist can know her microbes; a doctor, her patients; a physicist, her theories; a photographer, her pictures; a mother, her child; a cook, her soup.  You can fit things together.  You can wake up in the morning with a new idea.  You can say, “The numbers looked good, but something told me to run another test”.   You can make a giant leap to a totally new and totally true surprise.  You could possibly save someone’s life, or change the way someone sees the world or give hope or comfort to a person or to a whole family.

You might like to know that my brother got a clean bill on his heart less than six months ago.  His EKG was good.  Now I’ll tell you something I really didn’t know.  An EKG will look perfect if all your arteries are equally blocked, as they were in my brother’s case.  (70 – 80% across the board.  He had six bypasses.)  I can easily imagine a scenario where my brother might have said, “The test said my heart was fine.  It must be indigestion.”  I can easily imagine saying that myself.   The point is that true numbers lie, true science fails, if detached from human purpose and complexity and history and context. 

Goro Yoshida travelled from Japan to Germany in the early 1930’s.  Germany was widely acknowledged at that time as having the world’s finest precision machinery industry and the resulting new cameras, the Leica II and Contax I, were the best 35 mm focal-plane shutter cameras that had ever come to market.  Yoshida-san decided that instead of buying a German camera for what would have been six month’s salary, he could make one himself, and beyond that, he decided there was enough technical skill in Japan to produce more cameras.  He used technology that was then being broadly applied in the military buildup before the war.  Do you know what he named his first camera, at that critical moment, at that turning point in Japan?  Kwanon, after the Buddhist goddess of compassion.  Kwanon or Kannon observes the cries of the world; she can’t rest while there is suffering.  Her compassion helps bring peace into the world.  

After the war, Kannon became Canon and that became the company.  I like to think that Yoshida-san was expressing a courageous point, or at least a hope for a life-giving use of technology.  I know that the thousand reaching arms of Kannon have now become the many million eyes of photographers, who continue to observe and record the myriad beauties and sufferings in the world.  Technology and compassion together.  Paying close attention.  Keeping eyes open.  Showing people what is happening.  Showing them so their hearts and minds can know and respond.  Good science. 

My father went to Japan for R+R during the Korean War.  There, he bought his camera.  He took many pictures of the war, and I'm in the process of scanning them.  There are pictures of tanks and camps and night time strafing.  There are also pictures of things he loved.  Trees and mountains and birds in flight.


PS.  My brother is doing well.  My sincere thanks to all who sent or felt good wishes.  I send you gratitude and happiness.  Thank you, science.  Thank you, people with knowledge, skill, compassion and laughter.  Thank you for your good minds and hearts and words and hands.  Thank you, Hartford Hospital.

This is the same osprey as before, circling her nest, watching me every minute.  My shutter speed was 1/500th of a second.  My aperture was f/9.  My ISO was 500.  My focal length was 400 mm.  This is an example of science.  I know the bird doesn't like me and wants me to go away.  This is an example of insight.




Brother Nick

The summer after 5th grade during my father’s two-week plant shutdown we loaded up the VW bus with fishing gear and cooking stuff and a big tent and army surplus sleeping bags made out of olive-green wool.  We put a canoe on top of the car and drove far north, to Quebec, up near Hudson Bay.  Then we drove three hundred miles on a dirt road to a hydroelectric dam on the Peribonka River.  Then Burt Bouget loaded us onto his boat and we went another 12 miles on Lac Peribonka.  Then we carried our stuff, hopping from tree trunk to tree trunk because 50 feet of driftwood lined the lake, many feet deep, entire trees, tangled and jammed together, the result of all that land being flooded by the dam.  And then we set up camp.  (We all had compasses and whistles and topographical maps and we knew how to use them.  The ground was covered with moss and lichen and tiny wild blueberries.)  Then my brother Nick and I cut a trail for another mile to another lake and then we portaged our canoe and then we went fishing for Pike that were almost as tall as my brother George, who was seven at the time.  We also found another fish that the Indians called “Wannanish”.  These were smaller, “Wall-Eyed” Pike.

This was Dad’s idea of the best time, to have his little platoon, to have us all organized and zooming around.  I loved it also.  (He also loved it when we sang, which we often did when we were driving, which was much better from his point of view, than fighting, which is what six kids also love to do on a long ride. I sang for 1000 miles straight to keep my Dad awake while he drove all night to get home from this trip.  He might have preferred the fighting.  That’s a lot of “I’m Henry the 8th I Am.”)

But in any case, back at the lake, my mother threatened divorce when my sister Cathy, who was five at the time, developed a fever from so many mosquito bites.  So we broke camp and went to an Indian Reservation where Dad had friends and we stayed at their house and then we went fishing again, for more Wannanish.

I say all of this so you’ll know I grew up liking the forest or water of any kind.  This was where all the good stuff happened.  Anything fun, anything interesting or exciting, it all happened there.  Whenever I went to the big city, like for example, Danielson, CT. (pop. 4000), where we would go to Fisher’s Big Wheel, I would feel sorry for all the people because in such a big city they had nothing to do. 

One time Nick and I decided to go exploring.  We were still young children. He kept saying, “Follow me and you won’t get lost.”  And we went happily though fields and forests through Moosup and Wauregan and winding up actually, in Danielson, where we found Mr. Gebo’s house and he called our parents. 

And on the eve of the Gulf War when my brother George was in the third tank to go in and face the “Republican Guard”, my father put on his flight suit and got out his coffee mug from the Korean War and parked himself in front of the TV.  He watched CNN and never left his chair until the danger was over.  Meantime, Nick and I went miles through the forest, walking through the night for many hours, walking and walking, burning through all our fears and worries about George.  

Nick had a heart attack early this week.  I came off to the mainland and we’ve been going to Hartford Hospital with our mother every day.  We’re about an hour away.  We’re living that hospital life… not at all like it was with my father because that went on for five years.  But it made us remember the way it was back then, when we forgot how life could be without medical stuff going on. I’m not taking pictures right now, but I thought I would show you at least one good picture from a forest.  This is where I go in need.  I go to the woods or to the water. 

My brother was scheduled for triple by-pass surgery today but it’s been put off until Monday.  My 85-year old mom is tired, so I’ll go alone to see him tomorrow and again on Saturday and then my sister Amy will take Sunday.  And Amy and Mom will take Monday and Tuesday while I go back to the Island and then I’ll come back on Wednesday and maybe he’ll come home on Thursday or Friday.

Everybody says Hartford Hospital has a great cardiac unit and I believe it.  I love the way they’ve been treating my brother.  I love it that they all know everything about him and are doing all the right things in a coordinated way.  I love it that they are explaining everything, first to my brother and then to us.  I love it that they apologized when they had to change the day of the surgery because my brother’s blood was still too thin from other procedures.  I love it that a beautiful nurse comes in and says, “How’s my man?” 

They say that people are like islands, connected underneath.  And this exactly how I feel about my brother. So many people are thinking about us, praying and wishing for good things.  I feel that this is a major point in everything, to find out we are not alone, to be human beings together, caring about what happens. 

My brother will be well.


 

 

Morning Light

Taken from Crescent Beach at about 6 AM.  The sun is up so early at this time of year!  See the tiny black spots up in the cloud?  Those are little birds whizzing by.

I’ve been on a quest to find the perfect light in the morning.  There is simple pure light when the sun is rising on a clear day but the best thing is when there is fog.  I wanted to see the fog burning off and the light coming through.  I wanted to be on the water already when the sun was rising, so I aimed for getting up at 4:30.  When the morning came however, I talked myself out of it.  So I didn’t make it down to the beach at 5, but at 6.  The sun had already risen and if there had been fog on the water it had already burned off.  So I got this shot up above, very nice, but I was disappointed in myself for not getting down just a little bit sooner.

I saw that fog was still blowing in from the west so I went to that side of the island.  Here are shots of the green and the mist, and especially in this shot, you can see the misty “Ireland” side of the island. 

This is in the southwest part of the island, looking toward Rodman's Hollow.

This was taken in Rodman's Hollow.  Do you see that bright edge by the farthest bluffs?  That’s looking north… that’s where I was when I took the first picture.  You can see it’s bright over there.

I did get out the next day, early like I wanted, and I got all the fog I could possibly use.

This is Mansion Beach, looking south into the fog.

There was just one woman walking on the beach.  Cool and misty and wonderful at this time of day. 

The sun began to show itself.  I was hoping the light would break through and it did.

Here is the sun, just breaking through.  See the lace in the water?

And here it is a little later... the sun was soft on the water.

The sun only lasted for a minute and then the fog socked in again.  I waited, hoping for another chance with this beautiful light.   I waited through fleas that woke up and bit me for about half an hour, disappearing as suddenly as they came.  I went in for a swim but abandoned that plan when I felt the strength of the current around my legs.  (I have learned to be careful.  Mansion Beach is a wonderful place to take pictures and a wonderful place to swim, but the tide makes a current that runs north along this shoreline.  When it hits the point that you see in the distance in this picture, it curves out into the ocean.  If you can feel the current running against your legs, you do not want to be in this water, believe me.) 

So I left and went farther south to the Town Beach for my swim with the dogs.  I continued to look toward Mansion however, telling myself to let go because I already had my good pictures.  But I think if the fog had begun to lift, I would have run right back again.

The fog thickened and deepened.   It was like that all day.  There is a hurricane coming up the coast… you already know that… Hurricane Arthur… we’ll get the edge of it tonight.  So the weather has turned wet, starting with fog all day yesterday and rain on and off today.  Then it will rain all night and possibly clear by morning. 

Tomorrow will be beautiful.  There might be big waves… we’ll see.  Even after the waves have calmed you can still feel the agitation in the water.  It’s like the water remembers for a little while.  (There will certainly be strong currents.)

We’ve had the most perfect weather up until now.  It was good to have this day for resting.  After our morning walk and pictures, the dogs have been sleeping all day.  I’ve been working on the blog.  It’s good to feel the plants are finally getting all the rain they need.