Academia asserts that the natural world is the result of uncomplicated basic elements acted on by simple forces in an entirely random and undirected manner. But common sense alone teaches us that the material world is irreducibly complex and its features are obviously the result of a purposeful plan.  Every year millions of words are written and hundreds of thousands of research studies are conducted that do little more than raise even more questions about how things work and how they are made to work.

[Click on the photos to enlarge]

In spite of the arguments of those who deny the existence of a Creator, the creation defies simple explanation.  From massive cosmic forces to subatomic particles, the natural world is unrelenting in yielding up only more complexity and more evidence of purpose.  George MacDonald used the purposefulness of the creation to touch the heart of the key character in his novel The Musician’s Quest. Agnostic Robert Falconer had gone to the wilderness for solitude and rest, but found himself pondering whether the natural world might have its source in a supernatural Creator.

Now working in Falconer’s mind was the dull and faint movement of the greatest need that the human heart possesses-the need of God.  There must be a truth in the scent of that pinewood; someone must mean it.  There must be a glory in those heavens that depends not upon our imagination; some power greater than they must dwell in them.  Some spirit must move in that wind that haunts us with a kind of human sorrow; some soul must look up to us from the eye of that starry flower.  Little did Robert think that such was his need-that his soul was searching after the One whose form was constantly presented to him, but as constantly obscured by words without knowledge spoken in the religious assemblies of the land. [And scientific assemblies as well -DO]

The truth of this was eloquently spoken by a child walking with his dad in the woods—the son of one of my friends: “It’s easy to believe in God when you’re outdoors, isn’t it, Dad?”

The other day I was taking pictures of wildflowers in “my” old orchard and sensed, like MacDonald, that if nothing else convinces folks of the existence of the Creator, the beauty and design of flowers certainly ought to.  When I got home and looked at the close-up of a daisy, I was awed again at its design.  It brought to my mind the “beautiful” mathematics of the Fibonacci number sequence that is found throughout nature.  Now as one who is “numbers challenged,” I can assure you I don’t understand the equations that “prove” the validity of the sequence.  But I know the beauty of it.  It is found in pinecones, flowers, the chambered nautilus, leaves on plants, and limbs on trees—among many other creatures.  Follow the links below to learn more about the natural patterns that show the Fibonacci sequence.

Fibonacci Numbers

Google Images of the Fibonacci sequence in nature

See you outdoors!

Dean

It has been an almost perfect spring in Michigan this year—perfect for farmers.  The warm-up has been very slow, which is good especially for fruit growers who are concerned that we not have blossoms unfurling  too early: blooming before the pollinators are fully on the job, or blooming before several hard frosts do a number on both the blossoms and the pollinators.  A few years back our northwest coastal cherry growers lost over half their crop because of a late March warm spell.

But the chilly and wet spring has not been enjoyable for play outdoors.  And when you are a grandparent of six grandkids with serious cases of cabin fever, you want it to be warm and dry on the first day of spring—and stay that way.  If I had my druthers, it could be sunny and sixty-six every day from March to July.  But, for some reason, the Creator seems to know better what provides the best benefit for the most people.  So He has given us a perfect spring—which eventually included some wonderful mild weather leading up to this weekend and our first series of warm thunderstorms.  (If I had “the call,” I would be a storm chaser.)

As always, these weather factors have given the woods another change of floor covering: Fall provided a shaggy rug of brilliant, newly fallen leaves, which did not last long before it was replaced by  the plush white carpet of winter.  After the snow the rain-glossed linoleum of flattened coffee-hued leaves turned the wooded landscape into that dull duotone of dark gray and browns that screamed for color.

Now, PTL, the color has arrived: big green patches of wild leeks, the darker blotchy greens of the trout lily plant thrusting up polka dots of yellow blooms that contrast nicely with the whites of bloodroot and wood anemone.  Creamy squirrel corn blossoms rise above their own frilly green carpet.  And above it all, the birds are all lark-happy with the return of bugs and worms and the easy-to-grab nesting material.

Heightening my enjoyment of such days are evening hours reading another of my great used-book discoveries:  Scratching The Woodchuck: Nature on an Amish Farm by David Kline.  Here is a snippet for you to enjoy:

Last year I was by myself [in Christmas Hollow] when I found the hepaticas, and since it was the middle of May, the trees were in leaf, the woods were ringing with bird song, and the flowers were white trilliums, rue anemones, downy phlox, and jack-in-the-pulpits.  Everything about the place—its seclusion, its life, its beauty—had the aura of hallowed ground.  As a friend calls these special wild places: it was a small honey spot.  The wind in the trees and the water flowing over the shale-bottomed creek seemed to whisper, “Do not come closer. Take off our gumboots, because you are standing on holy ground.”  So I did.  Our return this spring, and the sight of the hepaticas in bloom, reaffirmed my belief that many of us need wild, unspoiled places where we feel close to God.  Places that are becoming scarcer and scarcer.

As Aldo Leopold wrote, “There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot.”  I am one of those who would have a hard time doing without wild things and wild places.  In so stating, I think I speak for all those botanizers, aged ten to eighty, who walked down that hollow to look at the lovely hepaticas in the renewal and rebirth of spring.

Do you have your special spring spot?  If you do, feel free to tell us about it in the comment pages.  If you don’t, make yourself a sabbath and start exploring for one.

See you outdoors!

Dean
(Assisted with my photos by Elle Ohlman, 6)