The Pulse Bridge model embodies Paolo Soleri’s vision, merging architecture and philosophy to inspire adaptability, connection, and beauty in urban landscapes.
For me room was hushed, as if holding its breath in reverence for the dreams of a man who dared to reimagine not just buildings, but entire landscapes. I stood before the model of the Pulse Bridge, a work envisioned by the inimitable architect and philosopher Paolo Soleri. This was a living, breathing entity in miniature—a whisper of the city’s heartbeat rendered in metal and form.
PULSE BRIDGE is conceived for the New York cityscape and designed so as to alter its own stress configuration according to the traffic loads it carries and the temperature and wind variations. It does not so much react to such stresses as it dynamically adapts to them. This is achieved by suspending the whole structure on two sets of hinges and altering the weight distribution by way of four ballast spheres, constantly changing in weight because of the water volume they contain and is pouring in or spilling out of each. Temperature differential and wind loads will suggest asymmetrical ballast content.
The bridge stretched across the table, a golden ribbon suspended in perpetual motion. Its delicate cables, taut and slender, mirrored the veins of a great urban organism. I leaned closer, catching the glint of light on the brass framework, which seemed to hum with possibility. The slanted pylons, bold and angled at 45 degrees, rose like colossal compass points charting a path into a future yet unbuilt. Their elegant incline gave the structure a sense of poise and power, as though it were both rooted in the earth and ready to leap skyward.
At either end of the model, spherical ballast weights gleamed like captive suns, their surfaces smooth and luminous. These orbs symbolized adaptability, a dynamic response to the unpredictable forces of wind, weight, and weather. Soleri’s genius was palpable in these spheres—each a small, controlled impulse that could tip, pour, or hold water to balance the bridge’s pulse, much like the human heart adjusts its rhythm to life’s demands.
As I circled the model, I noticed how the bridge’s levels—three distinct layers—seemed to invite a diversity of life. The uppermost level promised a vista for pedestrians and the rhythmic flow of cars. Beneath, a middle layer hinted at a mix of vehicles and trucks, and the lowest level seemed destined for the silent hum of trains, utilities, and unseen infrastructure. It was a symphony of movement, each level contributing its own notes to the city’s harmony.
And yet, the most captivating feature was not the mechanics or the engineering marvels, but the philosophy embedded within. Soleri’s vision was not just to build a bridge, but to craft an experience—a structure that could breathe, flex, and adapt to the ever-changing pulse of New York. He imagined the pylons as cultural hubs, housing optical museums, exhibitions on bridge history, and even gift shops. The bridge was as much about connecting people as it was about connecting places.
Standing there, I felt the weight of Soleri’s ambition. The Pulse Bridge was a manifesto, a declaration that utilitarian structures could inspire wonder and nurture life. I imagined walking across its span, the city stretching out on either side, the bridge subtly shifting beneath my feet as it responded to the flow of traffic and the gusts of wind. It would be a conversation between structure and environment, a dialogue that reminded me of the living world we so often take for granted.
The longer I stood before the model, the more I realized it was not just a reflection of Soleri’s imagination but a challenge to our own. Could we build a future where beauty and function danced together, where even a bridge could sing of resilience and grace? The Pulse Bridge dared us to try.
In that quiet room, with sunlight streaming through the windows and casting delicate shadows across the model, I felt the profound allure of what could be. Soleri’s bridge was an idea—a luminous thread connecting visionaries across time, urging us all to dream bigger, build better, and embrace the pulse of life in all its complexity.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
At Cocoa Beach, sand castles succumb to time, showcasing beauty in decay, while desert monoliths endure. Both narratives reveal nature’s artistry through impermanence and transformation.
On the shores of Cocoa Beach, where the January winds dance freely, the once-proud towers of sand now stand humbled. What was sculpted by human hands—carefully packed and shaped with laughter—has become a relic of its former grandeur. The wind, with its gentle yet relentless touch, carves away at their edges, smoothing and softening their once-crisp lines. The castles, now mere echoes of their original form, hold a quiet dignity in their decay. Impermanence is their fate.
Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida, Space Coast, January 2025
In the first photograph, the remnants of a sand fortress curve in a gentle arc, protecting a lone pillar—perhaps the last bastion of a crumbling empire. The textures of wind-blown ridges ripple across the sand like waves frozen in time, whispering of the invisible forces that shape the land. The delicate striations of the eroded peak, captured in close detail in the second image, reveal the layers of creation and destruction, each grain bearing witness to the ceaseless march of time.
Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida, Space Coast, January 2025
The third image brings a sense of companionship to this landscape of change. Like silent sentinels, the remaining sand pillars stand together, weathered but resolute. One wears a crown of a single shell—a reminder that even in the face of erosion, beauty persists. These fleeting structures, built in joy, now bow to nature’s artistry, embracing the inevitable with quiet grace.
Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida, Space Coast, January 2025
And yet, beyond the gentle shores of Cocoa Beach, in the vast and timeless expanse of the Sahara Desert, wind-carved monoliths stand as testament to the power of patience. The fourth photograph—an imposing formation shaped by millennia of desert winds—towers over the golden dunes, its shadow stretching far into the sands. Where the beach’s castles fall in a day, the desert’s sculptures endure for centuries, silent witnesses to the ebb and flow of time on a grander scale.
Wind carved geological formation, Sahara desert. Credit “scraped from the web”
But are they so different? Whether in the fleeting impermanence of Cocoa Beach or the enduring vastness of the Sahara, the hand of the wind shapes all things. Each formation tells the same story—of creation, of erosion, and of transformation. They whisper to us that beauty is not defined by permanence, but by the dance between time and the elements.
As the sun sets over the beach, casting long shadows across the sand, one cannot help but marvel at the artistry of nature. Whether lasting an afternoon or an age, the sculptures of wind and sand remind us that all things are in motion, and every grain, every ripple, every fleeting moment holds a story waiting to be told.
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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The Cayuga Waterfront Trail beautifully showcases autumn’s colors, history, and ecological significance through its landscapes and trees like Sugar Maples.
Where Fall Creek Meets Cayuga Lake Here, where Fall Creek flows gently into Cayuga Lake, the merging waters reflect the season’s colors like a painter’s palette. Across the shimmering surface, Renwick Woods of Stewart Park stands as a quiet sanctuary of mixed hardwoods and wetlands. The reflections capture our trees together with the essence of autumn’s stillness.
Dominating the shoreline, you can spot Silver Maple (Acer saccharinum) and Cottonwood (Populus deltoides), trees that thrive in damp soils. Silver Maples, with their elegant, deeply lobed leaves, are perfectly suited for this riparian environment. The cottonwood, recognizable by its broad, triangular leaves, plays a vital role in stabilizing streambanks.
Quick Fact: Cottonwoods are among the fastest-growing trees in North America, capable of sprouting leaves within weeks of being washed ashore as driftwood.
Steamboat Landing: A Glimpse of History The wooden docks at Steamboat Landing, now home to the bustling Ithaca Farmer’s Market, speak of bygone eras when steamboats ferried goods and people across Cayuga Lake. Today, as golden foliage cloaks the hills in the distance, this spot remains an anchor for community and connection.
A meeting place for friends and conversation
Foregrounded in the photos are plants like Grape Vine (Vitis spp.), with their sprawling, hardy stems turning yellow as temperatures drop. Grapevines, both wild and cultivated, thrive along the lakeshore and remind us of their agricultural importance in the Finger Lakes.
Also visible are some shrubs of Virginia Creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) turning crimson, their vibrant hues climbing posts and fences as they embrace autumn’s spotlight.
Did You Know? Steamboat Landing was part of Ithaca’s rich lake commerce history during the 19th and early 20th centuries, connecting travelers to destinations far and wide.
The Crimson Canopy: Japanese Maple This photo highlights a stunning Japanese Maple (Acer palmatum), its feathery, scarlet foliage cascading delicately in front of the pavilion. Native to East Asia, Japanese Maples have found a beloved place in landscapes across the world for their graceful form and brilliant seasonal displays.
Alongside its boughs, weathered benches and stone pathways invite rest and reflection — a beautiful marriage of human craftsmanship and nature’s artistry.
Fun Fact: Japanese Maples are often pruned meticulously in Japanese gardens to emphasize their architectural shape, turning them into living sculptures.
The Treman Park Lake Loop: Autumn’s Golden Finale Our journey concludes with this sweeping landscape from the Treman Park Lake Loop. The towering Sugar Maples (Acer saccharum) dominate the view, their crowns now a rich, golden orange — a signature of northeastern forests. Known as the tree that gives us maple syrup, Sugar Maples are quintessential symbols of autumn in the Finger Lakes.
To the right, bare branches of earlier-shedding trees stand in contrast, whispering the arrival of winter. The sky above, painted with soft clouds, completes the scene of a serene seasonal transition.
Interesting Note: Sugar Maples can live for over 300 years, their wood prized for furniture and instruments, and their sap a sweet gift of the forest.
Closing Thoughts From the quiet confluence of Fall Creek and Cayuga Lake to the historic docks of Steamboat Landing and the golden maples of Treman Park, autumn on the Cayuga Waterfront Trail is a symphony of color, history, and ecological wonder. Whether you’re strolling, photographing, or simply pausing to take it all in, these moments capture both the grandeur and subtlety of the season.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The Cornell Botanical Gardens blend ecological education and African American history through diverse plant life, creating a vibrant, engaging experience.
As Pam and I wander near the Nevin Welcome Center at the Cornell Botanical Gardens on a bright, early autumn day, my eye catches on a cluster of verdant, broad-leaved foliage. The sunlight filters through the leaves, casting a luminous green glow, while hints of red and burgundy add warmth to the scene. The plants here have a presence, a boldness that draws me in, and as I approach, I notice an array of information signs, thoughtfully placed to explain the rich tapestry of flora surrounding me.
The first sign I encounter is titled “A Ditch That Cleanses Water.” It immediately piques my curiosity. In just a few sentences, it describes how this landscape is designed to capture and cleanse stormwater runoff, turning what might otherwise be a simple drainage area into a living, breathing ecosystem. Instead of funneling water into a standard drainpipe, a filter strip and bioswale—a kind of vegetative trench—work in tandem to trap silt and pollutants. There’s a delicate choreography happening here, as water flows from the parking lot into river stone beds, slowing down, and then into the plant-lined filter strip, which encourages suspended particles to settle out.
The bioswale itself is lush and resilient, filled with hardy, native plants that thrive in both wet and dry conditions. The sign explains that these plants are carefully chosen varieties such as Switchgrass and flowering perennials—sneezeweed and Joe Pye weed among them—that provide color through the seasons. Small trees like winterberry and American hornbeam add height and structure, giving this ecological marvel both function and form. I’m struck by how much thought has gone into something as mundane as stormwater runoff, transforming it into a process that supports the environment but also creates a pleasing view. Here, the bioswale captures the stormwater, filters it, and releases it cleaner than before, a quiet miracle of natural engineering.
Moving on, I find another sign titled “Seeds of Survival and Celebration: Plants and the Black Experience.” This sign feels more intimate, as it dives into the deep history of plants brought from West Africa during the transatlantic slave trade. I’m reminded that gardens can be repositories of history, culture, and resilience. Plants like watermelon, okra, and black-eyed peas were brought by enslaved Africans who tended them near their quarters, ensuring a piece of home remained with them, even under unimaginable conditions. These plants became the foundation of African American culinary traditions, and I can almost taste the sweet potatoes and other foods that have become part of our shared heritage. The sign even nods to holistic healing herbs like elderberry, which were used to promote health and well-being, demonstrating how enslaved Africans maintained aspects of their culture through the plants they grew.
As I reflect on the stories woven into these signs, I find myself surrounded by a stunning mix of bold, leafy plants in vibrant greens, reds, and yellows—an almost tropical display that stands defiant against the approaching cold season. Banana leaves, elephant ears, and coleus fill the garden beds, their leaves large, showy, and unabashedly lush. The scene feels alive, a burst of tropical splendor amid the Finger Lakes. These aren’t plants native to upstate New York, yet they’ve been incorporated here with care and skill, bringing a hint of warmth as the days grow shorter. Their wide, smooth surfaces reflect the sunlight, catching my eye with every slight breeze, and they create an atmosphere that is both exotic and inviting.
This day, the Cornell Botanical Gardens have offered Pam and I beauty along with education. The signage has guided us through ecological engineering, the resilience of African American foodways, and the artistry of landscape design, blending these narratives into the landscape itself. Each sign, each plant, tells a story, and as I walk away, I carry these tales with me, reminded that gardens are not merely for looking—they are for learning, for remembering, and for celebrating the resilience of life in all its forms.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I wander the paths of the Cornell Botanical Gardens near the Nevin Welcome Center, a towering sculpture arrests my attention, rising well over ten feet into the bright autumn sky. At first glance, it’s unmistakable—a pair of massive allium blooms crafted from steel and glass, an artistic tribute to the very flowers my wife, Pam, has come to love. This creation, titled Double Allium, is the work of British artist Jenny Pickford, completed in 2019. Made of robust steel and translucent purple glass, it stands proudly among the greenery, capturing both the delicacy and boldness of allium flowers.
A few summers ago Pam planted several allium in sunny locations, which exploded into violet firework-like blooms, each sphere teeming with tiny star-shaped flowers that clustered together into one massive, round bloom. When the alliums blossomed, they attracted a small frenzy of bees, and it became a shared delight for us to watch our garden transform into a pollinator’s paradise. Pam was captivated by the plants’ structure and beauty, as well as their ecological role in supporting bees—a small, vibrant ecosystem within our yard. Standing before Double Allium, I’m reminded of those summer days and the quiet joy we both found in observing our garden.
Bees and Allium in our summer garden, 2024
The scientific name for alliums, Allium giganteum (for the larger ornamental varieties), links them to a vast genus that includes onions, garlic, and leeks. These plants have been cultivated and revered by humans for thousands of years, not only for their culinary value but also for their symbolism in various cultures. In ancient Egypt, alliums were believed to represent eternity; their spherical form and concentric layers were thought to mirror the eternal nature of life. Even today, they bring a sense of timelessness to gardens worldwide, their tall stalks and spherical blooms defying gravity, standing tall against the changing seasons.
As I study Pickford’s sculpture, I’m struck by how faithfully it captures this essence of alliums—strength paired with grace, structure married to elegance. The steel stems curve gently yet rise powerfully from the ground, while the glass petals shimmer in the light, giving an almost ethereal quality to the blooms. Pickford, born in 1969, is known for her botanical-inspired sculptures that explore the intersection of nature and art. With Double Allium, she’s created a piece that feels alive, as if the blooms might sway in the wind or burst into real flowers at any moment.
For Pam and me, this sculpture pays homage to a beautiful plant; it’s a connection to our own experience with nature, a reminder of those summer mornings watching bees dance among our alliums. Standing beneath Double Allium, I feel a sense of continuity—a link between the art and our own small garden, between our life and the ancient cultures that cherished these plants, between the permanence of steel and the fleeting beauty of each summer bloom.
In this towering sculpture, Pickford has given us a mirror that reflects nature as well as our personal connection to it. “Double Allium” is a celebration of growth, strength, and beauty, qualities that Pam and I cherish in the alliums we tend and that we find echoed in this remarkable work of art.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I walk through the plantings around the Nevin Center at Cornell Botanical Gardens, a vibrant, eye-catching display catches my attention: the unmistakable Lantana camara. This plant, with its clusters of small, multicolored flowers, radiates warmth and liveliness, thriving among other garden residents in a riot of pink, orange, and yellow hues. Lantana is a plant with a rich, complex story—one that intertwines scientific discovery, historical intrigue, and enduring appeal in gardens worldwide.
Scientific Name and Origins
Lantana camara, commonly known simply as lantana, belongs to the Verbenaceae family. Originating in the tropical and subtropical regions of the Americas, particularly Central and South America, lantana has now spread globally. Its adaptability and resilience have allowed it to thrive in diverse environments, from warm Mediterranean climates to more tropical locales. The name Lantana comes from a genus of unrelated plants in the honeysuckle family, with which it shares a similar floral structure, while camara refers to a type or variety within this diverse genus.
Historical Journey and Spread
The journey of lantana around the world is one of both horticultural fascination and ecological caution. European explorers and botanists first brought lantana to Europe in the 17th century, where it quickly became a prized garden plant for its vibrant blooms and robust nature. By the 19th century, lantana had spread to various British colonies, including those in Africa, Asia, and Australia, as part of ornamental landscaping efforts. However, lantana’s success came with a downside: in regions with no natural predators or competition, it rapidly became invasive, outcompeting native plants and disrupting local ecosystems. Today, lantana is still admired for its beauty, but in some countries, it’s also carefully managed or controlled.
Garden Favorite and Common Uses
Despite its invasive tendencies in certain climates, lantana remains a beloved plant in gardens worldwide. Known for its drought tolerance and ability to bloom continuously in warm weather, lantana is a favorite for adding color and vibrancy to gardens and landscapes. Gardeners prize lantana for its resilience in hot, sunny locations and its ability to attract butterflies and other pollinators. The flowers emit a light fragrance and produce tiny berries, which, while attractive, are also toxic if ingested. Thus, lantana brings both allure and a hint of danger, drawing in pollinators while repelling those who might threaten it.
Medicinal and Cultural Uses
Historically, lantana has also been used medicinally in various cultures. In traditional folk medicine, parts of the plant have been used to treat ailments such as fevers, respiratory infections, and skin conditions. Indigenous communities in its native regions would often make poultices from the leaves to apply to wounds or inflamed areas. Though some of these traditional uses persist today, modern science advises caution due to the plant’s potential toxicity, especially to livestock and humans if ingested in significant quantities.
A Double-Edged Beauty
Lantana camara is a plant of contrasts. Its cheerful flowers and pollinator-friendly nature make it a joy to behold in controlled garden settings, like those around the Nevin Center. But its spread across continents and the ecological impact in sensitive regions remind us of nature’s unpredictability. Lantana’s resilience, beauty, and storied history make it a plant to admire—and respect. Whether as a garden ornament or an object of scientific curiosity, lantana captures the complexity of human interaction with nature, bringing a colorful reminder that beauty often comes with responsibility.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I stroll around the Nevin Center at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, my eye is drawn to a bed of bright, cheerful flowers that seem to beam with personality. Here, amidst the lush plantings, Zinnias and Gazanias bring their vivid colors to life, each bloom a tiny celebration of nature’s artistry. These flowers, from a family spanning two continents, share a surprising harmony that only the language of color and form could convey.
The Zinnias (family Asteraceae), little fireworks exploding in hues of yellow, red, pink, and orange. They belong to the daisy family, which includes many well-known wildflowers and ornamental plants. Native to the warm regions of Mexico and Central America, Zinnias were first documented by Dr. Johann Gottfried Zinn, an 18th-century German botanist. Dr. Zinn initially set out to study human anatomy, but he turned to botany after inheriting the job of garden inspector at the University of Göttingen. His study of these cheerful flowers was eventually immortalized when the genus was named in his honor. Every time I see a Zinnia, I think about Dr. Zinn’s unexpected journey into botany and how these resilient, sun-loving flowers carry on his legacy.
Growing alongside them are Gazanias (family Asteraceae as well), which, despite their similarity in form, come from an entirely different part of the world. These stunning blooms are native to South Africa, thriving under the intense African sun. Also known as “treasure flowers,” Gazanias have radiant, striped petals that look like they’ve been painted by hand, with shades of fiery orange and deep red. The name Gazania honors Theodorus Gaza, a 15th-century Greek scholar who translated many important botanical works from Greek into Latin. I can’t help but feel that these flowers, with their bold, jewel-toned colors, live up to the name “treasure,” each one a small gem in the landscape.
As I stand here, admiring these blooms, I’m struck by the way they bring a sense of vibrancy and warmth to the Nevin Center. Both Zinnias and Gazanias are sun-worshippers, thriving in full sunlight and well-drained soil, making them ideal for this bright spot. Their colors seem even more dazzling against the verdant greens of the surrounding plants, and they attract bees and butterflies, adding another layer of life to this already lively space.
In a way, the planting here feels like a dialogue between continents, with the Zinnias representing the New World and the Gazanias embodying the spirit of Africa. It’s a conversation that reminds me of the global heritage of our gardens, how each plant carries a story, a name, and a lineage across borders and centuries. Here at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, they’ve found a new home, far from where they first bloomed, but as vibrant as ever.
I leave the Nevin Center with a sense of joy and gratitude for these botanical ambassadors. Zinnias and Gazanias, each named for pioneers in botany, remind me that discovery often comes in unexpected forms, just as beauty does. They teach us to look closely, to celebrate color and form, and to appreciate the living history all around us.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region
On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.
A Glimpse of the Familiar
At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.
I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.
The Resilience of a Traveler
The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.
I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.
The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.
Nature’s Balancing Act
As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.
Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.
I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.
The Fleeting Bloom
Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.
We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.
A Lesson from the Daylily
As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.
Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Crossing the footbridge in Stewart Park, I encountered the graceful yet invasive Flowering Rush. Its delicate beauty hides a deeper story about nature’s resilience, human impact, and the fragile balance of our ecosystems.
While crossing the suspension footbridge over Fall Creek in Stewart Park, there’s a sense of stepping into a world that’s more peaceful and attuned to nature. The bridge is familiar to me—a steady, quiet companion—but each visit feels new, as though the park has secrets it only reveals in small whispers. In this photograph the green steel beams rise like sentinels, standing tall against the backdrop of shifting autumn colors. Below, the water reflects the vibrant reds, golds, and greens of the trees, creating an illusion of depth that draws me in.
Footbridge to the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York, October 2012
This past summer I stopped midway across, leaned against the railing, just listening. The creek moved slowly, like time itself decided to pause here for a while. That’s when I saw them: delicate pink blooms rising up from the water’s edge, their petals small and star-shaped, catching the light as they sway in the gentle breeze. There’s something striking about these plants—graceful, elegant, almost otherworldly in their simplicity. They reach up, as though trying to escape the confines of the water and the muddy banks.
My subsequent research revealed these to be Flowering Rush, or Butomus umbellatus. I often see them now, their soft pinks and slender leaves creating a quiet beauty that’s hard to ignore. They’re beautiful, but I have come to know they don’t belong here. This is one of those moments in nature that gives me pause—a reminder that not everything lovely is innocent.
Flowering Rush Growing in Fall Creek, Stewart Park, June 2024
Flowering Rush, a European import from centuries ago, was not meant to take root here. Brought to North America for ornamental ponds, its allure quickly became its danger. It spread, silently, like a secret carried on the wind, slowly overtaking the native species that have long called these waters home. And yet, standing here now, I cannot help but admire its tenacity, its quiet determination to thrive. Nature, in all its forms, has this incredible will to survive, even if that survival sometimes comes at a cost.
My mind drifts to the plant’s history. In its native lands Flowering Rush, or Grass Rush, was useful—its roots, though bitter, were harvested for food, and its fibrous stems woven into mats and ropes. How interesting that something as delicate as this has a rugged, practical side. This contradiction makes perfect sense when I think of the plant’s journey across continents, carried over oceans by human hands and curiosity. We are responsible for its presence here, and now, like so many other invasive species, it’s become a fixture of this landscape.
I think about the dual nature of this invasion. Flowering Rush is beautiful—there is no denying that. Its soft, pink flowers contrast sharply with the darker tones of the water and the dense green of the grasses that surround it. But its beauty masks a quiet destruction. It chokes out the native plants that once thrived here, altering the ecosystem in ways we cannot always see. I wonder what fish and aquatic life struggles beneath the surface, their food sources slowly disappearing. What birds find fewer insects and fewer safe places to nest?
And yet, is this plant a villain? Flowering rush is doing what it was meant to do—grow, spread, survive. That is what everything in nature does, after all. It does not have malice or intent; it just is. It is humans who have changed the balance, who introduced this species to a place where it didn’t belong, setting off a chain reaction we’re still trying to fully understand.
Today, as I walk across the bridge, heading toward the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, path ahead invites quiet reflection, the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves providing a peaceful soundtrack. But the Flowering Rush lingers in my mind. It reminds me of how interconnected everything is, how one small action—a plant brought from a distant land—can ripple out and affect entire ecosystems. It’s a lesson in responsibility for those willing to listen.
As I step into the sanctuary, the air feels lighter, filled with the sound of birds that dart between the trees. I think of the delicate balance of life here, and how easily it can be disrupted by the presence of something foreign, something invasive. Yet, there is a strange comfort in knowing that nature, for all its fragility, has its own resilience.
The Flowering Rush, with its roots deep in the muddy banks of Fall Creek, is a testament to that resilience. It may not belong here, but it has found a way to adapt, to make this place its home. And in that, I find both a warning and a kind of hope—hope that we, too, can learn to live more thoughtfully, more in tune with the world around us, before we upset the balance any further.
For now, though, I simply walk, grateful for the beauty around me, even if it comes with complications. Each step takes me deeper into this world, and I am reminded once again of the profound connection we have to the land, the water, the plants, and the creatures that share this space.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
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Discover the timeless beauty of two towering Cottonwood trees along the shores of Cayuga Lake. Explore their natural history, cultural significance, and how they’ve shaped the landscape of Stewart Park for generations.
Walking with Pam in Stewart Park, the shores of Cayuga Lake shimmer under the bright September sun, offering a serene setting for reflection. Ahead, two towering Cottonwood trees stand in quiet majesty, their branches spreading wide, casting long shadows over the grass and walkway. Drawn toward them, I find myself in awe of their presence—these two trees, ancient sentinels by the water, who have silently borne witness to the changing world around them.
View Facing East/Southeast, September 10, 2024
Cottonwoods, scientifically known as Populus deltoides, are members of the poplar family and are among the tallest trees in North America. The ones before me have thrived for decades, their thick, furrowed trunks a testament to the endurance of life on the edge of the lake. It’s remarkable to think of all the storms and seasons they’ve weathered—their roots digging deep into the moist earth, nourished by the lake’s constant ebb and flow. I feel as though these trees, standing side by side, companions, connected through the unseen networks of roots beneath the soil. Their relationship to one another seems profound, they have grown up together, providing support and strength as they aged. Their canopies overlapping as though embracing one another.
There’s an undeniable symmetry to their relationship, both in form and function. One can imagine them as silent witnesses to the changing landscape around them—the gradual expansion of the park, the families that come and go, the laughter of children playing nearby, and the quiet conversations of couples walking hand in hand. These trees have become part of the fabric of Stewart Park, deeply entwined with the human history that unfolds here every day.
View Facing East, September 10, 2024
The branches reach skyward, their leaves shimmering in the breeze, producing the characteristic fluttering sound of Cottonwoods. There’s something deeply soothing about this rustling—the way the wind seems to dance through the leaves, creating a rhythm that feels eternal. It reminds me that these trees have long been part of human experience, a backdrop to countless strolls, picnics, and quiet moments of contemplation here at Stewart Park.
Cottonwoods are fast-growing, often found near bodies of water where their shallow roots can tap into consistent moisture. And yet, their rapid growth comes with a trade-off; their wood is soft and brittle, prone to breaking in high winds. But in Stewart Park, these two trees have found a perfect balance, their large, sweeping canopies offering shade and shelter without suffering too much damage from the storms that blow through the Finger Lakes. Their resilience is remarkable—a reminder of nature’s ability to thrive in challenging conditions.
Historically, Cottonwoods have played a significant role in the lives of the people who encountered them. Native Americans once used the bark for medicinal purposes and fashioned the wood into canoes. Early settlers appreciated the trees for their rapid growth and ability to provide shade and timber in otherwise open expanses of the Midwest and Northeast. Even today, their legacy endures as they continue to offer shade and shelter, albeit more for leisure than for survival.
I notice how the pathway itself bends gently to accommodate the Cottonwoods. The paved trail, so clearly designed with these majestic trees in mind, arcs around their broad bases as if to honor their presence. In a world where nature is so often bent to human will, it’s refreshing to see this small, quiet gesture of deference—a reminder that in our modern parks, nature can sometimes lead the way.
View Facing West, June 25, 2024
The path doesn’t cut through or impose upon these trees. Instead, it respects their claim to the land, curving around them in a way that feels organic, almost reverent. The roots of these Cottonwoods must reach far beyond what I can see, extending outward in all directions beneath the soil, beneath the path itself. It’s as though the trees and the human-made elements of the park have reached a compromise—a harmonious balance where both can coexist without either having to sacrifice too much.
In their wisdom, the planners of this park understood that these trees had already laid their claim long before the park’s paths were laid out. It’s a small but profound testament to the enduring power of nature and the foresight of those who designed this space. As I walk along the path, I feel the subtle shift in the landscape—the way the curve of the trail encourages a more leisurely pace, inviting visitors to pause for a moment and take in the grandeur of these ancient trees.
The curve itself creates a sense of flow, as if the path is gently nudging us toward a deeper appreciation of the Cottonwoods. There’s no rush here. The trees stand in their place, rooted and steadfast, while we are invited to move around them, to change our course slightly in order to make space for something larger than ourselves. The path becomes a metaphor for our relationship with nature—we must sometimes bend and yield to its greater forces, rather than insist on our own straight and rigid lines.
This curved path speaks to the broader theme of adaptability—how both nature and humanity have learned to accommodate one another. The Cottonwoods have withstood the test of time, their roots dug deep into the soil, while we have found ways to move alongside them, adjusting our course to allow for their growth. It’s a quiet but powerful reminder of the importance of coexistence and respect, of making space for the natural world rather than always seeking to dominate it.
As we pass by, I notice the texture of their bark—deeply furrowed and rough, a tactile reminder of the passage of time. Each ridge and crevice holds the story of countless seasons—of dry summers, harsh winters, and everything in between. I reach out and touch one of the trunks, feeling the coolness of the bark under my hand. There’s a vitality here that can only be sensed up close, a quiet hum of life that pulses just beneath the surface.
Yet, despite their imposing size and age, the Cottonwoods remain humble in their role. They do not demand attention like a flowering dogwood or a brightly colored maple. Instead, they offer something more enduring—a quiet, steady presence that provides shelter and shade without fanfare. Their leaves turn a brilliant yellow in autumn, adding to the kaleidoscope of colors that make up the Finger Lakes’ fall landscape. But even in winter, when the leaves are gone, their bare branches stand against the cold sky, offering a stark beauty all their own.
As I step back to take in the full view of these two Cottonwoods, I am filled with a sense of gratitude. Their lives, so intimately tied to this place, remind me of the interconnectedness of all living things—the way nature, time, and humanity overlap in ways both seen and unseen. These trees, growing together on the shores of Cayuga Lake, are not just part of the landscape—they are part of the story of Stewart Park and, in a broader sense, the story of this region. They remind me that, like them, we are all shaped by our surroundings, by the people and places that stand beside us as we grow. And in that way, we are never truly alone.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 