Tag: Northeast Ithaca

The Mathematical Beauty of Autumn Leaves

Here I reflect on the mathematical beauty of falling leaves from two trees, revealing order amidst perceived chaos in nature’s patterns.

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

Standing before these two trees on a unseasonably warm autumn day, I am struck by the intricate patterns of their fallen leaves. Against the vibrant green of the grass, the golden leaves form halos around the trunks, as if nature herself were sketching mandalas. There’s something profoundly mathematical about these arrangements—a quiet order amidst what might initially seem like chaos.

The first tree, its barren branches reaching skyward, stands on a carpet of yellow that radiates outward in near-perfect symmetry. The leaves have fallen in such a way that their density decreases as the distance from the trunk increases. It reminds me of the inverse square law—a principle in physics that governs how light, gravity, and sound diminish with distance. Here, instead of energy dispersing, it’s the leaves thinning out, their graceful scatter dictated by the wind’s whims and gravity’s pull. There’s an undeniable harmony in this seemingly random process, a convergence of natural forces creating an elegant gradient.

Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York

The second tree presents a different story, yet one equally mesmerizing. Its leaves, still clinging in part to the branches, form a looser ring at the base. The distribution is uneven, hinting at prevailing winds or the sheltering influence of nearby buildings. But even in this asymmetry, I see fractals—the self-similar patterns that repeat at different scales throughout nature. Look closely, and you’ll notice clusters of leaves mimicking the broader structure of the canopy above. It’s as if the tree’s essence is echoed in the ground below, a reminder of how deeply interconnected every part of a system can be.

Robinia pseudoacacia, commonly known as the black locust

These patterns invite reflection on the mathematical principles governing our world. Fibonacci sequences, golden ratios, and fractals—abstract concepts are not confined to textbooks. They are etched into the fabric of existence, visible in the spiral of a sunflower’s seeds, the curve of a nautilus shell, and the fall of leaves beneath a tree. Even the chaos of autumn is underpinned by order, a dance choreographed by countless variables: the angle of the branches, the strength of the wind, the moisture in the air.

I find myself wondering about the unseen forces at play. How many leaves fell straight down, obeying only gravity? How many were carried aloft by a breeze before settling farther afield? Could we model these patterns with algorithms, tracing the arc of each leaf’s descent? Would the data reveal a perfect equation, or would it remind us that some mysteries resist full comprehension?

As I stand here, I feel a deep gratitude for these natural equations. They ground me in the present moment while also connecting me to the infinite. The pattern of leaf fall is a reminder of life’s balance: chaos and order, randomness and structure, fleeting moments and timeless principles. The trees, now shedding their golden crowns, invite me to pause, observe, and marvel at the beautiful mathematics of autumn.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Capturing Fall’s Beauty: A Journey of Healing

During a reflective walk, the author parallels the beauty of autumn his wife’s healing journey post-surgery, celebrating transformation and resilience.

MichaelStephenWills12 Comments

As I waited for Pam to finish her 30-minute physical therapy session at the Northeast Ithaca medical complex, I decided to capture moments of the fall season through my camera lens while walking. There’s something about this time of year—the crispness in the air, the vibrancy of the colors—that invites reflection, especially with the significance of Pam’s recovery following her hip replacement. These moments, both large and small, weave together to form the tapestry of life, and today, I felt a strong pull to observe, to pause, and to appreciate.

The first scene that caught my eye was a delicate scattering of maple leaves over smooth, weather-worn stones. The contrast between the rigid rocks and the soft, decaying leaves reminded me of life’s cyclical nature. The bright red and pale pink hues of the leaves, now beginning their slow decomposition, seemed to symbolize the passage of time—how even in their decay, they added beauty and texture to the scene. The leaves, having served their purpose on the tree, now danced with the wind, finding a new purpose in creating a natural mosaic. Much like how Pam’s healing journey is both the end of one struggle and the beginning of a new phase in our lives.

As I continued walking, I came upon a maple tree, standing tall with its branches adorned in fiery reds. The vibrancy of the foliage against the sky reminded me of strength in adversity. The tree had begun its seasonal transformation, shedding its leaves as it prepares for winter—a time of rest before the renewal of spring. I thought about how Pam, too, is in a season of transformation. Her body is adjusting, healing from the surgery, and preparing for new movement and freedom that will come in time. Watching the wind gently tug at the leaves, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for her resilience.

Nearby, a slender birch tree stood out, its bark a striking white against the greens and golds of early fall. The birch, with its smooth and peeling bark, fascinates me. It exudes a quiet elegance, standing firm and graceful; a symbol of quiet endurance, a steadfast presence amidst the ever-changing landscape. Much like the birch, Pam has weathered the storm of surgery with grace, moving through pain and discomfort with a quiet determination. The sound of a gentle stream nearby only added to the serenity of the scene, offering a soft, meditative backdrop to my thoughts.

Further along, I encountered clusters of green crabapples hanging heavily from a tree. Their small, round forms were imperfect, dotted with blemishes and signs of wear, yet there was beauty in their abundance. These fruits, while not perfect, are a testament to the tree’s efforts throughout the year, a reminder that growth and effort often result in the imperfect. Pam’s recovery isn’t without its challenges, but each step, each small victory, is a testament to her effort and determination. The crabapples reminded me that perfection is not the goal—progress and perseverance are.

On another tree, I found its branches laden with bright red berries, their glossy surfaces shining in the light. These berries, hanging so densely, added a sense of richness to the landscape, a vibrant contrast to the yellowing leaves of nearby trees. In many cultures, red berries symbolize vitality and protection, and in this moment, I thought of Pam’s vitality, her strength to heal and return to her daily life. The image of the berries will always remind me of this chapter of her recovery—a time where her strength was most evident.

As my walk continued, I marveled at another maple tree, its colors starting to fade into yellows and oranges, the leaves slowly dropping to the ground. The fallen leaves created a soft blanket around the tree, a reminder that letting go is a natural part of life. We often hold on to things, ideas, or even pain, long after they have served their purpose. Watching these leaves fall, I thought about Pam letting go of the pain and limitations she’s carried for months. Her body, much like this tree, is learning to release, to move forward.

On the ground, I noticed a close-up of more fallen leaves, these ones touched with both vibrant and fading hues, each in a different stage of its journey. Together, they formed a beautiful, textured layer over the soil, offering nutrients to the earth below. Even in their end, they contribute to new life. It struck me that even in difficult times, there is always a sense of renewal and growth. Pam’s healing is part of a larger cycle—one of renewal and transformation.

The final images of my walk were close-ups of a tree trunk covered in moss and lichen, and then the cones of a towering spruce tree. The moss, a soft green against the rough bark, seemed like nature’s way of nurturing the tree, offering protection and a touch of life in an otherwise harsh world. The cones, hanging in abundance from the spruce, signified a sense of continuity, of life moving forward even as the seasons change.

As I made my way, I realized this walk had been a meditation on Pam’s recovery, on the beauty of change, on the lessons nature offers in every season. Just as the trees prepare for winter and eventual rebirth, Pam too is in a season of healing, and I am grateful for every step she takes toward renewal.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Exploring Ancient Wisdom in Today’s Healing Practices

As I waited during my wife’s physical therapy session, the connection between ancient healing traditions and modern medicine revealed a journey of resilience and hope.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

Standing in the cool autumn sunlight, I find myself pacing beneath the sturdy Doric columns of this medical campus in Northeast Ithaca, waiting as Pam undergoes another session of physical therapy. The simplicity of the columns strikes me—clean, white, and unadorned. They hold up the building with a kind of timeless grace, a quiet reflection of ancient design.

The architecture of the Medical Office Campus of northeast Ithaca is graced by doric columns arrayed in a row forming a portico colonnade. The original Greek Doric columns were fluted, and had no base, dropping straight into the platform on which the temple or other building stood. The capital was a simple circular form, with some mouldings, under a square cushion that is very wide in early versions, but later more restrained. Here the form of the capital is mirrored in the base. 20 Arrowwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

Doric columns are symbols of strength and stability. In this moment, they remind me of the quiet resilience I’ve seen in Pam throughout her recovery. Each column, solid and unwavering, reflects the foundational principles that underpin both architecture and the healing arts. Just as these columns have withstood the passage of centuries, modern medicine, too, stands tall on the legacy of ancient knowledge.

As I lean against one of these pillars, I think about the deep connections between ancient civilizations and the medicine we practice today. The origins of healing reach back to the Egyptians, who understood anatomy with remarkable precision. They would have been familiar with the use of medicinal plants. It’s remarkable to think that the surgeries performed back then, basic as they were, have evolved into the complex procedures of modern times, procedures like the one that replaced Pam’s hip with the efficiency of a machine through the care of skilled hands.

10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

I look up at the sky, tracing the outline of the roof these columns support. The Greeks, with their reverence for observation, would have appreciated the rational design of this building. Hippocrates, the father of medicine, laid the groundwork for clinical observation, a method still used by the doctors caring for Pam. They probe, ask questions, and observe her movements, trying to decipher the hidden ailments within her body, much as the ancient physicians did centuries ago. It’s in this continuity that I find comfort—knowing that the doctors and physical therapists here are part of a long tradition, stretching back to Galen, who wrote about anatomy and physiology in ways that informed medical students for generations.

Modern medicine, like these columns, is a blend of the old and the new. Acupuncture, an ancient Chinese practice, is now commonly recommended for pain relief, a reminder that even today we rely on wisdom passed down through millennia. Pam’s therapists blend tradition with cutting-edge technology, using machines that track her progress and exercises that help her regain strength. Yet, at the heart of it, the human body heals the way it always has—with time, patience, and care.

As I walk the perimeter of the building, past patches of sunlight falling on the sidewalk, I’m struck by the parallels between the construction of this space and the body’s own repair. Both depend on a solid foundation. Roman innovations in public health, sanitation, and the idea of hospitals have shaped the spaces where we now seek healing. And here, in this modern medical facility, the connection to those roots feels tangible, much like the stones beneath my feet.

The name Aster comes from the Ancient Greek meaning “star”, referring to the shape of the flower head. ‘Aster’ species are used as food plants by the larvae of a number of Lepidoptera species. These asters grew wild on an otherwise landscaped medical campus. Found on an eaqrly autumn morning near 10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

Asters, blooming nearby, sway gently in the breeze. They too are resilient, much like Pam. Their purple blossoms remind me of the hope that pervades our journey. The columns stand as sentinels of a kind of knowledge that is both ancient and ever-evolving—a blend of science, history, and faith in the power of the human spirit to endure.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Life Unraveled: An Encounter with the Emerald Ash Borer

As I walked the quiet medical campus, a dying ash tree caught my eye. Its bark revealed the intricate, destructive galleries left by the relentless Emerald Ash Borer, telling a silent story of loss.

MichaelStephenWills14 Comments

Feeling the need for air, for motion I walk the grounds of a medical campus in Northeast Ithaca, New York, as my wife undergoes physical therapy following her total hip replacement. The sun is high, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn and scattered trees. There’s a certain calmness here, a space to reflect amid the quiet hustle of the healthcare world.

One tree stands out from the others. I immediately sense that something is not quite right. The branches, bare and brittle, reach out like skeletal arms against the blue sky. It’s summer—this tree should be lush, green, full of life. Yet, here it stands, a stark silhouette among the healthier trees nearby. My curiosity draws me closer, and as I circle the tree, my suspicions are confirmed: it’s an ash tree, Fraxinus americana, dying from an all-too-familiar enemy, the Emerald Ash Borer (Agrilus planipennis).

A dying ash tree on the medical campus off Warren Road, Northeast Ithaca.

The first clue is a thinning canopy. Ash trees, in their prime, have such graceful foliage, creating broad umbrellas of shade. But when they fall victim to the Emerald Ash Borer, their decline is swift and merciless. The branches I see now are devoid of leaves, save for a few stragglers clinging on in vain. The bark tells an even clearer story. Large chunks have sloughed off, revealing a labyrinth of winding, S-shaped galleries just beneath the surface. These are the telltale signs of the larvae, relentlessly feeding on the inner bark, severing the tree’s lifeline as they go.

The tunnels left by the Emerald Ash Borer (EAB) are called galleries. These S-shaped galleries are created by the larvae of the EAB as they feed on the inner bark and cambium of ash trees. The galleries disrupt the tree’s ability to transport nutrients and water, eventually leading to the tree’s death.

I pull out my phone to capture some close-up shots. The gnarled, crisscrossing tunnels that wind through the exposed wood are mesmerizing in a way, almost like a natural etching carved by the tiny jaws of the Emerald Ash Borer. They’ve created a kind of grim artwork on this dying tree, though there’s nothing beautiful about the destruction they leave behind. I know that underneath this bark, the tree’s circulatory system—the xylem and phloem—has been disrupted, no longer able to transport water or nutrients. Slowly, the tree has starved.

It’s strange how, in the middle of waiting for my wife’s recovery, I find myself thinking about life and loss in this quiet moment with the ash tree. In some ways, this frail giant mirrors what my wife has been going through. The breakdown of something once strong and vital—be it bone or tree—doesn’t happen overnight. It’s gradual, unnoticed at first, until the damage becomes too great to ignore. But while my wife’s new hip will give her strength and mobility once more, there’s no hip replacement for this ash tree. The damage here is irreversible.

I circle the tree again, and the more I look, the more I notice the signs of decline. The bark peels away easily, almost like paper, exposing more of the damaged wood beneath. In some areas, there are what look like D-shaped exit holes, where the adult Emerald Ash Borers have chewed their way out to fly off and start the cycle anew. This is what makes the battle against this invasive species so frustrating—they are small, almost insignificant in size, but the sheer numbers in which they attack, combined with their ability to spread so quickly, make them nearly impossible to stop.

Just as I’m about to walk away, a thought crosses my mind: how many more ash trees will fall to this same fate? The Emerald Ash Borer, a native of Asia, arrived in the United States sometime in the early 2000s, hitching a ride in wooden packing materials. It quickly spread across states, leaving devastation in its wake. Here in New York, the effects have been nothing short of catastrophic. Entire forests of ash are being wiped out, and this tree, standing alone on the edge of the medical campus, is just one more casualty.

I turn back toward the building, the rhythmic crunch of my footsteps on the path feeling heavier now. As my wife works to heal and rebuild her strength inside, I think about the resilience of the human body, its ability to repair, to bounce back after trauma. But for the ash tree, there is no such recovery. Without intervention—chemical treatments that are costly and often impractical on a large scale—this tree will eventually become firewood, its wood too damaged to be of much use for anything else.

It’s a sobering thought, but also a reminder. Nature’s battles, much like our own, are often unseen, quiet struggles that unfold slowly over time. Sometimes, we win, as my wife will with her new hip, but other times, like the ash tree and its silent battle with the Emerald Ash Borer, the fight is already lost.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved