O, what beauty resides in you -

Pecan trees are scattered throughout the Texas neighborhood where I live. They are reported to be the only tree nut native to America. During recent walks, I've picked up quite a collection that have fallen into the streets. What has always fascinated me about the pecan trees where I grew up in Louisiana, and now the ones here, is that each tree produces its own signature pecan. You can see in the photos how much variation there is just among the trees within a few blocks of each other. The nuts on any one tree tend to be very similar to each other, but each tree has its own distinctive brand, its own genetic code.

Tonight, I taste-tested a couple. The flavor varies with size and shape. The big, paper-shelled was less sweet, but was complex, with some bitterness in after taste. One of the smaller, rounder pecans had a sweet, resonant flavor.

There is something highly satisfying about picking pecans, something that goes way back to our hunting and gathering days, I suspect, when food was more valuable than coins. Abundant, nutritious, tasty, filling food in their own storage compartments that keep them fresh over time. Food that just falls into your path! What treasure.

And if that weren't enough, there's evidence to suggest pecans help lower cholesterol, maintain a healthy weight, and protect brain health.

like an astronaut
you can ride a
fuel burning rocket,
or you can
sail into space
on the note of a song

Give me words
and the reply came
in the grinding of a disposal
the trembling of a candle
the murmur of a TV
through a thin apartment wall

it's a cold night
and a downy woodpecker
finds warmth in the
hollow of a broken tree limb

a circle of narrow shoulders
bears the weight of the world
if only for an hour

carvings far from their African origins
confuse intruders -
they cannot sense their target
and wander away in the dark
stumbling on the roots of oaks

molten heat flows through my chest -
words come -
dim reflections
of the powerful shift of tides
the volcanic melting of ice

Late this afternoon, nested in the middle of the neighborhood, we found a one-acre cemetery that dates back to 1845. Dry, spindly trees fragment the light that strikes the stones. An informal description on the internet surmises about 100 people are buried there, with only half the gravestones still in place. Some of the markers are broken, illegible. It's a family cemetery where people might engrave a stone 'Aunt Jane' with an expectation that people will know who Aunt Jane was, and who the niece or nephew was that procured the stone. But, like with Twitter, we must now recreate their stories from a few syllables, a date.

The photo above, which I took earlier in the day, contrasts with the cemetery. It's a fair depiction of how life can present itself in this century, a fractured kaleidoscope of imagery, noise, distraction, opportunity, brand names, and pavement; beauty in churning chaos.

Perhaps a mile away, the cemetery sits, earthy, not clamoring for attention.

Louis Black has been blogging for the Austin Chronicle since long before there was any such creature as a blog. His commentary is thoughtful, and often touches both the lyrical and concrete aspects of life, the feelings and the straightforward scoop.

Here are a couple of quotes from this week’s offering:

‘No matter how good you get at whatever it is you do, if you care about it, the stress never really lessens. The insane edges smooth out, the monstrous fears that eat your gut and puke out nightmares all night shift to a much lower gear, but caring means you never relax…’

That said, he adds,

‘One should love and take pride in his or her work, but it’s best not to let it kill you.’