What Heron Taught Me About the Circle of Life

The natural world offers beauty to us. On any given day we can look at the world around us and see something that takes our breath away, if we are open to it. It is fascinating to be in an environment that is less familiar to me, where the natural world shows itself in so many different forms than I am used to. As we drove South, it was wonderful to see the gray and white landscape give way to greens, and eventually to colorful flowers to accent those greens. Palm trees, Hibiscus flowers, exotic-looking birds, glittering turquoise ocean waves and the brisk winds associated with this part of Florida all became readily available to us as we settled into our winter home.

On a walk around a local pond, we were thrilled to see this heron standing pretty close to the observation platform located on the trail we had chosen. Binoculars and a telephoto lens meant we could see details of his appearance that we may have missed otherwise. The heron did not seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere. It stood there long after our own interests had lagged, long after we set the camera and binoculars aside and continued our walk.

Other interesting sights caught our attention as we made our way along the trail. More birds, though none let us get as good a view as our heron friend. We saw several varieties of palm trees as well. We Northerners remarked that we didn't realize just how many different kinds of palm trees there were. Some have smooth trunks while others have a remarkably intricate pattern created by their interwoven fronds. Mosses and air plants, properly called Tillandsia, of which I learned there are 650 species world-wide, hung from branches that stretched over the pathways. It felt good to walk at a slow pace, which allowed us to notice things that we might otherwise have missed. 

I was ahead of our group, poking through the branches to get closer to the pond, when I caught sight of something swimming in the water way across on the other side, pretty near our friend the heron. All of a sudden the heron moved and the next thing I saw was a long snake caught in his bill. I called Gary and the others over to see, passing the binoculars around and focusing my camera to capture the amazing story unfolding in front of us.

Gary had a hard time watching for very long. His sympathies were stretched, including both the heron and the snake. Intellectually we know that the cycle of life exists, and that life for some means death for other creatures, but it is difficult to see this play out right in front of our eyes. There is so much beauty around us, but some of this beauty is at the expense of other aspects of nature. I suppose it is good that we saw this struggle, even though it was not easy to see, because it reminds us of our indebtedness to the rest of the world for the simple gift of being alive.

Matthew Fox, theologian and author, speaking about this almost thirty years ago used the example of an orange he ate for breakfast to make a point. He said that whatever we consume becomes a part of us, so when we eat an orange we should become juicy like the orange, and offer our own juiciness to the world. In this way we pay tribute to everything that nourishes us, and recognize that we are simply part of the circle of life.

 

The Wisdom of Bluebirds

                                                                ~Photo by June Schulte

My friend June took this photo of a Bluebird who was doing his best to deal with below-zero temperatures. When you live in Vermont and it is winter time, your options for keeping warm are limited. Recently, when the temperatures dipped well below freezing, this little guy perched on a branch above a heated bird bath for the duration. Puffing his feathers out, he created as much insulation from the cold as he could muster. 

I have been spending a lot of time with Florida's birds, none of whom seem to have any trouble accepting the warm and sometimes hot weather down here. Being so close to water most of the time, they can easily dip in and cool off if that is their desire. The ocean breezes help to keep things comfortable as well, for birds and for us.

This got me to thinking about how we protect ourselves from the extremes that challenge us - extremely hot or cold weather, emotional ups and downs, and more painfully, the tragedies that sometimes touch our lives. How do we insulate ourselves so that we have the protection we need? How do we ensure that we are not thrown too far off balance by the challenges that come our way?

Sometimes I wish I was like this little Bluebird and could puff up my feathers to create a soft cushion around me. Seeing him got me to thinking about what we humans can do for ourselves when the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" whiz around our ears. What stands in the place of fluffy feathers for us?

Companionship is possibly the strongest protection we have. Family, friends, companion animals, co-workers, other folks who know something about what we are facing. Each of these offers support to us when we need it, and each offers different kinds of accompaniment, depending on their particular gifts and on our relationship with them. Some are good listeners, others offer deep wisdom, some are active and get us moving when we need that, while others are good cozy company when we need to curl up for awhile. 

For me, companionship also comes in the mysterious form of the Holy. Call this God, Spirit, All-That-Is - whatever strikes a chord with your own inner knowing. Even after years of ministering, and of praying my way through a humbling array of crises, the Holy shows up in my life, my mind and my heart in a wide variety of ways. Even now, a simple name does not manage to wrap this Presence up for me in any kind of authentic way. But I know I am held in this Holy Presence, always.

Quite some time ago when I was going through a rough patch, a dear friend guided me to imagine myself surrounded by rose colored light, she described it as an egg-shaped rose quartz. This was meant to provide protection from any outside elements that challenged me and also to be a source of strength so that I could face those challenges with courage. It helped, so I return to this practice whenever I feel the need for a little extra protection, a little extra courage. 

When I surround myself with this light, I feel the presence of all of my companions in life - the mysterious presence of God, Spirit, All-That-Is and the earthier presence of dear family and friends. In this way, I feel held in Love. As I get ready to take whatever step seems the next right thing to do, I am held in Love. If I need to curl up and sit tight for a while as the sweet Bluebird in this picture is doing, I can do that with a sense of peace. Knowing that no matter what, the love of family, friends and the Holy surrounds me now and always, gently guiding me, never judging, always holding me close.

Bird Picnic

Birds have many faces and facets. I am sure this is not news to anyone reading this blog. Each of us has our own way of seeing them and of interacting with them. Some folks are so interested in birds as companions that they personify them and their activities, seeking meaning in everything they do. I have to admit that Gary and I, although perhaps Gary a bit more than me, fall into this category. We sit on the balcony that overlooks an inland waterway and watch a wide variety of birds pass by, commenting on what they are doing and often questioning "why?"

The incident happened when Gary and I were taking our usual afternoon walk on Juno Beach. The winds were strong, buffeting us as we walked with them one way and against on our return journey. The rip tide was strong and waves so intense that only surfers dared to do more than walk along the shoreline. It was invigorating to walk along, flirting with the water, feeling the occasional strong pull on my legs when a deeper than usual wave caught me off guard.

On the return trip, as we got closer to our chairs, I noticed a crow sitting on mine and said to Gary, "Hmm, he is making himself right at home, isn't he?" We laughed a little and then kept walking closer. A minute later I noticed that there was a lot of commotion around our chairs and backpacks. "What is going on over there?" I asked Gary, pointing at the confusion of crows and seagulls with a sinking feeling. 

Gary started running toward our things, calling back as he went, "I left my bag of trail mix out!" 

Sure enough, there were bird footprints all around our chairs, a few brave crows and seagulls stood their ground, but most flew off having achieved their goal long before we returned. The bag of nuts and dried fruit was no where to be found. Gary sat down in his chair before I could warn him of another sign of the birds' presence that stained the fabric of said chair. Both of us ended up hauling our chairs into the waves to wash them down, scrubbing as best we could to remove any lingering stains. 

Sitting in our now-clean, but wet chairs, one particular crow continued to fly closely over our heads while a few seagulls picked at the seaweed a couple feet away. They were keeping an eye on us, hoping for more free food, but we were pretty determined that this particular dream of theirs was not to be. Any remaining food was carefully zipped in the recesses of our cooler.

With a little dark humor, I pointed out that I had noticed both white and reddish-brown guano on our chairs, indicating both seagull and crow guests at our humble picnic. In the 19th Century bird guano was transported all over the world and valued as the best fertilizer available. We had clearly missed the window of opportunity to make use of the gifts those birds left behind.

Man-O-War Anxiety

Portuguese man-o-war got their name because someone imagined that they look like an 18th century Portuguese battleship under full sail. I am not sure of the conditions that bring them to the shore, but they show up pretty often on the beaches here in Southeastern Florida. When that happens, a purple flag of warning hangs from the lifeguard stand on affected beaches. You can still swim, if you choose, but your choice may involve getting stung by the tentacles that stretch out up to 30 feet from the floating creature itself. This makes swimming feel especially fraught to me. 

The chance of seeing a man-o-war while you are in the water is slight enough, with all of the wave action and given the fact that your eyes are close to sea level themselves, but knowing that their sticky tentacles are so far reaching pushes the risk factor up exponentially. Suffice it to say that I don't usually swim when the purple flag flies. I do, however, walk the shoreline, careful to avoid the bloated blueish bodies littering my path. 

One day when the purple flag flew, Gary was walking, presumably without my hyper-attentiveness and he stepped on one. A loud POP! startled him out of his reverie. If it were me, I would have rushed to the water to rinse off my foot and then nervously looked for signs of the stinging venom they are known to possess. When I asked him what happened afterward, he laughed and said, "nothing." 

"What?" I asked, "didn't it sting? Wasn't there some kind of jelly stuck to your foot?"

"Nope. Turns out it was full of air. It just popped. Made me jump a little from the sound, but it didn't hurt in any way. No sting, no nothing." He laughed at himself, recalling again how he had reacted to the loud sound of it popping under his foot.

I laughed with him a little, but honestly found it hard to believe that Gary's encounter was that innocuous, after all of the built up anxiety that surrounded the creatures for me. I started thinking about the unsettling fact that often the things I worry about, just like those man-o-war lying on the shore, are no more than so much hot air. How often does all of the anxiety and worry built up around something I fear turn out to be a bloated, benign balloon of absolutely nothing?

Doing some research, I discovered that the tentacles of beached man-o-war can and do sting, so beach combers are cautioned to avoid stepping on or near them for this reason. So, I can comfort myself, if I feel the need to justify myself, with the thought that my fear of them is appropriate after all. But, like the choice I often make to walk in the shallow waves even when the purple flag flies, I can also choose not to let my fear ramp up into anxiety that takes away the casual joy of walking on a sandy beach in Florida. I can choose to focus on the joy, and maybe even appreciate the beauty of those blueish to pink man-o-war dotted among the shells and seaweed.

 

My Seagull Friend

I was sitting on the beach yesterday, reading a book and minding my own business when this young seagull alighted on the sand a few feet away from me. I turned to look at him, smiled and said something like "I don't have anything for you, buddy," knowing that gulls are often drawn in when a person is eating, but demonstrating that I did not have any food for him or for me.  

I returned to reading my book at which point he took a few steps toward me. When I looked up from my book to take a closer look at him, he looked at me, all innocence. He was young, I could tell that because his head still had the scattering of light brown spots that gulls have for their first year or so. He was so close I could see his yellow legs and noticed the rubbery, slightly grubby texture of them, like a child's toy that had been dragged from place to place accumulating a bit of dirt along the way. 

We looked at each other for a while longer. He took breaks to poke his beak into his shoulder feathers and satisfy an itch, while I glanced back at my book now and then. My book was good, but to be honest it could not compete with the proximity of my seagull friend who persisted in standing at my shoulder, sneaking closer step by step when he thought I wasn't looking.

As he crept nearer, I got a chance to see his beak close up, and was careful to keep my hands tucked in my lap, unsure just how far our friendship would take us, not knowing what role a beak plays in seagull-human relationships. He might think he was just reaching out with a friendly gesture, while for me it could result in a painful nip. At this point, he bent his head down toward the sand and started to screech. "Gosh, his mouth is absolutely bright orange!" I noticed as he verbalized his frustration. 

He flew off and landed a little ways down the beach. I thought that was probably the end of our little encounter, but after a minute or two of poking around the sand down there, he flew back to his sentry post at my shoulder. He looked me in the eye as if to re-establish our rapport, and took a few steps toward me again. At that point he looked away. It seemed studied to me, as if he was attempting to adopt a carefree attitude about whether I was glad to see him or not.

"How are you doing, buddy?" I asked, wanting to put him at ease and reassure him of our continuing bond. I started wondering if he might have been one of those young gulls I saw just days after hatching on Monhegan Island back in June. Gary had returned to his seat next to me by then so together we wondered about gulls and migration. Would a gull born in Maine make his way to Florida for the winter? I had no idea, but I was trying to make sense of the interest this young guy was showing toward me.

For the next hour or so he continued to stand nearby watching me intently, sometimes taking breaks to fly off down the beach for an interaction with another gull, or to shake off some of the excess energy he must have been building up by standing at my shoulder for so long. But he kept coming back.

When it came time for Gary and I to leave I felt like I was abandoning a friend. I assumed he would fly off when we stood up and started packing up our chairs, but no, he stood right there watching us. Even as we walked away, offering encouragement as we left. I worried that he would stand there and watch us until we were out of sight. My heart was already feeling sad at leaving him, and I didn't think I could take it if he kept looking at me so intently. 

When we were about ten feet away, he started moving as if to follow us, but then stopped at a pile of seaweed and started picking it apart, looking for something to eat, I assume. Seeing that he had something new to hold his attention, I felt more comfortable leaving. "Maybe we will see you another day, buddy!" I called out, and who knows, maybe we will?

 

...And Every One, Unique

Gary and I arrived at one of our favorite beaches at low tide the other day. The sheer quantity of shells caught my breath. Searching for shells under normal conditions, when they are scattered sparsely across the wide sandy landscape, is one thing. It becomes something very different when you are confronted with such an abundance of riches. 

You may have noticed that when you are looking for shells on a beach, it is the rare ones that capture your attention. Shells seem to lose their cache' when surrounded by seemingly thousands of lookalikes. Ironically, and sadly to my mind, this is true even of colorful and intriguingly shaped ones. 

To counteract this, I find that I want to appreciate each shell for itself, for the beauty it offers in the pattern of color that sweeps across it, or the unique design of the material from which it is formed. This became more of a possibility for me today when we again arrived at the beach at low tide. Instead of setting up my fitness device to start measuring steps as I usually do, I made the conscious decision not to think of this as a form of exercise. 

I simply started walking. Actually, I started wandering down the shoreline where the waves were receding. As one does in meditation, I cultivated a soft gaze. I was not actively looking for anything, I was simply opening myself up to the time and place, availing myself of the opportunity to take in whatever caught my attention. 

As I walked, I felt peaceful. I didn't feel the need to rush or to arrive at some particular destination. The shells shone up at me from the sand, and I felt like I really saw each one. I noticed colors and shapes. I stopped often to pick up a shell that seemed especially interesting so that I could feel its texture. Some were brittle and paper thin, which others had what seemed to be years worth of accumulation built up on the original shell. Some were intact while others were mere fragments of their former selves, having been pounded by the relentless waves tossing them up on the shore and drawing them back into the water over and over again.

The uniqueness of each shell reminded me of the value of seeing myself and others as I was learning to see and appreciate the shells, as unique and beautiful. This is true even if we are a bit brittle or broken at times. That soft gaze I spoke of at the beginning of my walk, the one I learned in meditation, helps me look at myself and others with the eyes of the heart rather than just in physical terms. This is probably the best gift we can give each other. It is also a pretty amazing gift we can give to ourselves, to see and recognize the unique beauty we bring to the world around us.