looking confused
should I go
this way
or that?
wait for the wave
to rush over my feet
or run up into the hot sand?
we were so eager
get away from the
overbearing parents
always telling us
what to do
what not to
freedom seemed so appealing
back then
the adults made it look
so easy
floating on waves
dip your bill for a fish
lift up into the sky
sail through the air
but now
on our own
with my mottle-feathered gang
I'm hungry and bored
kind of cold too
missing mom and dad
While the sun shines
there is much to do
fill the woodbox
hang out laundry
mow the lawn
wash the windows
So easy to consider
all the details
making up survival
these, of course
must be done
sometime
easier in clement weather
But what about thriving?
what about joy?
caring for the soul?
lifting my spirits?
My new list
while the sun is shining:
wander in the woods
sit by the stream
soak in the golden warmth
stretch out in my hammock
paint the light
write a poem
I walk a lot
Even when arthritis is acting up
I can't help myself
There is so much that feeds me
out in the world
trees, flowers, mosses, streams, rocks
and all of the creatures
scurrying or flying away in alarm
I murmur my apologies
for upsetting the natural order of things
wishing I was more an accepted part of it all
Settling down by the stream edge
even when the water has gone underground
there is peace here
a quiet
that my soul needs
Breath by breath
blessings given and received
Aware that I am the one
most blessed
by these walks
The news today was not good for those who believe in truth, justice or mutual respect, and so I knew I needed to tread gently. The details that make up my mornings are designed to keep me on an even keel. Sit quietly with my tea and cats, meditate, read, do some puzzles. The weather was unexpectedly warm for November so I was able to sit in my rocking chair on the porch. The breezes felt so good. The sun steadily climbing in the sky shone warmly, enticing me to venture out on an early walk.
I filled my water bottle and made my way to the small stream in the woods behind my home, stopping there to pay my respects. As I offered prayers of gratitude to each direction and to a stream that was underground for the season, I knew myself to be a part of something larger than myself. The broad expanse of sky reminded me that there are certainly perspectives larger than my own. I felt myself starting to lean into that truth. I can only see the small part of truth and reality that are revealed to my own eyes and understanding.
I offered one last prayer and then stood up to start walking up the familiar dirt road. Just up the road a bit, a flicker of blue flew from one tree to another. There have been quite a few bluejays around lately, so I assumed it was one of them at first. But almost as soon as I came to that conclusion, the bird flew across the road in front of me, and then flitted from one branch to another, until I saw enough to realize this was a bluebird. At that, it landed on a branch well within my sight and turned to look at me, showing me its rusty rose-colored breast in the process, which clinched it's identification.
"Thank you," I said, holding eye contact for a while. "Thank you."
As I continued on my walk, a smile came to me, despite my gloomy thoughts. "I think I have just witnessed a bluebird of happiness trying to get my attention. I think that's a pretty good sign."
I am a part of a writing group that receives prompts each month from the librarian on Monhegan Island, a place that I return to twice yearly, and find soothing to my sense of well-being. In June, Mia asked us to send scents to each other. Most of us, despite good intentions, did not manage to do this.
But the idea of the prompt took hold of me, and while I was sitting in Gull Cove, one of my favorite places on the island, I was inspired to write about a scent that pursues me, and that I, in turn, pursue. I was nestled in a crevice in the great rocks that overlook the ocean there, comfortably supported by the warm rock, cooled by the wind, and energized by the nearby crashing waves.
It is subtle here - not as pronounced as I have experienced its cousins in other places. You have to breathe deeply, and it only comes to you at the very tail end of your breath - a small tease inviting you to try again to more fully capture its essence.
But each breath can only do so much, can only bring in air until your lungs are full, then, no more. And no matter how deep, no matter how prolonged and drawn out, no matter how fast or painstakingly slow, each breath can only offer that almost imperceptible jewel - the elusively subtle sea-salt air that is particular to Monhegan.
It is so different from the scents of Cape Cod that hit as you drive over the Sagamore, or the boisterous boardwalk-infused sea air of the Jersey Shore or even of Florida’s sun-baked beaches. Monhegan’s sea air is more retiring, unwilling to flaunt itself, and in its rarity, all the more precious.
Wishing I could capture it on a cotton ball or in a paper cup, or send it to myself in an envelope marked “Special Delivery”, I take another breath, in the hopes that I might be able call this scent to mind when I return home.
When they hatched a few weeks ago there were thirteen adorable little ones. This morning there are ten. Their numbers have been holding strong at ten for several days now, which I count as a good omen. Last year, their numbers went from a solid dozen down to two remaining ducklings by the time they were ready to go off on their own. They do live in the wilds of this suburban environment where birds of prey and unwitting humans also roam. This morning I saw them in the lawn near the lagoon, but other days I have seen them basking in a puddle in the middle of our parking lot - a far less safe place for them to wash up.
My friend and I saw them searching for tasty morsels amidst the foliage surrounding the pool a few weeks ago, and while we thought they were pretty darn cute, I have overheard other folks comment on their presence in far less complimentary ways. One evening a duckling fell into the pool and had to be rescued by a by-passer with the pool's skimming net. Suffice it to say that it makes me nervous when the ducklings so blatantly avail themselves of the condo features meant for human enjoyment.
A few years ago a wildlife specialist was hired to capture the whole bunch, mama and ducklings, in order to relocate them further from human habitation, but that ploy obviously did not have a lasting effect. And this year, no one seems to be making noises to do the same, or perhaps I am just not privy to those conversations.
These ducklings are such a sign of the season, a sign of Spring and a sign of hope. Easter cards and decorations celebrate their hopeful cuteness. It breaks my heart a little, when my headcount shows that another duckling is missing, but I can't seem to stop myself. I feel like I am one of their protectors, somehow. When I count them, I send blessings to them, along with prayers that they make their way safely through another round of the sun. It is the least I can do, in gratitude for their presence, for their perseverance in the face of the enormous odds stacked against them in this environment that is becoming increasingly inhospitable to all forms of life. Their perseverance, their presence, is just the sign of hope I was looking for today.
When we went on a walk in the early afternoon, it was pretty dark, and I did think for a moment that maybe that was the effect of the eclipse. But the clouds were thick, so I thought it could also just be one of those gloomy, cloudy fall days. There were hardly any sounds at all, and very little movement. Even the chipmunks and squirrels seemed to be hiding, despite the fact that it was still early afternoon and the temperature was pretty comfortable for small creatures to be running around in. "Hmm, I guess autumn is really starting to settle in. The birds aren't even singing," I said to Gary. It was quiet as we made our way up the road, and, honestly, it felt kind of depressing.
When I returned home, I busied myself around the house for a while, getting food ready for supper, sorting through some mail and answering texts from my daughters.
A little while later, I made my way outside again and had to stop in my tracks in wonder. What a difference! Even though it was only the tiniest bit brighter than it had been when we were on our earlier walk, we were surrounded by a literal cacophony of sound. Every variety of bird seemed to be singing and chattering up a storm. Chipmunks were running back and forth along the rock wall. It was a remarkable contrast to the rather somber mood of the natural world just a short hour before. The world was exploding with life, with sound and movement.
I was struck by the fact that the entire natural world seemed to have experienced the eclipse and responded to it instinctually. They laid low when the unnatural darkness fell over the earth, staying quiet and out of sight, but as soon as the light started to return, they went about their activities again with a renewed burst of energy and, dare I say, enthusiasm.
We may not have been able to see the eclipse today, but we sure heard it and felt it in our bones - us humans and all the earth's creatures too, it seemed. It was awesome to feel so intricately connected to the natural world by sharing in the eclipse with the birds and chipmunks and the other creatures who noticed that today was different from other days. There is something inside of each of us, that longs to be woven into the tapestry of life, to be a part of the larger whole. Today, I felt the pull of those threads.
I walked out onto our deck the other day and noticed Ayla, our black and white cat, staring reverentially at the sliding glass door. I turned to see what had caught her attention and was greeted by this Walking Stick. I watched it with much the same reverential attention as Ayla, turning to my cat to make eye contact with her and let her know I appreciated that we were sharing a special moment together.
As we watched, the insect kept crawling across the glass, onto the wood siding, and eventually across the whole side of the house. He was up pretty high, and I worried that he might fall, but I couldn't do anything about that, except to send him my good wishes and prayers for a safe journey. When he turned the corner I walked around to the other side of our house, but could not find him again.
When I looked up Walking Sticks to learn a little bit about them, I was surprised to discover that they are not at all rare, but they are masters at disguising themselves. People who make it their business to know about them claim that these insects are probably right in front of our eyes quite often. They are so good at blending in with actual sticks, trees, and leaves that we can look right at them without ever seeing them.
Those of you who know me, will understand how this idea tickled me. I am fond of the fact that we can glean wisdom from the world around us if we will only take the time and make the effort to open our eyes, ears, and minds. It is all too easy to miss the gifts of each and every moment of our lives when we are caught up in the busyness of all there is to do. We take ourselves pretty seriously, and so it can be difficult to slow down and notice what can seem to be insignificant details.
We like to think that a cursory glance can tell us enough about a place, a person, an article, or anything, really. But the truth is that taking our time to really look, and to ponder, giving ourselves enough time to discern the difference between a twig and an insect for instance, is a deeply meaningful way to make our way through a moment, a day, a lifetime.
and off he goes...
Ram Dass is known for his philosophy and book titled "Be Here Now". It is a phrase that I thought I understood when I was first introduced to it, but my earliest impression was just scratching the surface of its possible meanings. I like to think I am getting better at truly understanding it as time goes on. Days like this one, when I can reflect on so many small, interesting and beautiful things that captured my attention tell me I just might be getting closer to not just comprehending what it means to Be Here Now, but actually living it.
