Weekend Woods

The evening of my fortieth birthday was spent devouring homemade ravioli with the whole family. It was a perfect way to usher in the new decade. The icing on the cake, so to speak, was the moment we heard the children and their cousins call from Papa and Noni's backyard woods, "Five deer!!!" Well, you better believe I whipped out my camera. It was getting dusky, so I had trouble getting a great shot (I really wanted to capture them all), but you get the idea. My dad mentioned that there are two does and three fawns that visit often. The bucks are somewhere out there, but we rarely see them.

I had been standing motionless for so long, watching deer from the deck, that a hummingbird came right up to me and had a bit of a snack. Click. I love this about my parents' woodland home.

The next day, Sunday, was pleasantly warm and sunny. I stepped out for an afternoon walk, thinking I'd make it a brisk one. But the day begged for leisure. I slowed my pace and enjoyed taking in the familiar scenery around the wetlands.

"This is what I had come for, just this, and nothing more."

(Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek) 

The geese were out in full force. I counted twenty, the most I've ever seen at our pond.

Even the elusive Great Blue Heron was tip-toeing about, his long neck bobbing slowly up and down, back and forth. I hope to one day stay long enough to carefully observe his habits and routines. He usually keeps to the middle of the pond (if he comes at all), but he does sometimes venture toward land. I hope my camera is handy when he does.

As I wrapped up my stroll, I stood for a few minutes to watch and listen to the production the vireos seemed to be rehearsing in the trees. It was elaborate and poetic with a hint of frenzy. I was mesmerized to the point that I was quite startled when I heard a rustling in the grass near my feet. My first thought was . . . snake! But the sleek tail trailing through the tall grass reassured me. Another cat. This one was a bit more timid than the others I've met on the path. Can you tell?

I revised my final route, curious about one particular corner of the wetlands. I was treated to a stunning yellow bouquet, at the center of which was a busy little fellow. I couldn't help but think of the 1715 children's poem by Isaac Watts:

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!

That little busy bee didn't know it was Sunday. He had work to do. But I knew what day it was, and I enjoyed the rest, the quiet. I finally glanced at the time and realized I'd been gone for nearly an hour. My feet turned homeward as my heart murmured thank you to my Father, the Creator of "each shining hour."  

Mornings Are For the Birds

When our oldest, Drew, was in preschool, he was fascinated by birds. My dad, also an avid bird watcher, bought a field guide for him, and the two would sit side by side poring over the pages, studying chickadees, woodpeckers, finches and sparrows. They'd stand on the deck, pointing out and identifying each warbler, siskin and nuthatch that flew into view, and that field guide became more and more worn with every passing season.

Black-capped chickadee from Bird Songs

I'm thankful for the hobby that developed between Drew and Papa, in part because it encouraged me to tune in to the birds around me as well. Indeed, as I walk the wetlands near our home, it is the birds that most often catch my attention, especially in the morning.

The sunlight speaks, and its voice is a bird:

It glimmers half-guessed, half-seen, half-heard.

H.H. Kemp

I'm still working to identify many of them, but I have learned to pay close attention to coloring, song, and the shape of the tail so I can later look up those which are unfamiliar.

This morning as I approached the first lawn at the park, I saw what I assumed were three robins hopping around in search of worms. Upon closer inspection, I saw that one of them was actually a Northern Flicker. I always get just a little bit excited when I happen across a Flicker. I later spied a couple (I never see more than one or two together), and got close enough to sort of snap a picture. 

The ducks were dabbling as usual, diving for greens and preening their feathers. A couple of female mallards came out to sun themselves on a log while others wove a path among the reeds.

The crows were up to their usual rakish behavior. One lucky fellow snatched up a dragonfly for breakfast. I was both fascinated and repulsed by the shimmering wings protruding rudely from its beak.

It was breakfast time all around the pond, for I also saw a triumphant Scrub Jay holding a hazel nut in its beak. He dropped it on the ground and tap-tap-tapped at the shell until it cracked open, then flew into a nearby tree to enjoy the sweet meat. 

My final lap revealed a sleek black cat prowling through someone's back yard. I slowly approached, hoping to snap a picture (my Avery loves cats). He didn't seem to mind, so I came a bit closer, waiting to observe the morning habits of this feline. 

I expected to see perhaps the bathing of a paw or the stretching of the back. Instead I heard a sickening crunch of the teeth as it worked its mouth around something . . . well, something crunchy. It then occurred to me that mornings aren't just for the birds, but also for the cats who hunt them. 

Where Fairies Ride

The prediction that afternoon temperatures would soar into the 90s led me to walk earlier today, enjoying the company of the more gentle, rising sun. The pond world is a different world at 7:30 a.m., and I must say I like it.

Peace comes dropping slow, 

dropping from the veils of the morning.

W.B. Yeats

A delicate mist rose from the surface of the water as the ducks took their morning bath. The crows were as brazen and brash as ever, showing no appreciation whatsoever for morning meditation. (I don't care for crows.) The geese and heron which I had seen yesterday were nowhere in sight.

Nearly every twist and turn in the path glimmered with the handiwork of industrious spiders. The dew on each silver thread was the "glisten" that I hoped I'd see in some shape or other today.

Of a Spider
Wilfrid Thorley

The spider weaves his silver wire
Between the cherry and the brier.

He runs along and sees the thread
Well-fastened on each hawser-head.

And then within his wheel he dozes
Hung on a thorny stem of roses,

While fairies ride the silver ferry
Between the rose-bud and the cherry.

I was alone on the path today, except for another autumnal lady . . . who looked rather familiar. Even though her legs resembled tree trunks.

A chattering flock of vireos startled me as I rounded the last bend. They lighted on the branches of the Hawthorn tree, tempting with its bright red berries. Dozens of the little sage-yellow birds darted from branch to branch, warbling a cheerful morning song that echoed across the fields as I stepped homeward.

Vireo gilvus

The Suburban Diary of an Autumnal Lady

"What did you see, Mom?" They're catching on pretty quickly, these children of mine. It's happened often enough now that they anticipate me. It used to be that I'd return from my walk around the pond with a merry holler, "Ask me what I saw!" They'd humor me by saying (in unison, the dears), "What did you see, Mom?"

But I don't need the intro anymore. They cut to the chase, they're ready to see through my eyes, to hear through my ears. "What did you see?!"

This simple routine has forced me to be more alert, appreciative, and sensitive to my environment, even though I usually walk the same route every day. It fascinates me that I still manage to see or hear something new virtually every time my Nikes step onto the wetland path. And so I walk in eager anticipation, ready to see, ready to hear.

As I walked the other day, my mind returned (as it often does) to the beautiful 1906 nature journal of Edith Holden, The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady. Her faithful recording of frequent jaunts through the English woodlands and hillsides along with stunning watercolor paintings of the flora and fauna she discovered along the way have been an inspiration to me ever since I first admired the volume on my friend's tea table. Several years ago I found my own copy, and I continue to bask in the loveliness of each page, finding delight throughout each season of the year.

So as I was walking, I found myself wishing I was an artist, wishing I could keep a journal of these little sights and sounds around our neighborhood pond which never cease to bring a thrill to my nature-loving heart. I can be slow at times, but it finally dawned on me (I think it was around pond lap three) that perhaps this journal didn't need to be created with a paintbrush and pen. Perhaps it could be created . . . with a blog. The posts could be brief . . . perhaps with a photo or two . . . a poem or verse here and there . . . yes, it could be my very own modern nature diary.

And so this journal began to take shape. The timing was perfect, really. My husband had been challenging each one of us to think about some goals we'd like to work toward over the new school year. Among my goals are a desire to spend more time outside and the determination to be more diligent about getting exercise (especially when winter hits). I'm hoping this space encourages me -- and even forces me at times -- to do that.

Further inspiration took hold of me when I casually referred to "my pond" as "The Lake of Shining Waters" in a facebook post the other day. (Anne of Green Gables devotees will recognize the name.) A friend sent me a quote that suited the occasion beautifully:

Everything in the landscape about them spoke of autumn. The Lake of Shining Waters was blue -- blue -- blue; not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, steadfast, serene blue, as if the water were past all moods and tenses of emotion and had settled down to a tranquillity unbroken by fickle dreams.

~Anne of the Island~

Part of the beauty and hope in this struck me quite personally. Just a ripple or two more on the pond and I'll be forty. I sense that this means I'm moving toward the autumn of my life. But I'm okay with that. You see, I want to be like the autumnal Lake of Shining Waters: clear, steadfast, serene, settled, tranquil. I want the autumn of my life to be characterized by a peaceful, beautiful spirit of joyful contentment . . . even if the winds are whipping about me, even if the days are grey, even if the skies are dumping buckets.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee.

S.T. Coleridge 

Again, I'm hoping this space encourages me to do that. I'm hoping it reminds me to chase the beauty, to gaze in awe at the glistening tokens nestled in the common, to keenly discern the reassuring murmurs in the overpowering tumult.

I read a poem once that resonated with this desire. I can't find the source (please tell me if you know where it comes from -- google has failed me), but it somehow stayed with me and became the theme of this blog:

Whether you look
Or whether you listen,
You hear life murmur,
Or see it glisten.

And so I'm off to look and listen, to seek joy in the discovery and contentment in each season's rhythms, to delight in the things of our Creator which ever so faithfully "murmur and glisten."