Just Another Rainy Day

A line from a popular '70's song ran: “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.” People tend to sulk on rainy days or they get depressed. The media guys slink around like it’s somehow their fault the kids can’t go to the park (or wherever kids go these days who don’t have a play date).

I don’t care what day of the week it is; I love rainy days. I love watching the raindrops punctuating the deck, the mist surrounding the trees standing sentinel in the back yard, the dark feathers of the Titmice and the Chickadees as they shake themselves off and hop onto the feeders and calling: “Peter, peter, peter....,” “Chicka-dee-dee-dee….”

There is something comforting watching rainwater stream over the driveway to collect at the feet of a dry pine. It gratifies me to see a gray squirrel lean over a puddle to slake its thirst. The early morning dog walkers stroll down the street with their rainbow umbrellas while their pets sniff newly moistened grasses.

My fairy garden, a small collection of Bleeding Heart, Lily of the Valley and Mayapple, explode from their winter hibernation. I can hear them singing as they reach out to the greening earth. They are at their best in the rain—all wet and full of sequins; it is their finest hour.

A rainy day comforts me too. During a recent dry “soul spell,” I opened the door to the deck one morning to one of the rainiest, windiest days we had had in months. The breeze was clean and cold and full of energy. The rain pattered into the dining room as if inviting itself in for breakfast. I stood there for a long time, soaking it in and feeling it seep into the dry cracks of my spirit. From the looks of it, I could tell the rain would continue for hours. Without another thought, I picked up the telephone and canceled my plans for the day. Then, instead of sliding the glass door closed to keep the rain from sprinkling inside, I piled towels on the floor and left it open to allow the wind and rain to join me in spontaneous solitude. I spent the entire day in the embrace of every hour, and was baptized by the rain into a new and steady wholeness. I watched the sky turn from steel to ash-white to marbled gray.

Finally, to the last strains of Marlene Small’s honest voice singing, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the clouds broke and the sun streamed through to bring its own benediction. It was one of those unexpected gifts you get when you least expect and most need them.

It was just another rainy day. Just another amazing miracle.

The Hummingbirds Are Back!

A flash of miniature wings on the deck this morning. What was that? Could it be…?

The Ruby Throated Hummingbirds are back!

Right on schedule, sipping from the feeder to welcome them back. It has been waiting for them since mid-April. I have been tracking them for weeks on the on-line radar, http://www.woodcreeper.com. My final claim to spring depends upon the arrival of a bird that is four inches long, weighs 1/100^th of an ounce, has a five-inch wing span and flies 1,850 miles from its winter haven in Central America to its nesting grounds in the eastern United States. It is a miracle of miracles. I can only sit back in astonishment that it happens at all, and yet it does, every year.

Over the years, I have received generous gifts of artfully designed hummingbird feeders; feeders with long, loopy stems and swirling rainbow designs, but the hummers clearly prefer the cheap plastic ones from Walmart and fight each other for a toe-hold on one of the tiny perches.

I make my own “nectar”and NEVER use red dye—the red plastic on the feeder is enough to lure them in. They don’t need useless food additives any more than we do. As soon as the weather is warm enough, our deck will be piled high with hummingbird food options anyway; some of which are listed here: red buckeye (Aesculus pavia), jewelweed, columbine (Aquilegia canadensis), trumpet creeper (Campsis radicans), red morning-glory (Ipomea coccinea), trumpet- or coral-honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens), fly-honeysuckle (Lonicera canadensis), cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis), catchflies (Silene) and fire-pink (Silene virginica).

My hummingbird “juice” is from a recipe published by Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology http://www.birds.cornell.edu/. Here is great information from their “Bird Notes” publication (1997):

In a small saucepan:

Add ¼ cup white sugar to one cup of water. (IMPORTANT: Use only table sugar, NOT honey-it promotes the growth of mold and bacteria). Bring the mixture to a boil, then let it cool. Fill the feeder and store any extra in the refrigerator. During fall migration, when many hummers are passing through my area on their way back to Central America, they sip their way through at least a quart a day, so I triple the batch.

Hummingbirds also eat small insects, especially during breeding and nesting season, so feeders function as supplements, not as their sole food supply source. Since insects are scarce yet in early spring, backyard feeders can help fill the gap until the warm weather bugs are out and about.

Sugar water can get icky after a few days, especially in the sun. It would be a hell of a thing for a poor hummer to sicken from my food after flying almost 2,000 miles relatively unscathed, so I am fussy about clean feeders. Every three days I dump the solution in the sink, then “scour” the feeder by filling it partially with hot water and a half a handful of white rice, then shake it vigorously. I do not use soap of any kind—residue can be harmful.

So, I can now believe spring is here, and the portals to summer are about to open. The hummingbirds are back, and the earth has turned once more. Alas, there are powers afoot that are greater than we are….

Friends

Ah….the value of friends. These are the people who keep my feet on the ground when I float too many balloons of unrealistic expectations. They are the ones who baldly say:

“You’re going to do what? Are you kidding me? Have you thought of this, or that, or taken into consideration that you have lost your mind?”

These are the people in my life who make an insane world make sense. They are my personal truth tellers, keepers of my joy, guardians of my spirit. These are the ones who sometimes know me better than I know myself and aren’t afraid to say so.

Much has been written about friends; best friends, lost friends, betrayed friends, newly discovered friends. We all have stories about friends when we were little, tales of grade school friends, friends we graduated high school with, friends we learned about boys with, friends we have traveled with, friends we have laughed and cried with. We have friends we have lived with who have moved on, and friends who have faded away. We have friends who have died. Friends are the people who hold our histories, the ones we are grateful to walk with and who add to our treasure trove of truth.

Friends stand witness to choices both good and bad, who rejoice with us in times of richness and hold us in times of sorrow. These are the folks who honor my existence by accepting the same gifts from me. It is no small thing for someone to say, “I need your help,” and then wait for me to give it to them. How I cherish those opportunities to stand by the well for another and stand witness to their evolving lives, as others have stood by me.

So, this one is for you, my friends. I hope you are smiling. You know who you are. You are birders, bloggers, writers, horsewomen, cat people, dog people, lovers of wildlife people, readers, co-workers, family. Your laughter and your tears, your words and your silences are forever woven into who I am now. I am grateful to walk through this amazing experience of life with you. Without my friends, life would just not make any sense at all.

A Sense of Wonder

Journal Entry

“I have been looking forward to this week of vacation. It is an opportunity to really look, to become immersed and involved in the smallest detail of nature. To allow my sense of wonder and curiosity full rein, to listen to the poetry of the breezes and meld my spirit into one in perfect harmony with God’s Law. To learn about myself, so that as water will always run downhill because it is its nature to do so, I can move as easily and joyously and as perfectly because it is my nature to do so.”

This was written in anticipation of a week at Silver Bay YMCA of the Adirondacks http://www.silverbay.org/while attending a series of nature workshops sponsored by the National Wildlife Federation. My girlfriend and I attended one every year in different parts of the United States to learn about the plants, wildlife, habitat and challenges of the local environments. Not only did we stay at Silver Bay YMCA, we also traveled to North Carolina, http://www.blueridgeassembly.org/ and Colorado, http://www.ymcarockies.org/home/our-locations/EPC. There were hundreds of adults and children at these conferences, yet the staff working for both the conference centers and the National Wildlife Federation made us feel unique and special. These were some of best vacations I have ever enjoyed. They introduced me to my own sense of wonder. They instilled the desire to learn, to experience, to appreciate, to hold, to pray, to be amazed, and to recognize the small miracles that make up every day.

(Sometimes, you just have to go away to these places and let them take care of the humdrum stuff so you can shuck off the daily duties of cooking, cleaning and earning a living. These conference centers are stunning in their natural beauty, offer delicious cuisine {you don’t even have to do the dishes!} and all the space you need to restore your own sense of wonder, either in the natural world, or in your relationships, or both…).

The concept of a “sense of wonder” has been around for a while but I have noticed it usually refers to children’s education. That is important, but then I think: What about an adult’s sense of wonder? Does it evaporates after you reach voting age? Don’t old, wrinkled faces delight in seeing the reflection of a buttercup under a loved one’s chin? (If you see gold, it means they like butter….). If you are over 50 years old, would you not want to know that heady amazement at the sight of a soaring Bald Eagle?

I am all for the hands-on education of children but want to raise a hand of my own to point out that plenty of mature adults are willing to get down on their hands and knees to sniff out a miniature nature trail. Just because some of us might be a tad jaded in the world of grownups does not mean we are dead to the spice of wonder, or refuse the nectar of the gods when it is offered. An adult’s sense of wonder is more grounded in the reality that the moment must be savored, cherished, left unpicked so it can thrive and grow. An adult’s sense of wonder can open doors of possibility because they have the life experience to save parks, lobby for conservation, incorporate green habits into their daily lives. A sense of wonder is a stepping stone, an important tool for learning that we have as human beings, regardless of how many years we have walked this planet.

In fact, it would be pretty neat to develop a Sense of Wonder for Mature Adults program, and sign up men and women to do the cool things the kids have so much fun doing: unravel an owl pellet, follow the wing pattern of a sphinx moth, call out the names of the star constellations on a summer night.

Just for the wonder of it.

The Gift of Showing Up

Last evening, a friend called to tell me she had put her dog to sleep. Euthanasia. She made the decision to end her beloved dog’s suffering. Now her own grief can proceed, after having been delayed by the agony of indecision.

Our conversation was punctuated by sudden sobs as the waves of loss rose and sank. There were tears on both ends of the telephone. She told me about her Sparky, how she had found him 17 years ago almost frozen to death in the wheelwell of her car in the parking lot and how she nursed him back to health. She proudly told me about his “job” to bark and warn the household of intruders. “He did his job well,” she smiled. “He never failed me.”

“And you never failed him,” I added. “Even when it was the hardest moment of your life, you didn’t fail him. You made the right decision.”

More tears on both ends.

Animals folk who have been faced with the death of a beloved animal naturally gravitate to others who have walked that painful path. Despite increased social sensitivity to the process of grieving, there is still the stigma of, “Well, it’s not like it was a person, you know. Get another dog (or cat, or horse).”

Like they’re all the same.

We gravitate to each other, this little underground of People Who Love Animals. I am grateful my friend called me. I am even more grateful for the opportunity to be a conduit for healing, for the chance to show up and be present for someone in pain. It is deeply humbling to push my Self aside to leave room for a purer spirit to move in to do the work of listening.

So that’s it—a short blog today about the beauty we give each other. “Sparky” will live on as a little piece in all of us.

http://murmuringtrees.blogspot.com/2008/04/agony-of-indecision.html

Amen.

My Inner Quilter

I have discovered my inner quilter. She wakes up when I accompany my mother or my sister to their favorite fabric store haunts. They are magicians with the craft and I have become comfortable with some of the quilting lingo: Log Cabin, Bear Claw, appliqué, quilting stitch, batting, backing. But nothing brings out my inner quilter more than walking into a clean, sunlit room filled with rainbow racks of fine cotton. I anticipate being bored on these little excursions, but instead am drawn into the sensuality of color: emerald, violet, mustard, umber, teal, gold, blue. The brilliant imaginations of artists are displayed through the designs: lions, tigers, bears, horses, roses, daisies, exotic plants twirling in and out of graceful bamboo stems, rainbow swirls, dove gray bubbles on ivory. My eyes rake over the feast, drawing in my favorites into one magical piece in my mind. I have a quilt in me somewhere waiting to come out. Unfortunately, it will have to wait until I have time because of one teeny, weeny piece:

I don’t know how to sew.

I can’t seam a straight line.

Before my inner quilter can grow up, we will have to take care of that little detail.

I have a way with a needle. I can do just about any embroidery stitch you hand over. My shelves are filled with counted cross stitch and needlepoint pattern books. I was just never interested in s-e-w-i-n-g. The process of pattern cutting, pinning, cutting and stitching is one great, big yawn.

Except for an eighth grade home economics class where I was forced to manufacture a green corduroy jumper that made me look like the frozen broccoli box version of the Jolly Green Giant, I have neither the knowledge nor the desire to toil over zipper insertions, buttonholes, darts, pleats or inseams. If the hem unravels on my trousers, double-sided tape works great. If I find a hole in a favorite tee shirt, well, why did God create iron-on patches?

When I accompanied my mother on a little jaunt to Sandy’s Quilt Shop, http://www.sandysquiltshopllc.com, in Harbour Heights, Florida, I was captivated by the dazzling array of patterns and colors of hundreds of fabric bolts standing at attention on the shelves like tall, soft books. The little store was filled with natural light so the colors could show their true selves. There was the fresh smell of clean wood, and there were a few customers who had already stacked up their choices on the cutting board. The piled fabrics were a gourmet of color. I wanted to eat them.

My inner quilter took out her credit card and bought the nucleus of her stash, this year’s Hoffman’s Challenge; http://www.hoffmanchallenge.com/2008challenge/2008main.htm.

Keeping in mind that my inner quilter is also a birder, who could resist? I bought two yards and have no clue what to do with it. But like good quilters everywhere, this fabric is part of a plan greater than myself….

"You Just Missed It"

Fortunately, Continental Airlines has managed to keep its fleet sound enough to keep flying, so I am in Southwest Florida visiting Mom & Dad for a few days. For my $244, I got to fly a thousand miles and munch on a bag of mini pretzels.

I bring my own sandwiches on flights, not trusting their packaged fodder. And after watching an Oprah show about some 14 year-old whiz kid who discovered that airline ice cubes had more bacteria per pound than your average toilet, I avoid ice in my drinks as well.

As the plane descended into Fort Myers airport, I chatted with the woman next to me. She and her husband were from Minnesota. They live in Minneapolis/St. Paul but had a get-away cabin further north. They were expecting a blizzard this coming Friday. I raised my eyebrows but they merely shrugged.

“Minnesota,” I said. “I am a birder, and a few years ago a friend of mine and I missed a lifetime opportunity to see an irruption (an incursion of birds that do not typically overwinter in an area) of Great Gray owls in Northern Minnesota. The reports were that the birds were almost dripping from the trees.”

“It was true,” she nodded. (Nothing like rubbing it in). “We had a pair mating in our back yard.”

I was dumbstruck. First, that a perfect stranger from Minnesota would know about Great Gray Owls; secondly, that she knew what an “irruption” was; and thirdly, that the owls had apparently irrupted in HER BACK YARD.

I never did find out more, since by then the plane had landed and they were busy preparing to deplane. What I really wanted to do was whip out my calendar and invite myself over, thank you very much I will bring the wine and my binoculars. I wanted to make up for the missed opportunity of a few years ago. My birding buddy, Beverly, and I talk about it. The NEXT TIME there is a fallout of Great Gray Owls, we will be there. Never mind extraordinary travel expenses, time off work, personal responsibilities, other plans already in place, all of which contributed to the reasons we didn’t go in the first place.

And you know, as a birder, you could make the greatest personal sacrifices and major bank withdrawals, but you are still placing your biggest bet on something that weighs a few ounces and can just up and fly away at any time. If you are a birder, tell me how many times you have heard these words:

“You just missed it.”

“It was here five minutes ago.”

“It flew that way.”

Whether you are a birder or generalist wildlife watcher (which most birders are) you know that all it takes is a blink of an eye, a turn of the head, or a glance into a bush and you either miss the opportunity of a lifetime to witness some extraordinary event, or else stand as solitary observer to the breaching of a whale, or the sight of a Great Gray Owl at dusk. If ever there is any one to take life as it comes, to not miss any opportunity for nature’s magic, and to understand you must seize the moment for it will not pass this way again, it is a birder.

Next time, we’re going. Stand ready, Beverly.

"No Problem"

As long as I remember, the correct response to “Thank you” has been “You’re welcome.” As in, "I am grateful for what you just did or said (or didn’t say) or promised. Thank you for opening the door to the hotel lobby or to a career opportunity or for passing the salt." “You are welcome,” is an acknowledgment, an agreeable notion that the giver is glad to make the offering. Everyone is happy.

“Thank you for bringing my pizza.”

“You’re welcome!”

That’s it. We all go away with tidy social cues in place. We know where we are in the Universe.

But now, in response to “Thank you,” we hear:

“No problem.”

Where did that come from? Why isn't it going away? Are we stuck with this bone in our English-speaking teeth forever?

“Thank you for my pizza.”

“No problem.”

“Did I have a problem?

“Not that I know of. Didn’t you want this slice of pizza?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know it was a problem. All I wanted was a slice of pizza. Is this such a big problem? You do sell it here, don’t you?”

“Well, of course we sell pizza here. It’s a pizza joint. I have no problem selling pizza.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“We sell pizza. We don’t have a problem. What’s your problem?

“I don’t have a problem. I want a pizza.”

“Oh. No problem.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“But I just asked you, is there a problem?”

You see where we’re going here? It’s clumsy. It introduces an idea that doesn’t belong. If I am grateful to you for doing something for me, and then say so, why say there isn’t a problem when there wasn’t a problem to begin with? Do you mean, it is not a problem for me to do this for you and if it was, I wouldn’t be here saying it wasn’t a problem because it then it would be a problem?

Isn’t it just easier to say, “You’re welcome, damn it. Next time get your own slice of pizza.”

My Book Group

My book group meets tomorrow. After five years, we are still going strong. Like Jim Collins observed in his book, “Good to Great,” a key to success of any group is that participants like not only what they do, but who they are doing it with. It is a philosophy that works both for corporations and for book groups.

I used to bemoan the fact that there were no book groups that met in my town outside of my full-time work hours. The few that did rampaged through a book every month with no quarter given to the slow, more casual reader. I know people who are speed readers who zip through two to three books a day (okay, I only know one person who can do that, and yes, we are actually friends!). I know more women who haven’t read a book in years because everything on the planet is more important than the stolen pleasure of sitting down and reading a story. We’d love to, they claim, but there are dishes to be put away, laundry to fold, children to pick up, children to drop off. There are play dates to plan. Social obligations. There is barely enough time to skim the newspaper headlines. Most of these women also work, and after spending a day staring at the march of words across a computer screen, they are just too plain tired.

If I want a book group that meets my own selfish needs, I reasoned, I would have to do it myself. There is a great advantage to this, my friends. You get to pick WHO YOU WANT. It’s like getting every single Christmas wish, all on the same day. It’s easy. Just start off with all your favorites and keep on going. No worries about arriving at the home of an established group to find your boss’s ex-wife is already a member. You can’t fail.

We now have ten women in the group; seven birders and three of my former work colleagues-now friends, which is arguably a little lop-sided but since it’s my group, it’s fine. The non-birders even got used to the occasional outbursts that have NOTHING to do with the conversation about the book. It goes something like this:

We are deep in discussion about the philosophical meaning behind the religious dogma of “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” by Khaled Hosseini, when somebody shouts: “BROWN CREEPER!” Suddenly, seven women leap from their chairs and stare out the window. Arcane directions follow: ”Four o’clock on the big tree behind all those saplings with the viney stuff all over them. Going ‘round back and up.”

“Got it!” the birders chorus, then return to their chairs, ready to continue the discussion where it was left off.

The non-birders smile.

If you are starting your own group, you may have to do a little coaxing when you hear things like this:

“I’m flattered. But I don’t read much.”

“I’m too busy to commit to another meeting about anything.”

“I don’t like book groups.”

Be gentle, but don’t pay any attention. Tell them to give it a try. Use your best inside wheedle voice. No promises, no commitments, no dues, no guilt. And the clincher that makes them really think it over:

“Hey, you don’t even have to read the book. Just come.”

For some reason, this works. I actually have an informal wait list of people who want to join a book group where they don't have to read the book.

We meet every six weeks or so, which relieves the pressure of the rigid “Every third Thursday of every month” schedule. We flex around vacations, business trips, confirmations. We even once had a “delayed opening” because of weather. But we met.

I confess we are not always very serious. If you are a Type A reader who wants to hold forth on some literary exegesis about an author’s hidden themes, you might be disappointed. We tend to laugh a lot. I mean a lot. We pretend we are the book’s protagonists and collapse into fake dialogs. We half kill ourselves with our own jokes. We wander off on tangential conversations but, being the leader, I take my responsibilities seriously, at least for the first 45 minutes, depending upon the book.

We had our five year birthday party this past September and are still going strong. One of the reasons we all like the group is that WE ARE NOW READING BOOKS, including genres that we normally would not have chosen. We are reading outside the box. And looking at birds. And laughing. What could be better?

And we meet tomorrow!

The Hummingbird Bench

The last time I saw my bench, it lay dormant in the shed with the rest of last summer’s detritus. An old hose snaked over one arm. A dull stack of plastic flowerpots tilted in the seat, naked without their spills of red impatiens. A wolf spider jumped out of sight, foiled in her attempt to remain invisible.

It is a bench that minds its own business. It stays planted wherever I choose to heave it. In spring, it stands at attention before my fairy garden, waiting for the concert to begin. Perched here, I can watch the gradual entry of bleeding heart, rejoicing at the flowers but a little depressed at its sad name, as if the dangling cupid blooms were indeed the hearts of loved ones lost. But then I notice Lily-of-the-Valley breaking ground too, and the air fills with the sweet scent that will attract fairies from miles around. I hope they will join me in this safe place.

I applaud when the Mayapple makes its appearance. It disguises itself as a green cigar; elegant leaves wrapped tightly around its core like a tiny Dracula, preparing to sweep open its cape to reveal its white, waxy, blossom heart.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The Mayapple won’t bloom until June, and here it is still early April with all her showers. My bench still awaits me, my lovely bench with the hummingbirds carved in iron on the back, swooping and humming at an enormous painted hibiscus. When I sit on my bench, I can feel the hummer’s wing edge along my shoulder blade, a nudge to sit up and take notice.

I breathe in pine-misted air. An invisible racetrack fills with competing robins vying for territory of the white oak branch. A Carolina Wren pops onto a twig, his rakish eye stripe giving him a nightclub appearance. Perking his tail in stiff salute, a chortling series of notes explodes from his elfin body, announcing his unmistakable intention to any other self-serving wren. The juncos twitter approval on the ground behind him, paying little attention as they pack suitcases for their trip north. There are no minutes, no hours here, just a response to the warming earth and a quickening of the life force within.

My bench lifts me up, supports me in my daily battles of life, both from within and without. It does it without complaining, expecting nothing in return. It waits for me when I am gone, and welcomes me when I return. In between, only the fairy garden and the birds know the secret of the hummingbird bench, but it is willing to take the weight of mine as well. It offers peace among the lilies, simplicity in the robin’s circular song, and grace in every ordinary moment.

I can’t wait to get it out of the shed.