Category: Nature

Birdville bits. Why I stopped saying, "It's just a robin."

6/30/2018

Gray catbird

The morning air is filled with heavy mist and birdsong from all my favorite “locals”-

cardinal trills from atop the electric pole,
song sparrow warbles, he’s “all in” somewhere on a fence post,
and a family of barn swallows pauses, twitter-tweeting along the wire.

Lately, a cat bird has been haunting the shrubs, and his random serenade makes me smile.

Brown thrasher

English sparrows hide in the forsythia, fussing like school children at recess.
Doves coo and murmur,
goldfinches call, “potato chip, potato chip.”

Every ordinary bird adds its unique song to the cheerful chaos:
bluebird,
red-wing blackbird,
pigeon,
chipping sparrow,
yellow shafted flicker-flicka-flicka-flickering.

And from high atop the locust tree, the brown thrasher is giving full voice to one of his mimic songs. He has more than 1100 song types from which to choose, according to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

American robin

Robins are chirruping everywhere; if songs were visible, theirs would be twinkling lights, sparkling from every direction at once. When I hear a loud “cheer up cheerily,” I recall how my mind used to whisper, “Oh, it’s just a robin.”

But if only the "special" birds sang, my Big Valley morning would be a pared down version of today’s symphony, - so much thinner, so much less joyful and jubilant. If the rich cream of “ordinary” local birdsong was poured off the top, I’d be left with the pale skimmed sounds of distant traffic rumble and noises from the farm next door– feed truck rumbling, horse and cart clip-clop rattling, cows murmuring in the barn, the occasional rasp of an over-vigilant dog. Noise, but no music, no melody, no magic. How empty and dull the day would sound without the combined choir of everyday chirpers and tweeters.

Barn swallows

So, I’m learning not to say “just” – just a barn swallow, just a song sparrow, because it is the blending of these ordinary songs that makes every morning moment a masterpiece, a symphony, a cantata of glorious, wordless wonder.

I’m glad birds aren’t like people, always sure that “someone else” can do it better, say it better, sing it better. It seems we are always expecting to be outdone by someone else, so we defer when we could shine.

Each morning in the Daily Office, I repeat these words in prayer:

”Help me to do the work that You have given me to do in truth and beauty and for the common good, for the sake of the One who comes among us as one who serves...”

And here I find a bit of Birdville truth to carry with me through the day:
Each one of these birds is doing the work it has been given to do...in beauty, for the common good, for the sake of the One.
Each song is sung as if it matters. To Someone.

My feathered teachers lead the way. These clear notes, rising and falling over me, are a joyful, melodious reminder to bring what I have, to sing the song I have been given, to hum with hope.

Who knows how my ordinary song will touch the soul of another gardener, weeding, working quietly in a lonely corner, someone like me who also needs the nudge to keep singing the song that has been given.

So, make your own music, sing the song you have been given.
Do not waste your life waiting for a better song.

Sing.

This song.
In this place.
On this day.

Even if you think you're just a robin. (Or, a goldfinch!)

American goldfinch

HumminB

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Thursdays are for Thankfulness- on the lookout for the little things.

5/31/2018

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Cheerful little face on woodland violet

It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
Arthur Conan Doyle

It makes sense that the writer who created Detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant, Dr. Watson would hold the little things in high regard, for his cases were famously solved through the careful observation of a “little detail” hidden in plain sight.

But you know what? Valuing every little thing makes sense for me too. When I’m hoping, watching, longing for something big to happen, it’s easy to overlook a dozen little reasons for gratitude that are right in front of me.

Here's a "little" example: when I'm mountain hiking, I'm always hoping for what I think of as the big sightings - a flock of turkeys, a doe and fawn, or a great horned owl perched overhead...all of which I've seen at one time or another. This weekend, early in my walk I gave wide clearance to a 5 foot black snake, and I realized, after that, I was looking down at exactly where each footstep was landing much more often than usual. (It seemed wise...)

I didn't see another snake, but I came upon this red-spotted purple, trying to recharge his solar panels on a not-so-sunny day. I watched him for a long time- open, close, open, rest. Pause. (Even butterflies need to pause.) I'm glad I didn't overlook him in the search for something bigger.

Red-spotted purple pause

When I undertake the search for reasons to be grateful, I’m increasingly aware of every.little.thing.

It has become a challenge, as if I’ve given myself a dare to keep looking until I see what is probably always right in front of me.

Dew diamonds on iris

It’s a choice I need to make – every single day – to look and keep looking.

Mostly, I need to remind myself to notice.

Notice.

I’m becoming a detective of the unobserved because I think Doyle is right...the little things are infinitely the most important.

Keep looking for every little reason to say, “Thanks.”

Little visitor at the window...

brave little buttercup in the shadow of an oak

new little trotter in the neighborhood

a few little purple flowers...a whole lot of delight!

Just a few purple blossoms, but oh the joy they have brought to me! I've watched nothing happen on this wisteria plant year after year after year for over a decade. Maybe one blossom, maybe two. But this year? I stopped counting at 30...just a few little flowers, but thankfulness welled up within me every time I saw them. They're gone now; like purple snowfall, the blossoms drifted to the ground. But even the memory brings me joy, and next year I'll be watching every branch for the telltale promise of small, extravagant beauty.

Watch for the little things...

Thursdays are for thankfulness.

What do you see?

HumminB

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Weekend! Out the door- Behold, the small!

5/19/2018

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I need to tell you something. When I write these “Out-the-Door” posts, I’m writing first to myself, because I need the reminders, the not so subtle nudges just as much as you do. Maybe more.

In Frederick Buechner’s Secrets in the Dark: A Life in Sermons his Innkeeper puts it like this:

"Do you know what it is like to run an inn- to run a business, a family, to run anything in this world for that matter, even your own life?

It is like being lost in a forest of a million trees, and each tree is a thing to be done.

Is there fresh linen on all the beds? Did the children put on their coats before they went out? Has the letter been written, the book read? Is there money enough left in the bank...

A million trees. A million things. Until finally we have eyes for nothing else, and whatever we see turns into a thing. The sparrow lying in the dust at your feet- just a thing to be kicked out of the way, not the mystery of death. The calling of children outside your window - just a distraction, an irrelevance, not life, not the wildest miracle of them all."

And that is how, of course, the Innkeeper missed something - or Someone - very small and very important. “I was lost in the forest somewhere, the unenchanted forest of a million trees.” (Buechner, p.11) He was understandable busy, but inexcusably blind to the greatest moment in history, happening right under his distracted nose.

I don’t want to be too hard on him, because it happens to all of us. But it is also why “out the door” has become so important to my easily lost-in-the-forest soul. Those million tree things-to-do can overtake my perspective and crowd out what is truly important to me faster than I can put on my walking shoes. Even “take a walk” becomes just a thing to be done some days, and yet, somehow choosing to do it causes my perspective to shift ever so slightly.

I put down The List...

And that is the beginning.
Of discovery.

Of another adventure in going nowhere.

Of connection with the One who saw all that was made – small bits too –
and behold – see! –
it was very good. (Genesis 1:31)

So, out the door I go, out the door you go.
Slow down.
Look around.
Behold it all, behold the small.
Especially the small.

Tell me, what small and wonderful thing did you behold when you went out-the-door?

Me? Oh, just some dandelions...after rain.

Dandelions after rain...

I'm probably never going to say "just a dandelion" again! Happy Weekend! HumminB

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This is what weekends are for - get yourself out the door!

4/14/2018

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Go ahead, find some shoes and go out the door. You don't have to be gone long, just go. Ten minutes out, ten minutes back if that's all you can "afford" to invest today. But when you're out there, be all there! Be mindful of what you see and hear in your world.. Start listening with your eyes. You never know what you might discover. And if you won't take my word for it, here's a quote to get you motivated!

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher." William Wordsworth

Spring is coming to the Shire...we live between the already, and the not yet.

Every day, the treetops change.

What a surprise!! Great horned owl having a late, late breakfast!! (Shouldn't you be sleeping now?)

Breakfast debris. Beauty in the dying...

Standing among the great ones...good place for adjusting my perspecticals.

Small is lovely too - colts foot looks like little drops of sunshine.

Always remember to look up...and don't forget to say, "Thanks."

What are you waiting for? The weekend is whispering your name..."Come. Pause. Listen." Yes. You. Out.the.door.

HumminB

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Monday Moments. Taking a moment to look around...

2/26/2018

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Here's what I was thinking about today, a quote from my daily "Simplicity" calendar, "inspiration for a simpler life:"

Leave the beaten track behind occasionally and dive into the woods.
You will be certain to find something you have never seen before...
Alexander Graham Bell

I didn't dive into the woods, but I did wander a bit. I wasn't sure what I was looking for - but here's what I found! (Thanks for the challenge, Mr. Bell!)

The sporophytes are bursting forth...can spring be far behind?!

Even without color, the woods offers scenes of beauty. Has any one ever stood right here, and seen this particular view? (And is it just me, or does that mossy clump look like a sleeping hedgehog?)

Across the way, I caught a glimpse of this reminder to live loved. I needed it.

The waxing gibbous moon is framed by pines and bare branches, And I'm the only one (in the entire world!) who had this particular view.

What were you looking for today? What did you find?

HumminB

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Be still, even when you're on a ramble...

1/14/2018

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"What’s a ramble?" One of Youngest’s friends posed this question recently when someone in our family used the word. He’s a very bright student, and I was surprised that the word was foreign to him. But upon further consideration, I realized that the concept is quite uncommon in our hurry-up, purpose driven world.

Here are a few definitions I read today:

Ramble:
(noun) a walk without a definite route, taken merely for pleasure.
(verb) to walk for pleasure, typically without a definite route; to wander around in a leisurely, aimless manner.

So, rambling. I can type a definition for you, or I can take you along on today’s ramble:
I’m heading up the mountain on the road less traveled...

I wander past Becky’s little stream,
and think how much my grandson would love
the dinosaur ice teeth that have grown along the edges.

I pass the woodland meadow where stalks of colorless goldenrod bend in the snow, and I remember their splendor just a few months ago.

Change. Relentless. Unstoppable.

In the woodland meadow and in my life. And, in both cases, I can chafe at the changes I don’t like or look for the myriad reasons for gratitude. Today, I’ll choose gratitude for life’s little pleasures, such as...

1. The air is brisk and sharp, and I don’t think the thermometer will hit 20 degrees today. But, the wind isn’t biting today, and the sky is azure, and I’m glad to be outside looking straight up.

2. I’m glad to see the shiny berries on Debbie's bush; they add a splash of color to the world, and I’m glad the birds didn’t get them all.

3. Ice is nice. Yes, yes, I know it’s cold, (although not as cold as last week?!) but without the cold, I’d never find sights like these.

Notice, this delicate crystal collection has gathered on the tip on a maple leaf.

I continue along the way less traveled, through the deepening blue shadows of a late winter afternoon, and I realize that I really want to hear an owl calling...the resonant whooo-whooo, floating down the mountain through the icy air is always haunting and beautiful. On this mountain, I’ve most often heard owls in conditions just like right now - cold, late afternoons in January and February.

But all I can hear at the moment is the sound of my own footsteps, crunch crunching along the frozen path.
I realize something:

If I want to hear an owl, I’m going to have to stop and listen.

I say a little pray, which isn’t very spiritual, something like, “Oh God, I’d really like to hear an owl today...” and although I’ve only once caught a slight glimpse of a shadowy form winging away from me in deep dusk, I add something about seeing one too. “That would really be something, God.”

I continue on my way by fits and starts...very gentle ones, of course, because I’m trying to be quiet which is almost laughable given the conditions underfoot. And the condition of my feet, which is to say very large and not always the most graceful. I’ve always been a bit on the clumsy side.

Just this week, I was walking through the downstairs reading a magazine and not giving any thought to my path because a kitchen remodeling project was in the final stages and the room was completely empty of furniture so the floor could be replaced the next day. Completely empty of furniture, I say, but an immovable roll of floor covering...when I was picking myself up from the floor, I was glad to be mostly intact except for my pride. The next morning, my gratitude list contained a detail that is always true but for which I don’t usually give thanks- “my arm is not broken.”

But it still hurts.

This is the same person now picking her way along the trail, navigating patches of snow covered ice, slick leaves, frozen springs.

It is a little tricky because when I am walking I can’t hear anything, and I want to keep watching for wildlife, but then I can’t watch my steps!

I am mindful of my feet because I don’t want to fall, of course, (but also because I’m afraid my kids might decide to buy me one of those medical alert systems for seniors if they find out about that kitchen floor dive or today’s treacherous adventure...maybe they won’t read this!)

And then it happens. I’m stopped, waiting in the stillness, when I hear an owl, far to my left, along the ridge. Such a beautiful sound. I wait a bit for an answering whoo-whoo-whoo, but it's too cold to wait long, and I hear nothing. Every few minutes, I pause to listen, and I hear it again. Memorable, melancholy music. The truth is not lost on me that I must be still to hear the owl call. He might very well be hooting more often, but I cannot hear him unless I am still.

Once more I pause on the icy path, waiting for another call, looking around for other birds. A chickadee scolds close by, and somewhere to my right a woodpecker is grubbing out a snack before dark. Looking ahead, I wonder about a strange “knob” in a distant tree...which turns out to be...a Great Horned Owl!!

The picture quality is low, but my delight is sky high...I watch him for awhile, then proceed up the trail.

Silently, he glides away, wide beautiful wings angling that large body effortlessly between the trees.

He arcs around me in a huge half circle, then disappears.

My gratitude list lengthens with the tree shadows in the setting sun,
and reaches heavenward in heartfelt thankfulness
that God was listening when I prayed,
and I was listening, watching when He answered.

HumminB

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On mist and mystery, and "your one wild and precious life."

9/26/2017

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The sun is a vague smudge of light behind the white whiteness of heavy fog. It’s trying to heat the cool mist of morning into hazy humidity that will make my world a droopy, wilted mess by high noon, with the air close and sweltering until the deep dark of night.

But for now, my sweatshirt still feels good, a barrier against the dampness that clings and chills. The words aren’t etymologically related, but I think the mist adds mystery to the world as it mutes noises to a muffled whisper.

But not all noises. Farmer Neighbor’s rooster is -abruptly- awake.

And loud.

Maybe I’ll count his proclamations this morning, just for a while, to give credit where credit is due. This barnyard fowl has a knack for exuberantly greeting the day. But, no. I stop counting at nine in about as many minutes because the counting is even more distracting than the crowing.

Two carriages appear along the road, barely visible, emerging from unseen realms, and I wonder if the drivers feel like cloud riders, skimming along as they are, in mist and growing glory. A blue bird whistles, concealed in a tree along the line fence, and I remember Dad and his trademark call as he scattered a few meal worms in his feeder along the wall. He loved “his” bluebirds, and now I love mine.

The farm is waking up.

The cows were milked hours ago, but now the barnyard pauses for its daily interlude of stillness while the family gathers in the big farm kitchen for a cooked breakfast, always eggs, before the older children prepare for school. I hear their voices as three miniature adults climb over the gate and hurry along the field lane in matching shirt and dresses, forest green today, carrying their noon meal in sturdy Coleman coolers, the same ones they used last year. (No superhero lunch boxes on Hickory Lane, but Little Joe might have a hero, someone he looks up to and admires for what he does, someone who is his role model for life...he calls him "Da.")

The rooster continues to crow intermittently. Boisterously. Gates rattle, and someone leads the driving horse and her colt to the pasture. I hope I never forget that colt, running through the misty pasture like the memory of a left-behind dream that I want to go back and finish. His mom is more cautious of the barely visible terrain, and she paces nervously along the fence while he makes another loop then collapses for a nap.

Real world noises occasionally float through the mist to my unwilling ears - trucks using jake-brakes, tractors powering silo-filling blowers, motorcycles roaring along the main road like highway hummingbirds, small but fierce and flashy, (and... often a little pushy.)

I’d rather hear the rustle-fluster of a flock of pure white pigeons erupting off the corn crib roof,

or the honking racket of disoriented geese wheeling over the porch, the meadow, the neighbors’ fields, and back again, as if their GPS service is hindered by the heavy clouds,

or the low insistent call of the cows, ready to graze the morning away if only someone would open the gate. Soon.

The sun is persistent, rising higher, burning wild and beautiful behind the mist, the meadow tree.

It won’t be long now.

I am drawn to my garden. Every bloom seems to be leaning toward morning, waiting in expectation for the glory to be revealed.

This huge moonflower opened last night as dusk fell. Some moment, in the deepening shadows, it unfurled its white wings; now its face turns east. By midday, it will bend toward the earth; its bloom will collapse inward like an empty hand.

But for this hour, as it waits for glory, it is glorious.

As are the Morning Glories, rightly named, of course, because they too flourish, bright and radiant in the morning light. But upon closer examination, I find they seem, also, to contain glory. Each flower glows from within as if a tiny light illumines the richly colored corolla.

Apparently, they are designed in such a way as to capture the sun’s glory and fling it out for their brief and blazing lives.

Only a day to shimmer and shine.

Or less than a day, since the cows, coming by,
paused a bit too long beside the fence.

Munch.

Chew.

Ruminate.

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver, from “The Summer Day”

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Tree Fever...with apologies to John Masefield

10/11/2016

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I must go up to the trees again, to the lonely trees and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall pine and the chance to hear her sigh.

And the breeze kiss and a soft mist, and the birch leaves quaking,
And a golden hue on the meadow view with a fall day waking.

"the lonely trees and the sky..."

"and a golden hue on the meadow view..."

I must go up to the trees again for the call of the mountainside
Is a wild call and clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is an autumn day and the white clouds playing
And the leaf path and the chipmunk’s laugh, and the maples, swaying.

"and the leaf path..."

"..and the maples, swaying."

I must go up to the trees again, to the lonely, wandering life,
To the fawn’s way, and the dove’s way, where the thrush plays a haunting fife.
And all I ask in the peace of pause is the whispering Presence,
And the sweet perfume, the remembered joy of the long hike’s essence.

"to the fawn's way..."

"...the remembered joy of the long hike's essence."

HumminB

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September 27 Soul Stretch - the best things are nearest...daily duties.

9/27/2016

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"flowers at your feet..." indeed, this one is a "weed" I somehow, thankfully overlooked!

The best things are nearest:
Breath in your nostrils,
Light in your eyes,
flowers at your feet,
duties at your hand,
the path of Right just before you.

Do not grasp at the stars,
But do life’s plain common work
As it comes,
Certain that daily duties
And daily bread are the sweetest things in life.

(This quote is repeatedly attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson but not verified in any precise or reliable source…So perhaps…author unknown)

Whoever said it, I find it to be true.
It seems that the ability to find contentment in the common bits of daily life is the secret to living joyfully in every ordinary day. If I am always looking forward, longing for the next “big thing,” I fail to notice today’s fine little moments.

I have known people, talking all winter of the summer vacation in July…wishing for their toes in the sand...all the while completely overlooking the wonder of soft warm socks, the freshness of a leafy autumn hike, the crackle of breaking through thin ice on a winter puddle.

It is no accident, this verse that says “THIS is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24) and really, again, it’s all we have. Moments.

So, in this season, my “plain, common work” may involve a few more tomatoes. Another pan full of broccoli.

Can I just say that the novelty of the first fruit is long gone...

I’ve been known to do a happy dance the morning of the first hard frost.

So I need this reminder, this Soul Stretch, as much as the next person. Probably more.

My mind returns to the Ghandi quote that started me on this September Soul Stretching adventure. Remember?

“When I admire the wonder of a sunset or the beauty of the moon,
my soul expands in worship of the Creator.
I try to see Him and His mercies in all these creations.”

So for today I set my sights…and my view finder?!... a bit lower than sunset and moon beauty, and I'm discovering beauty in my ordinary end-of-the-season vegetable garden.

If the trees of the fields offer praise, I think this lettuce in the garden might join in! (To me, it looks happy.)

Sparkling purple lettuce rain jewels were brand new at first light...and so was His mercy.

I never get tired of these sweet yellow tomatoes...but don't tell the red ones I said that.

You've heard of the Hope Diamond? This little gem is a Kale Diamond...this morning it gave me joy and expanded my soul.

With Ghandi, I will try to see God and His mercies
in all these creations,
thus expanding my soul
in worship of the Creator of all things great…
and small!

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September 7 Soul Stretch - Ohhh, colors!

9/9/2016

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I am so grateful God created the world in living color...

I can't help but think He knew how much these tones and shades
would enrich our gray ordinary days,
would pull our hearts toward His,
and so He splashed our lives with unexpected loveliness.

Whose idea was it to give the new lambs pink-tinged ears?

"Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting."
R.W. Emerson

Usually, I don't have to look far.
I just have to look.

So, today I'm posting some phrases in the handwriting of God
written across my days here on Hickory Lane.
It is my hope that you would let your soul expand in worship of the Creator
as you take a second look at his first rate, color saturated creations.

fancy eye feast in the fern patch

I think I would have kept it simple with turtles,
theme and variation on shades of brown.

But not God.

He added brilliant orange to half hidden scaly feet,
and flecked an ordinary shell with wavy golden highlights.

I think the handwriting on this canvas says, "Even the hidden ones matter to Me."

Even the hidden ones matter to Me

Hidden ones?
Not this fellow!
I always know where he is because he's always telling me,
loudly, boldly, incessantly.
He doesn't seem to know he's just a little banty rooster;
he thinks he's king of the pasture.
And with his flashy colors, maybe he is.
I love the extra "fancy feathers" in deep copper along his back.
What's written here?

Smallness does not exclude extravagance!

This photo reminded me of an old old song:

I come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses..(or the rain is still on the lupines?)
And the voice I hear falling on my ear the Son of God discloses.
And He walks with me and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own;
and the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known.

Morning light on rainwashed lupines.

When this little bluebird lands on the wire above my garden,
he greets me with his characteristic low whistle warble,
and I say, "Oh, hello to you, little friend. Thanks for stopping by."
I take each of his visits personally,
and my heart swells with gratitude to the One
who created this small package of marvelous feathers.