Going into wildland

     The house is quiet this morning. The detritus of Andrew's departure perch on the kitchen counters like flotsam high on a beach after a big blow: L.L. Bean tags cut off a new pair of pants, the protective wrapper and box from a disposable camera, a mixing bowl from an inspired batch of cookies made last night to bring on the plane. I found the Nalgene water bottle in time for them to turn around and come back for it, laughing and waving sheepish thanks. And me. I'm part of the flotsam in this quiet.
     I always have trouble when our kids leave, no matter how much I love where they are going and what they're doing. Andrew is off to Wabun (here's the link) for his last year as a camper. 
At age 15, he'll be canoe tripping for 42 days and almost a thousand miles on the Windigo, North Caribou, Severn, Pipestone and Winisk Rivers to Hudson Bay, arriving just west of Polar Bear Provincial Park. When I think of who he will be and what memories and strengths will reside in his body for the rest of his life because of the journey that began in our driveway this morning, I feel a sense of profound gratitude. He will change. He will come back a man, tuned to his capabilities, to working with a group towards a common goal, and to the beauty and fun that weave through the challenges and the rawness of this landscape. This is what I want for him. And this is why I feel unmoored.
     The past few days have been frenetic, shopping, getting a (short!) haircut, packing. He and I were inter-twined, co-dependent. ("Can I drive? It will be the last time for two months." I eye the clock knowing the bank will close in seven minutes.) Together we got him ready to go.
     And who am I, now, in the quiet? Only Anna is left, and she is back in bed after getting up to hug Andrew goodbye. She begins a different adventure in a few days, backpacking the West in a self-organized, self-funded adventure with a friend. I will turn my attention to her in a few hours. But I am wobbly, and need to ground myself.
     It is walking the dogs in the cool morning air under a grey sky that does it. There is no wind yet. The birds are very noisy: I hear titmice, a warbler, a downy woodpecker, some raspy starlings, a red-winged blackbird. I notice our hayfield has become a meadow instead: ox-eye daisies, buttercups, purple vetch, white yarrow, and the milkweed which will bloom within the week dominate my view. Turkeys gobble in the woods at the far side.
     The road changes from pavement to dirt, and the dogs and I walk along it, into green and comforting woods. I am almost startled by the ease and understanding that wash over me. These woods stand unruffled, unplagued by arrivals and departures, unaffected by me, resilient, beautiful, familiar. I'm not suggesting a metaphor; this is a felt sense in my body. I will be okay as long as I have the woods, I seem to know. There is a different sense of time in nature, a placid detachment from the world of the human mind, an enduring and adaptive agelessness that smells of earth. And I connect with that when I let go of my calendar-constructed life.
        In the midst of this step into the woods, I realized Andrew too was going into the
 woods, into wildland, and he would be alright. In fact he would be good, really good. Both of us, unconnected by activity, expectations, or our roles as mother and son for six weeks, would in fact be connected as parallel souls grounded in the earth.
     How do we ever lose track of this? Everything we do is of our own creation, and the faster we spin, the more we lift off the ground, like one of those carnival rides spinning us like a centrifuge. But it is in unconstructed nature where we can rest, breathe, remember and connect. I know Andrew will find this. I'll see it in him when he paddles in to camp in August, gloriously strong, steeped in beauty, a man. I'll be there to witness it.  

Orioles

     The season of color is here. Violets, apple blossoms, lilacs, dandelions, tulips, a few remaining daffodils, rhododendrons, oranges... Oranges?
    We are not the land of sunsets, like Arizona. My parents live there, and year-round people wear the colors of the sky: azure blue, orange, blazing pink and reds and yellows. "I can always tell when I'm at the right airport gate for Portland, Maine" my mother told me. "Everybody looks drab." It's true. In winter we wear black. And white. And perhaps some nice muted heathery maroons or olive greens. 
     I'm poking fun here, but the truth is if you ever see a Mainer in a bold fuchsia sweater in January, you would make a playful comment about it. Same with orange.
     But secretly we love color.

Baltimore oriole by Anna

     And that is why the arrival of the dramatic-looking and beautiful sounding Baltimore orioles from the tropics is one of the great events of spring. Black and orange, singing like a ripe flute and even chattering voluptuously, the orioles remind us that we are more than heather-colored northerners. We are worthy, vibrant people who want to be seen too. We want them to choose us. And so we put out oranges to attract the the birds, hoping that they will find our neighborhood robust and splendid enough to build their pendulous nests and stay. 
     I see the orange halves sitting on deck rails and hanging from trees as I walk my loop around this old New England village of white clapboard houses. We were shipbuilders and sailors here. Ice cut from our ponds went south packed in sawdust, and molasses and rum came north. What was it like to be the captain who brought the miracle of frozen water blocks to Caribbean islands, and then brought the miracle of sugar back to the land of pine trees? What is it like to be a bird that calls both the tropics and the north woods home?
     I am not a migrant; like the ship captain's wife, I patiently wait each spring for the travelers to return. I love the birds who come first. I love the the swallows, the phoebes, the warblers and hummingbirds. But the rich song and dashing colors of the Baltimore oriole are a thrill, an affirmation of beauty, the sugar to my beloved temperate landscape. 
     Maybe someday Bob and I will migrate to warmer lands, when our children are raised, when winter gets too long. But I can't imagine ever missing the great fervor of life that bursts into color in Maine at this time of year. Get out the oranges. Tune your ears. The orioles are here.

 

Upside Down

     May is crazy. I love this month, but so much is happening in both the natural world and the parenting world that I can barely catch my breath. And I want to be conscious -- more than conscious -- soaking, in all of it. 
     The signs of spring are coming fast and furious now. I don't post them all on the sidebar to the right, just the ones that are in my neighborhood and especially catch my heart. I decided to turn the list upside down, too, so the new sightings are at the top, not the bottom.
     And I think maybe that's what I need to do with my parenting/home-tending/small-business-running list, too. Turn it upside down. All those things that keep getting back-burnered? Put them on top, at least one each day.

    But there's a deeper upside down that I can do. And that is to consciously change my attitude. Right now it's "If I can just get out from under this pile of things I have to do, then I can do things I enjoy". Instead, I want it to be "I can enjoy all those things that I have to do". 
     Listening to an interview recently with Rick Hanson about literally creating positive pathways in your brain lit up the proverbial lightbulb over my own brain (here's a link to him). It seems fairly simple: when you are enjoying something, stop. Soak in it. Feel it. Notice how your body is sensing this moment, whether it is laughing with a friend, the smell of a freshly-mown lawn when you walk out the door, a clean kitchen, your dog wagging her tail at you in total adoration, or a quiet minute to yourself at work. Savor it, in its fullness.

     You are creating a positive memory. Then pull this memory up later, maybe a couple of times that day, and savor it again. Once you feel like this memory can trigger that positive feeling in you, bring it up, and then gently introduce a thought of something a little more stressful, maybe an old wound you hold on to. Flip back to the positive one, and see if you can hold the two but let the positive feelings begin to seep into the stressful one. The positive begins to diminish the power of the negative. You are actually training your brain to create positive pathways. We naturally go to alert and stress responses because they served us as primitive beings trying survive attacks from predators and enemies. We can weaken this response by holding on to the happinesses that come to us, and giving them the power to create new pathways in our brain. 

     I'm ready to turn my winter attitudes upside down. Spring makes it easy for me, despite the crazy month of May. Forgive me if I don't get to your item on my list. I will, eventually. But right now, I'm taking my lists outside, and enjoying May.

Flirting with Phenology

     Here we are at last: birds are moving in steadily; the poplar trees have dropped their pollen-filled catkins to dangle in the breeze; wood frogs and spring peepers are making wetlands vibrate with their calls.

It's almost like any way you turn, there's a new sign of spring. Today I saw two crows carrying twigs -- nest building is under way. I don't want it to pass me by, I want to be right in the middle of it, as fully aware as I can be.

     It's like being in a banquet, but instead of feeling overwhelmed by all the intermingled smells and sights, you say “oh! smoked salmon! roasted asparagus! wild mushroom pâté! blueberry confit! crème brulee!” To be able to identify and delight in each discovery draws it out of the background to a moment of full frontal appreciation. Time slows, and I am delighted over and over.

     I have been flirting with phenology for a long time without realizing it, and now I think I'm in love. Phenology is the study of key seasonal changes in plants and animals, particularly with respect to weather and climate. When does a phoebe return to nest? When does the maple bud break open at the insistence of the tiny leaf bundles within? When are the first egg masses visible in a vernal pool? It's more than the “what”, it's WHEN.

      Somehow, phenology encompasses both predictability and mystery. We know around when the phoebe will return, but not exactly. This little space between expectation and fulfillment is the gold nugget: the pulsing aliveness, the individuality of one being's journey, a condensed and delicious anticipation, rewarded with joy.
     I've been reading about this year's hummingbird migration. The male ruby-throats are due here any day, and I've already set out a feeder so that I don't miss the first arrivals. They will be hungry here, as there are no nectar sources available yet. They do eat insects, and may even sip sap from woodpecker holes for the sucrose. But our nice bright red feeder is like a neon sign flashing “Free Food” to these weary tiny travelers. It is my gift, my offering of interaction in exchange for its “yes”. I can't wait to see the iridescent green, the tilt of his body as he sips sugar water from the feeder under the crabapple tree.

     As I lay not quite awake every morning and hear the birds, sometimes my sleepy mind can pick out the song sparrow, the cardinal, the tufted titmouse songs. Sometimes it just all washes over me.
     As I make my morning tea, I look out the kitchen window and see the brown lawn has greened a little more since yesterday, like a flush of chlorophyll is flowing slowly across it. I know that soon yellow will rise into the forsythia.
     But when, when will I find the first robin's egg shell on the ground?
     When will I see the first hummingbird? I don't know. And I love not knowing. But I also love knowing that it is coming, soon. Sometime soon. I am waiting, listening, watching, fully aware as I can be. In love.

 

The Phoebe is back!

     I heard an Eastern Phoebe this morning outside my bedroom window! This is my bird, the one that brings me the most joy. 
     The return of the Phoebe signals the real start of spring for me; the Song sparrows, Fox sparrows and Turkey vultures, as happy as I have been to see them, are just the warm-ups. What is it about this drab, raspy-voiced bird that has captured me? Maybe it's because of the Phoebe's persistent song, maybe it's because they return to nest in the same place from year to year, maybe it's because years ago it was the first spring migrant I really became aware of -- I don't know why. But today feels like my birthday.
     To hear the Phoebe's song, visit my post "Coming Home" from April 2013. Then go outside and listen. What signals the real start of spring for you?

Eastern phoebe - Anna

The Porcupine in the Tree

     What is it with critters in trees this week? Or maybe the question is what is it with me this week?
     This morning I was feeling out of sorts, an unusual disposition for me. As I cast about doing things like laundry and avoiding deskwork, unable to finish anything, I finally decided to go outside for a snowshoe. Find refuge in the non-judgmental arms of mother earth. Release whatever was fighting inside me through steady walking. Listen. Maybe find some peace.
     And what I found was a porcupine in a tree.
     I am going to refrain from grand metaphors here. 
     Instead, I'm going to share the pictures I took, all in the name of "it's so cool to find a porcupine denned up in a tree". 

So here's the tree I came across. See the mess below it? That was the clue.









 
This is the critter poop.

 

Here it is close up.

Definitely porcupine. 

Right shape, fibrous.  

Now looking up.....  

And finally, here is a close-up. Tucked into the top of the hole I could see the black and white quills of the porcupine, its back turned to me, hiding in the shadows. I lightened the photo as best as I could in hopes of making its well- camouflaged quills visible. Not sure it worked. 





   The end of the story? The day is going better. Walking in the earth's world always brings me some kind of respite. Maybe that's why we call it grounding. Thank you tree. Thank you porcupine.

The Eagle in the Tree

     I am not a stranger to Bald Eagles. Living on an old saltwater farm means we occasionally see one passing by, soaring above the marshes back behind our woods looking for something yummy to eat, dead or alive. Young eagles don't get their adult plumage -- the white head and tail -- until they are about five years old, so the best way to identify one soaring is its shape: they are called "flying planks" for their straight-across silhouette. 

Maddy Vertenten photo

    But when I was washing dishes looking out the kitchen window, it wasn't a flying plank I saw. It was a really big bird flapping across the back yard and clambering into a pine tree. I started yelling. "Oh my gosh, a Bald Eagle! Right there!" It hopped around until it found the right branch, where it was sheltered from view but warmed by full morning sunlight. And there it sat for a full hour. Sometimes it preened its feathers, sometimes it dozed (I saw its eyes closed), sometimes it even tucked its head under its wing. I kept expecting it to take off, but even the small pack of crows that found it and harassed it briefly gave up, and the eagle went back to sleep.
     Eagle is a sacred animal in many indigenous cultures, honored as a messenger of the great spirit. The natural distance separating me and this wildness had been crossed, and not by me. I felt humbled and grateful to have this Eagle find rest for awhile in my back yard.