Counting Down to Change

     I flexed my fingers. The clock on the screen was counting down. These were old muscles, the ones that got me great seats for rock concerts back in the day: U2, Bonnie Raitt, Crosby Stills & Nash, the Allman Bros. I don't like Ticketmaster, but I knew it would be faster than talking with someone on the phone.

     The clock came to 0:00. The screen blinked, a wheely-thing spun for 30 seconds, and then the button came up that said “Purchase Tickets”. Two minutes later, I had them. 

     I've been to lots of concerts, mostly the Grateful Dead (ok, now I'm out of the closet – but what an awesome closet). These days I'm pretty choosy. I don't want to see a performer that sounds like s/he is sticking to the packaged goods. I want some improvisation, some in-the-moment, elevating, unpredictable beam of light into a way of being that has nothing to do with our every-dayness.  

     Sounds kind of religious, I guess. I prefer the word “spiritual”. Music can do that. So can certain people. 

     And that is what brought me back to Ticketmaster yesterday morning. Now I gleefully have in my hot little hands two tickets to the sold out appearance of His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama of Tibet at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. His topic: “A Force for Good.” 

     What has changed? Me? Absolutely, and still at it. The world? Yes. I believe so. And still at it.

     Now, if only I can get tickets to see the Pope...

 

Taking stock

Steam lifts off my morning tea.
A robin sings its insistent curling song.
Dawn's light is growing.
A phoebe, no two, begin calling.
Anna is safe. She has finished her three-week hike. Climbed 
    Mount Whitney. She is coming home.
Spiderwebs in the tall grass are white with dew.
A door closes next door. A dog barks. The sheep bleat.
I pull the blanket closer around me.
A catbird mews.
The sweet tea warms me.
My dear friend, Teacher to my soul, will let the cancer take her 
    this time. She will move on.
The sun's first light glints through the trees.
A song sparrow, perched atop the willow, sings into the day.

Perfect timing

     This is the time of abundance.

     I found myself sitting on an overturned white bucket Tuesday morning, all alone in a field of blueberries. It was cool, slightly foggy. Nothing moved. That kind of air stifles noise; no far off road sounds or airplane sounds or distant chainsaw whines made it through the stillness. Everything was muted.
     Against that grayness, color started to emerge. My eyes focused on blue, the hazy blue of lowbush blueberries. And how amazing the berries are this year! They're packed on stems so heavy they lay on the ground. Fat and round. I've never seen them like this. I hardly had to move for an hour. Bent over in the cool damp, my eyes moved from blue to blue, and my mind quieted with the calm of a repeated task.
     And then the sound colors began to emerge. First the birds. Barn swallows – oh how I've missed them since they left our barn. A white-throated sparrow over the edge of the hill – one of my favorite birds. A robin in the garden below. The high-pitched “zeee zeee” of cedar waxwings, who always travel in a group – these landed in a birch tree close to me, and then dropped down to glean berries as well.
     I noticed the ground bees next. One or two flew in and hovered near me, their buzz alerting me, and I watched placidly until they flew off, or dropped into the berries. Actually, it wasn't into the berries, it was into a small hole in the ground, a little dirt cave near me. One would drop to the lower edge, then walk in. Just a few seconds later, it – or perhaps another bee – would walk out and fly off. They didn't seem to mind me, and I didn't mind them. I picked right around their hole, peaceful on my bucket.
     Everybody is feeding now, including me. Besides the berries, there are mosquitoes and flies and beetles and crickets and butterflies and moths and ants – all food for the young birds that, now fledged, are voraciously learning to hunt. Back at home, as I sort through my own gleanings for jam-making and freezing, I watch groups of juvenile catbirds, phoebes, waxwings and crows hop and dart and swoop through the crab apple tree and over the wet grass of my back yard, catching insects.

     This is all so perfectly timed. There is so much food here. There is so much life. Even the mammals are eating, usually at night, and I only see what they leave behind.
     In a month or so, there will be apples and hawthorns and rose hips and nuts instead. I like the berry-and-insect time. I like working quietly among the bees and the young birds. I'm so grateful that I slowed down enough to notice. I see it everywhere now, and feel part of it.

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.