Sit with me

Another springtime entry from the archives...


Ground Ivy
Cool breezes and lazy clouds. Sitting on a wooded hill, dog at my side, surrounded by Spring Beautys, listening to the first calls of the Brown Thrasher. Waiting... watching... found him! Soaking in the sun and the sounds - and the silence. Taking pictures of wildflowers, watching the Bluebirds visit a nest box, crossing the creek. Paddling in kayaks with my beloved, floating the lake. Watching a Kingfisher, then a Great Blue Heron. Spotting from afar Trillium blooming near the bank, coming closer to also discover Toad Lily mixed in. Beauty abounds all around. If only all days could be this perfect.

With, not apart from

I was on a mission. There was a flower I had seen the previous evening that I had never seen before, and I wanted to get a picture of it. I grabbed my camera and my binoculars, put on my boots, and off I went to get my pictures. I walked deliberately through the field and into the woods. I had a destination in mind, but I wasn't absolutely sure where the flowers were, so I would have to pay close attention. I was very much aware of myself, of my camera, of my footsteps, of my destination. There was separation between myself and my surroundings.

Ground Ivy (or Gill-over-the-Ground) - Glechoma hederacea
I tried to walk softly and quietly, because I wanted to be able to hear the birds. They were quiet at first. I did, however, hear the creek running - a soothing sound. A sound to help me slow down. I stepped on ground ivy and a wave of minty odor wafted up to my nose. I stopped to bend down and inhale it more deeply. The evening sun was starting to fade, so I had to keep moving, but my pace lessened. Stop. Look. Listen. Smell. Keep moving, but keep noticing. Be open, aware, and receptive. I began to meld into the landscape. I was soon rewarded for my noticing. No, I hadn't found the flower I was seeking, but instead I happened upon the business of creation.

Snowberry Clearwing moths, mating - Hemaris diffinis
My first reaction was one of awe and immense gratitude. How lucky was I to come across this scene? This is, after all, not something you see every day: a pair of insects mating. I felt blessed to be able to observe them in this amazing but fragile state. Then there was the work of documenting what I saw. Thank goodness I had my camera with me! As I took photos, my brain started to process what I was seeing, wanting to put a name to it. What I thought at first to be bumble bees were, upon closer inspection, most definitely moths. But which species? With no field guide at hand, I knew I would have to research it later, so I let it go for the time being. After taking a few more photos, I gave them their privacy.

white deadnettle and purple deadnettle - Lamium album and Lamium purpureum
A quick meander away from the moths I found the flowers I was looking for: white deadnettle. It was mixed in among stands of purple deadnettle and readily stood out. Even though I was using my camera to get close to this flower, I did not especially take note of this tool in my hands. By this time, 20 or so minutes into my walk in the woods, I had become my senses. Even though I was aware that I was this person, sitting in the woods taking pictures of flowers and moths, there was also a feeling of belonging with everything around me. I felt that I was with, not apart from, the landscape that I was in. I was invited to have a seat and continue with this feeling. So I sat - I listened to the birds, watched the bumble bees and let my senses take over. I allowed myself to just be for a bit.

I've said it before, and I will say it again: we should allow ourselves to do this more often. I know I should, at least. To take time to get away from politics and money and our goods and possessions and just blend into the world around us. To be one with it. It is uplifting and refreshing. I am very fortunate to have woods and fields nearby and at my disposal whenever I feel like stepping into them. I acknowledge that not everyone has this luxury. Even if it's just a small patch of yard, a local park, a playground, a bike path, a lake - find a place that resonates with you, go there as often as you are able, and drink it in. And let it drink you in, too.


Dutchman's breeches (Dicentra cucullaria) and white trillium (Trillium grandiflorum)
After finding the white deadnettle and realizing I still had plenty of sunlight left for a leisurely return trip, I took my time the rest of the way. I stopped to cross the creek and look at the white trillium growing on the steep hillsides. I found, with effort, the Dutchman's breeches that had obviously been in peak bloom when I had seem them the day before. As dusk began settling in, the birds became more vocal, and I heard for the first time this spring a Wood Thrush singing. This beautiful song holds a very special place in my heart, and it always stops me in my tracks the first time I hear it each spring. If someone had come across me at that moment, they might not have guessed that I was listening to a bird sing. My hands were raised to my lips in a prayerful gesture, I was smiling and there were tears in my eyes. All my attention was focused on the ethereal notes of that thrush, an angelic voice to be sure. It was pure bliss.

As I emerged from the woods and onto the road, there was a spring in my step and not a cloud in my heart. I was at peace. I look forward to returning to that state again soon.

Fields of gold

The frantic pace of working on the guestudio has finally slowed down. We have had our first official guests stay with us, and since their departure, we haven't felt the need to push so hard to get on with the finishing touches. Several weeks ago, though, we were still working hard on the place during our off-hours from work. One beautiful Sunday I decided I HAD to take time off and go enjoy the beautiful weather we were having. I needed to be alone with the wind and the sun and the crickets and the birds, to recharge my batteries.

I took my camera along with me, of course, and took lots of pictures of the beautiful golden grasses, but I also spent a lot of time just sitting. Absorbing. Appreciating. Admiring. Amazed.

There was a delightful breeze, and as I sat in the sunny field, I noticed the hundreds of cobwebs that were streaming to and fro among the seed heads of the grass. Not those big round-and-round shaped-webs you normally think of, but simple strands. The grasses, upon close inspection, were all encased in the delicate streamers, some of them even tied together by the webs.

I crawled around among the grasses, and spent long minutes on my belly taking photos at all different angles. My nose picked up hints of clover, and even though the grass had not been cut for many weeks, it smelled fresh despite its age.

While the notion of sitting alone - just sitting and being - in a field (or in the woods, or on the water) for any amount of time would seem strange to some, it is an activity that I relish, and I wish I could do it all day. The longer I sit, the calmer I feel, and the more connected I feel, both to the earth and to myself.

Sitting is a passive activity, but even though my body is not doing much, my mind is quietly churning and digesting. Depending on what I am contemplating, I might even consider it to be a form of play. I do, after all, consider it to be "fun" when I am doing it in this capacity. It's a type of fun I would encourage everyone to engage in.

untitled

Ground Ivy
Cool breezes and lazy clouds. Sitting on a wooded hill, dog at my side, surrounded by Spring Beautys, listening to the first calls of the Brown Thrasher. Waiting... watching... found him! Soaking in the sun and the sounds - and the silence. Taking pictures of wildflowers, watching the Bluebirds visit a nest box, crossing the creek. Paddling in kayaks with my beloved, floating the lake. Watching a Kingfisher, then a Great Blue Heron. Spotting from afar Trillium blooming near the bank, coming closer to also discover Toad Lily mixed in. Beauty abounds all around. If only all days could be this perfect.

Exploring a winterscape

The storm is over, but it left a snowy wonderland in its wake. Looking out upon it all, a strange, disjointed mix of emotion is conjured - at once beautiful and oppressive, light and dark, ethereal and lonely. It is a soul-stirring scene, portrayed almost as if it were a dream.


Enchanted Forest
Everyone is all dressed in white. I almost expect to see the Ice Queen emerge from the forest, making a grand entrance from one of the many openings created by the bowed trees. She has opted to send the Snowflake Fairies in her place instead. The tiniest flakes are falling - drifting lazily, effortlessly - touching down in silence. They glide in on graceful wings, each different from the last, their uniqueness making them all the more beautiful.


The Snowflake Fairies
The forest looks alternately enchanted and eerie. The trees are arched in unnatural positions, some bent almost in half, and seem unsure whether to welcome you with their outstretched arms or whether to warn you that they could snap without warning under the strain. The clogged branches limit visibility from our house to the road. They even limit visibility of the sky. It's a unique feeling, having the trees bearing down on you in this way - a feeling that would likely be unwelcome to a claustrophobe. The beech and oak trees weep the most, their stubbornly leafed branches draping gracefully toward the ground. Most are resilient and will spring back when the thaw begins. Others, though, especially the fragile Redbuds, may not fare as well.


Trees bend down to block out the sky
What must the birds think of all this... mess? One might think that the drooping branches would interfere with their flight patterns, but apparently they do not. Even though I cannot spot them from afar as easily as usual, they seem to have no trouble navigating this modified landscape. Their focus is singular: food. Or more broadly defined: survival. They have no storm team forecasters in their midst (that we know of), so they have to get as much nourishment as they can find as quickly as possible. For all they know, the seed and suet will run out tomorrow and the snow could be around for an eternity, so eat up!

Surviving
The landscape is monochrome, painted in shades of white and gray. Cloud-filled skies, dark and dreary, offer an odd contrast to the brightly flocked trees. The trunks and branches of the shrubs and trees offer welcome breaks of color amidst the sea of white. As one approaches the flora, hints of other colors become apparent. Vibrant moss, lichen and fungi remind us that, despite the seemingly void feeling of this bleak winterscape, things are very much alive. And very much beautiful.

Evening symphony

Even though I am not a fan of the shorter days that accompany fall and winter, I do enjoy spending time outside at dusk during this time of year. It's a nice way to wrap up the day, and it really quiets my mind. As with the gold-hued light that shows itself at dawn and dusk during this season, there is a special quality to the sounds at this time of year. It's hard to explain, but the difference is tangible in my mind. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that there is less vegetation around to dampen the sound. In the spring, birders have the dawn chorus to look forward to. In the fall and winter, I look forward to the evening symphony.

The players in this pastoral symphony are few, but the lack of diversity is made up for by the richness of the sound. At dusk the Cardinals and White-throated Sparrows come out to play. The Cardinals announce their presence with heavy wing beats, and their vrit vrit call that reminds me so much of the sound of corduroy pant legs rubbing together. The sparrows sing out their high chip note, and make such a racket as they dart in and out of the brush and leaf piles on the ground. Polite dinner conversation among friends is how I like to think of it. At present, I still await the sweet callings of the Towhee, saying it's name and foraging among the leaf litter with it's odd but effective hop-back style of scratching the ground.

From time to time a Barred Owl will let out out a bellowing "WHOOOOOOawwwwl" from deep in the woods. I try to call it in with my meager imitation of the owl's signature song of "Who cooks for you, who cooks for you alllll," but my attempts are usually met with silence. I've got to figure out how to make my voice more resonant when I do that one.

If I'm lucky, a flock of Canada Geese sounds off in the distance, no doubt heading to a pond or plowed corn field in search of their evening meal. If I'm really lucky, the flock flies right overhead and I hear the whistle of their wings while they honk alternately amongst themselves.

The air is crisp and clean, and a breeze causes the rattling of dry beech leaves which cling so tenaciously to their branches. Nature's own version of wind chimes, perhaps? Off in the neighboring valleys, cows moo and dogs bark. The dull hum of traffic drones softly from the not-so-distant highway. The report of a shotgun echos from hilltop to hilltop, sometimes a signal of target practice, other times telling of a hunt in progress.

And sometimes, briefly, there is quiet and stillness. I breathe it in deeply, happy to be an audience of one to it all. And the cost of admission? Free.