....another level

Yogis,
It begins early. I open an eye and see 5:03 am. The sky only beginning to lighten. Through the open window I hear it loud and clear.

A robin has landed in a tree branch and is singing her heart out. Nonstop for the next fifteen minutes. Is it possible for something to be both joyful and an annoyance? That is how it felt. I drift back to sleep.

How did I know it was a robin? A few years ago I wouldn’t. I would have thought there is a bird. That was before I set the intention to learn bird songs.

I knew the obvious of course. The owl. The crow and the seagull. The mourning dove. Yet when I got to most others it all sounded like pleasant but indistinguishable noise in the air. There, but without a connection.

I began looking for the bird when a sound caught my ear. Once I could see it and watch their mouth create the song, I had a better chance of remembering. Then I heard of Merlin.

A free app that listens to identify bird noises. Suddenly I could choose to learn anytime and anywhere, even when the bird was out of sight. But it was still a process to be aware enough to notice ….. turn on the app…..get an id and try to find a place in my brain to store it.

Slowly (very slowly) though, a shift started. I think it was the blue bird who helped. Every now and then I would be gardening and think ‘a bluebird is nearby.’ A recognition arising without effort. Then it was the robin. Later, the cardinal.

I was always amazed by people who stop and say, ‘do you hear the woodpecker?’  I thought what they did was impossible, but soon the impossible began to manifest.

I still have a long way to go but it’s as if a whole new level of life is revealing itself. The sounds above have thrown down a cable on which to connect. I imagine it similar to becoming fluent in another language.

I am not sure I am explaining it well, but I am again reminded of the infinite layers open to a human existence.

This morning it was the cardinal,
SARAH

....a name

Yogis,
I had an epiphany today.

Every since I started removing English Ivy in earnest on my side slope, native groundcovers have been arriving. Any time I see someone new in the yard I use my plant identifier app to ID it. It gives me common name, botanical name and whether the plant is native to my region..

As long as it falls in the native column, I do a bit more research and most often welcome it with open arms. Black snakeroot is one such plant.

Yet every time I go out and see her and try to remember the name, I can’t. I know the plant by sight. I know its growing pattern, how it spreads, what it likes. I know the plant but can’t remember the name.

The same thing happens every spring as I run the river paths. This morning alone I had to identify the names of 4 different plants that I have become friends with over the years. Each time I am like, ‘of course!’ but don’t ask me again next week.

I know the plants’ essence. I know the personality.  I just can’t remember the name.

It wasn’t until this morning as I did this process yet again that I had a flash of knowing. I am exactly the same way with people!

When I meet you, I am so focused on your eyes, your energy and the way you move. The name is arbitrary to my brain. A minor detail. I hear it, repeat it……and off it flies. The next time I see you, I do know you. I remember you. I don’t forget ‘you’, but have to pray I don’t need to use your name.

I heard in a podcast lately about how language can be a barrier in many ways to our empathy and connection to the natural world. Even at times to each other (think about if someone has a name you dislike from a past experience).

Every label we attach to something drags along stories, judgments and associations, instantly limiting its innate unlimited potential. Children don’t know the labels yet, giving them the freedom to embrace everything and everyone.

Eventually I do remember their name and yours,
SARAH

.....a reminder

Yogis,
I’ve had geese on the mind. As a family with goose history, it has been coming up in conversations. Like when my son was bitten in the butt by one while innocently offering bread. Or times we have been hissed at or chased. And it’s always this time of year because this is when yellow fuzzy goslings emerge from their shells.

With that as the backdrop…….I went for a morning beach run on Tuesday. A spectacular blue skied day. Running along the tide line, I kept getting urges to stop and sit. You know, the inner voice that makes a suggestion. Or that sudden sensation that gives guidance. One would arise. I would consider it and promptly push it back down.

It felt appealing to sit with warm sun on my face, but I would talk myself out of it. I will be in people’s path. I’ll do it later in the run. Etc.

I head through town and cut over to the lake. I spot the bench that faces the water and the urge speaks up again. OK. This time I’ll listen.

Sitting quietly noticing the beautiful greenery, I didn’t see them coming until they were at my side. A mom and dad goose with three goslings. Certain I was going to be hissed at, I sat perfectly still, figuring they would pass on by.

They didn’t. About three feet in front of me the mom and babies lay down while dad stood guard.

I slowly slid my phone out to take pictures. They cared not. Mom groomed herself while the goslings huddled for a quick nap. Dad occasionally looked over his shoulder to keep me on my toes.

What a gift! The whole experience gave me goosebumps…. in a good way! It acted as a much needed reminder.

I get caught up in forward movement. Heading toward and looking for experiences. Those urges I had received were to be still, because when you are still, the experiences come to you. Miracles are always all around us waiting for us to get quiet. To be here.

On Sunday I did the same thing with my granddaughter, and of course it happened again.

Be still to be awed,
SARAH

....sandwich generation

Yogis,
Have you heard of it? Typically the generation in their 50’s who have aging parents and their own children. With everyone living longer though, it seems like the tuna salad sandwich has become a BLT with multiple layers.

Looking at my own life I help out with grandchildren, children and parents. This weekend I had the gift of 3 days with my mom.

Every year my dad travels to his ‘guys’ running, drinking, and generally being a teenager again, weekend. My mom either stays with my sister or I go up to be with her. This was my year.

We talked on the phone several times to discuss what we might want to do. On arrival, we kicked around options. We would prepare breakfasts and lunches together. She would cook dinner Friday, I would handle Saturday, and Sunday we obviously deserved to go out.

Friday evening included cocktails and watching Jeopardy.

Saturday, going to the movies sounded great since neither of us seem to go anymore. A quick read of reviews and we settled on The Sheep Detectives. A family friendly charming movie that I recommend. We even took advantage of the reclining seats in the theater.

We worked on the NYT crossword puzzle together. Reminisced about our past. Walked down to visit her neighbor and watched the Yankees. Even attended my niece’s graduation online. We took Phoebe to walk in a park and even though she had put her sneakers on, mom decided sitting on the bench with another woman was more appealing. The two of them looked like long lost friends in minutes.

My mom is fun.

This weekend reminded me of time with my grandkids. That same unstructured, see what we want to do at the time, kind of days. A relaxed approach to life that keeps you much more aware and present. No ‘have tos’ or ‘shoulds’. A lifestyle that is hard to have with our own children.

Finding myself as maybe the tomato layer in the sandwich now, I realize it is not a bad place to be.

I realize how lucky I am to have my mom,
SARAH

 

.....matriarchy

Yogis,
Spring clean up has begun on the community flower gardens along our town’s main street. Last week was our annual mulching event where those of us who garden and volunteers gather for a few hours of spreading.

During the event I became aware of something.

It started when one of the women showed up with her broom. An old-fashioned corn broom. She promptly positioned herself toward the back of the group. As we completed a section she would come behind, sweeping away what fell in the path and tidying up the garden edges.

Ah, I see. She is the ‘sweeper’ in the group. I am not the sweeper. It never occurred to me to bring a broom or take on that role.

A few other women brought straight metal rakes. They would ask for a pile of mulch to be dumped and they would smooth it out across the area. Again….not me. I am a ‘down on my knees, hands in the dirt’ mulching type. No gloves, of course.

The woman who organizes the event drives the small tractor that carries the cans of mulch from the truck to the gardens. With a no-nonsense approach, she bee lines back and forth and you better watch your toes. The perfect role for her that she returns to year after year.  She keeps things moving and points out issues. But is she in charge? No. No one is boss.

Were there men? Yes, of course. They instinctively took jobs of loading and unloading large cans and wheelbarrows of mulch. Always asking where and when to dump.

A well-oiled machine. I realized I was watching a matriarchy in process.

Another great example......

A matriarchy does not simply mean we put women in charge. That doesn’t change the triangle shape of patriarchy that our culture, society and economy are built on. A matriarchy is in the shape of a circle. All working together. To shift to this takes a deep structural change, not just a change in personnel.

And what is in the center of the circle? Children, elderly and vulnerable.

Mulching made this all so much clearer.

Craving a circle,
SARAH

....crow

Yogis,
When a crow flies over a large shadow is cast. That’s how I noticed them. It seemed that each time I looked out the window, a shadow was sweeping across my garden.

Now I have always had crows around. Typically they come in groups for any leftovers under the birdfeeder. They stay a bit and head out. But this was different, so I began to pay attention.

I noticed one would fly from my woods and over the house. A short time later it would return, disappearing into the treetops. The kind of rhythmic back and forth that indicates an impending addition to the family unit. I had never given much thought to nesting habits of crows.

Soon it began landing on my birdbath on its trips. Looking a bit silly perched with big talons on such a small bath, it would drink, dunk its head and even thrust its neck to send water down its back. That old birdbath has been a haven to many.

One morning I watch it bring a large hunk of bread and begin dunking it in and out. Soon the bread broke into smaller pieces. It ate a few and took the remaining chunk back to the woods. Ah, babies must have arrived. This became the new ritual. Arrive with food, wash and soften it and then head home.

This makes for a very dirty bird bath.

The other day I went out to clean it and saw an unusual gray pile in the center. Grabbing a stick I poke it. Yikes! It was the remains of a frog. I had no idea they ate frogs. Indeed they do, along with mice, bird eggs and of course, trash. Since that day I have found various, what I can only refer to as guts, of different creatures. Sometimes the crow returns to retrieve them. Other times it is me scooping them out.

Did you know crows are one of the few birds that understand and reciprocate with gift giving?  I have set up a stone with different trinkets on offer. While they keep getting knocked off, none have been taken. Perhaps once the babies fledge they will have more time on their hands.

Getting to know crows,
SARAH

.....a box

Yogis,

It’s about 6 inches by 6 inches with no top. Gray. A wood box I believe was the base for a gift I received. Once empty I decided it was one of those ‘boxes I have no idea what I will use it for, but too good to throw away’ kind. On to the metal gardening shelf in the garage it went.

That was two years ago.

Last year I walked in to discover an adorable nest built inside the box. Twigs, leaves, moss…..and one of my gardening gloves……all woven together in a perfect round. I kept my eye on it but nothing more happened. No eggs. No bird.

Two weeks ago, it caught my eye again for some reason and I took a couple pictures. It appeared to be at a slightly different angle. Didn’t give it much thought as I pulled down the garage door to head for the beach.

On Monday’s return the door is rolled up. Tuesday morning, I walk in to get my new gloves. Looking down I find two eyes peering out at me. Oh my! Hello! A Carolina wren is nestled deep in the hole, clearly sitting on eggs.  I guess the door will not be going down any longer.

This time of year I am knee deep in gardening chores. Cleaning beds, spreading compost, adding trellises, all which require numerous loud trips in and out of the garage and right past miss wren.

I let her know I am coming in a calm voice, often with the whistle I have used in the yard for years, hopeful she knows there is no danger. I check on her often with my binoculars through the back windows.

I look it up and their tendency is to nest in manmade objects like boots, jacket pockets, or wreathes on the front door. Perhaps they consider human movement another layer of protection in the precarious role of mothering baby birds. I will do my best.

There are an infinite number of things I love about spring. One is that a nondescript box can become a source of wonder and hope overnight.

My own mothering instincts on high alert,
SARAH