West Virginia Morning: Hope Emissary

Fridays are the emissaries of hope. And I had so much hope for this day.

We pick Ted up tomorrow for his spring break and so my plan for this day was to tidy the house, give him a cozy welcome, do the mom thing. I washed his bedclothes, tucked in the grace of fresh sheets. I picked up his space and vacuumed away the dust of his absence. I was doing okay, ticking items off the list, until I went outside to empty the vacuum canister. We have a bagless and when the canister is full, I like to walk to the edge of the yard to empty the dirt of our lives into the meadow. It makes me happy to think of a bluebird nest knit together from the lint of our carpet fibers, a sparrow chick nestled into strands of my hair. Bits of our life and skin and dust passed on in love. Ashes to ashes.

When I have things to do, it’s dangerous for me to go outside. From my place by the fence where I stood tapping the vacuum canister against the post, trying to loosen stubborn bits of fuzz and life debris, I had a clear view of the walnut tree that was taken down by the windstorm day-before-yesterday. That old beauty splintered right down the middle and dropped his right fork into my neighbor’s yard.

I couldn’t help myself. I set the canister down on my raised bed and moved closer.

A small cupboard, cracked open—a secret hiding place for squirrel or woodpecker or other forest spirit was given me. Scent of dried wood wafting, long inner striations exposed, rough bark cracked and frayed—his years laid bare. Yet, he still rustled briskly up above. How many times have we given that tree up for dead when it surprised yet again with fruit in season? In the wounding, I could see the long struggle for the years. The inner parts were dry and brittle in places, smoothed to a shiny sheen in others. Still, the remainder of the row of trees stood on, oblivious to their brother’s demise. Could they be? I know it’s impossible. I know how trees speak to one another, how they share much more than the sunshine that falls over their leaf-hats.

I ran my hand along the splintered skin. I felt the sadness all tree-lovers feel when such a shelter is struck down. I whispered thanks to the tree for all it has given and wondered aloud to God at the brilliance of such a thing as a tree. I remembered Belden Lane’s petition to include trees in the Communio Sanctorum, the communion of the faithful, and I understand. As I took my leave, the sky let loose with the frailest of snowflakes—love confetti for our brother tree.

I grabbed the vacuum canister and headed back to work.

West Virginia Morning: Witness

This morning the sky is the bluest blue and the trees dress early. I look out the bathroom window as I brush my teeth. I’m on the second floor, peering over the back yard, far into the meadow behind our house. From this bird’s eye view I see the maple is taking on her early leaf flocking, a soft magenta down where buds begin to unfold. And the pussy willow dons a cottony ragtop where the sun first touches her in the morning. All the fruit trees that hide in the meadow most seasons are beginning their conspicuous bloom. I run the brush through my hair and scramble downstairs, grab the camera and go out to stand under the earth’s awakening.

The coming of spring is nothing short of a miracle most years, but when spring arrives in mid-February? This is cause for celebration. I lose myself for a time in the slow-opening of a crocus, the way a branch offers a promise—prophesies.

I try not to think about the possibility of a late-season freeze. Isn’t this hope? Giving myself fully to this moment? Annie Dillard says, “ … beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” I am there. I am here. For just this moment, I will witness the miracle of spring.

West Virginia Morning: Early Bloomer

yellow crocus

This morning, as I walked Bonnie around the house, I saw a little piece of the sun had fallen down to earth. It’s late February, and my crocuses are blooming—bright yellow petals winking in the morning dew. We’ve had an unusually warm patch of weather these past few weeks, but I’ve lived here long enough not to be fooled. The birds, however, appear to be falling for nature’s trickery. Everywhere I turn the sky is full of robin-song and sparrow-music. Yesterday I peeked in my bluebird box and, sure enough, the beginnings of a nest were tucked inside. When Jeff and I walked down Sleepy Hollow road, we saw an American Kestrel falcon perched on the powerlines. As we drew near, that beauty took flight, circling slowly over the meadow that hugged the roadway. She was so free in her flight, she took my breath.

On my days off, I’ve been working on some upcoming projects, writing curriculum for a couple classes I hope to teach and researching resources. Today, I re-read most of Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge’s poemcrazy: freeing your life with words. At the end of chapter 2, under the practice section, the author encourages the reader to buy a journal and keep it with them. “It’s never too late to start,” she says. “Don’t try to catch up by going back in your life. Start with now.”

Something about those last three words made my throat catch a little. “Start with now.” It sounds so simple, I mean, where else can I start except now? But so many days I feel like I’m trying and trying and trying … struggling to make up for all that I’ve missed—all the regret that comes with the late blooming. And then I see an early-blooming crocus and the round-headed silhouette of a falcon and I know deep inside of me: now is the only moment we really have.

Instead of feeling regret, tonight I let that thought comfort me. Tonight, I let myself be fully present in this moment and as I do, I can feel the wings of my heart stretch wide.

Wide for the soaring flight.

West Virginia Morning: Red-shouldered Hawk

There is a pair of red-shouldered hawks mating in the meadow behind our house. This morning, as I poured the coffee, I heard the distinct key-yeear, key-yeear, echoing in the sky. I quickly put down my mug and moved to the bay, searched the sky for the wide-winged soar. I spotted him just in time to see him land in the top of one of the walnut trees, where his mate awaited. I watched for several breath-stopping moments as they stilled, side-by-side, communicating who knows what kind of intimacies?

Hawks are monogamous and red-shouldered hawks often nest in the same area from year-to-year, sometimes reusing the same bundle of sticks labored over strenuously in past years. As far as I know, this is the first year this couple have graced us with their presence, so I was careful to stay still, out of sight, in fear they might determine our little meadow a lackluster place to raise their brood.

I watched, barely daring to breath, until they departed—the male with his boastful cry, the female in smooth silence. Even after they left I continued to search the sky, willing their return, longing for a closer glimpse of feathered beauty. This is not the first time I’ve seen these lovelies. Last week, before we took Ted back to school, he came clamoring down the stairs one afternoon.

“Mom, did you see that guy?” he asked, pointing out the window into the back yard. There, perched in the maple tree, was the Mister, greedily eyeing all my little finches who were enjoying my feeder. He was so close I could see his red shoulders. I could see the individual feathers on his rusty breast. I must have swooned because I could see the precise moment he noticed me watching through the window. It was an almost imperceptible twitch of his eyebrow before the most magnanimous lift-off. Suddenly, I was the air under his wings, lifting, lifting, until full in flight.

This is what it means to be fully present in a moment. How can I keep my eyes from searching the sky?

Defends Territory by Singing (A Lesson From the House Wren)

spring-walk-027

This morning, when I went to the garden to pick my breakfast greens, I decided to check the nesting box. Sure enough, no one was home, so I swept out the mass of sticks and twigs left behind by the last brood. As I scooped the branchy mess aside, I was surprised to find a soft cup of grass and feathers at its center. I had seen a House Wren frequenting the box early in the season, so when I went back inside, I read up on their nesting habits. I did a google image search and several pictures came up almost identical to the abandoned habitat I tidied up earlier. Curious, I read some about the House Wren. As I munched my egg and kale scramble, this fact caught my eye: “Males defend territory by singing.”

How winsome, I thought, wondering at a world where turf battles might be handled with a song. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology describes the House Wren’s voice as “effervescent” and the Audubon Guide to North American Birds says they sing “a rich bubbling song.”

What if? Maybe we can’t solve the world’s problems with a song, but what if we could learn something from the House Wren?

Later in the day, when we were walking down the little country road we frequent on our traipsing, I said to my husband, “I’m trying something new.” “What’s that?” he asked, as a car sped by—way too fast and way too close to our persons. “Slow down!” He growled loudly, at the quick-disappearing tail lights of a SUV.

“Well,” I said, “I’m trying to look at people with eyes of love.”

“Eyes of love?” He queried, as we crested a small hill (careful to stay on the side of traffic we were visible to on the way up, then crossing back over to walk facing traffic again on the way down).

“Yeah, like, instead of getting angry, I’m going to try to love instead.”

He looked skeptical.

“So, when a car comes by us too fast, I’m going to try to look at their side. The driver could be a young kid with little experience—I can see Jeffrey driving too fast down this road,” I said, referring to our seventeen-year-old son. “Or, someone so caught up in their own stuff they’re not even thinking about how they endanger pedestrians when they fly by.”

“Um-hmmm.” He responded.

“I’m going to think of myself as their teacher. I have to find a way to raise their awareness. With love. Maybe give a little gesture.” I motioned with the palm of my hand facing down—a symbol to slow down.

“I’ll give them a gesture,” he muttered, under his breath.

I laughed, and right then, a young girl in a white compact car came careening down on us. I felt a flash of righteous indignation, then caught myself. I pushed down on the air beside me with the palm of my hand and searched for her eyes through the windshield. She slowed down. Sorry, she mouthed sheepishly, putting her hand over her mouth to signal her remorse. I smiled at her through the window.

My husband rolled his eyes.

I thought I heard a song from the meadow grasses as I watched her taillights drive away. A rich, bubbling song.