Sacred Spaces

Do you have sacred spaces, where you meet yourself and Him who breathed the world into being? Spaces in which you find refuge or comfort, exuberance or vitality? On this wild and windy autumn day, I have been thinking back to those spaces that have welcomed me, taken my mind off of myself and garnered my full attention for a time.

Spaces like the yard I nudged towards abundance when we lived in Pennsylvania.

Or the marsh that lies between us and the Potomac River, as day breaks and I watch and listen in the day.

Or a patch of leaves in the grass, so arresting that all I can do is stop and sigh a prayer of thanksgiving for the momentary gift of beauty.

And then there was Trail Wood, where my days were filled with noticing and reflection and a kinship with those who had gone before. The following is a piece that came out of that week, in deep appreciation for Edwin and Nellie Teale and the land they stewarded and loved.

Beneficence

I have been brought to this sacred space, for sacred it has become to me who has never been here before. Perhaps a pilgrimage, I have come to watch for fireflies over the fields by night, swallows by day…to listen to crickets and katydids, to late summer bird song and, if I’m lucky, rain on the roof of the old house. I have come to be a small piece of the history of this place, whose future is yet to be written.

 I spend my days outside, a solitary audience, eager to witness the unfolding dramas of this refuge. They come as unexpected gifts, barely audible echoes from Eden, fulfillment of a life time’s longings.

She walks close behind me, as I sit at the picnic table, the mama turkey, murmuring softly to her seven, worried-looking babies strung out behind her, trying to keep up.
Again I sit, and a red-shouldered hawk drops into the nearby catalpa tree, steadily watching me watching him. Does he, as do I, sense communion, as we stare into one another’s eyes?

I wonder at the young rabbits grazing along the driveway, watchful, but not overly concerned with my coming and going. And, in the meadow, downy woodpeckers forage on mullein stalks, gazing steadily as I pass by. Do wild creatures know when they are welcomed?

 “A magic place?” he asked me. A Beatrix Potter kind of place, it would seem.
If there be magic, it comes not by accident, but by the many long years of beneficence towards this land. A living invitation by one who loved the wild for its own sake, who equated ownership with stewardship, who was at home with the untamed inhabitants of this farm.

There is holiness here, born of gratitude for what has been given, where man is but a participant in the life around him and an observer of that into which he cannot enter. Long years of kindliness have fostered fellowship between the wild ones who have flourished within these bounds and the humans who have lived alongside them. I pray that, far into the future, when we who love this land are gone, the kinship between man and creature will persist and this sanctuary, birthed and rooted in peaceful coexistence, will live on.

Where are your own sacred spaces? 

Comes the Day

Some of my favorite summer sounds – green frogs, and field and woodland katydids are echoing together in the darkness. “Do they sing all night?” I wonder.
Yes and no, I find, as I am awakened by a pair of barred owls calling in the wee hours of the morning. The katydids are quiet, but the green frogs sing on.

The woods are almost silent in the blackness. Except for intermittent rustles in the underbrush, I hear nothing on my way to the bench beside Beaver Pond. Hidden from my eyes, tiny creatures go about their nocturnal business. Do they see me pass by?

Eastern wood peewees are the first to awaken, as the last star disappears into the dawn. Faint chip notes at first, as though the birds are stretching and slowly opening their eyes, not quite ready for the morning. And then, the full peewee song from somewhere on my right, only the one. Soon, another calls from across the water. In answer or just coincidence? Long before others begin to sing in the day, these two converse, on and on. “What is their story?” I muse.

The stillness is broken by a loud unseen splash, followed again by stillness. I am resigned to how often I miss seeing the event that produces pond noise. Usually, I see ripples but the principle player is gone. This time, a beaver emerges from the mist, on a zigzag path towards its dam, mouth full of…what? He heaves himself onto the dam’s slope and disgorges his heavy load of mud and plant matter, carefully patting it into place. Otter-like, he slides back into the water and with a quiet “kerplunk”, dives for another load. How long into the daylight will he work?

I wondered when they would show up. “So, soon?” I sigh.  At least their buzzy droning, closer and closer to my face and ears, holds promise that the phoebes and eastern kingbirds might soon break their fast and eat well. Even for this irritating swarm, I give thanks.

A momentary lull in the morning’s progression invites more questions. What causes that “clacking” sound, seemingly coming from a patch of water lilies? What are those tiny dust-like particles that cover the pond’s surface, seen only at first light? Those two shapes on far-off logs appear to be green herons. Did they sleep there through the night?

As the water now reflects the surrounding trees, the full chorus begins. Robins squabbling, belted kingfishers rattling, catbirds mewing, chickadees chattering, kingbirds’ staccato calls and goldfinches’ musical ones, all in a shared litany of recognition that the work of survival is about to begin, yet again. The kingfishers are the first to fly in and noisily take their positions, except that they don’t seem to know which positions to take and fly repeatedly, and loudly, from branch to branch. Do they really go through this ritual every morning?

Finally, the chittering of barn swallows! Four of them appear, seemingly from nowhere. Just these four, for a few minutes the pond all to themselves. Suddenly, the air space is full of zipping and diving silhouettes as the rough-winged and tree swallows begin their aerial foraging, twittering on the wing. Gliding and dipping, as in an intricate dance, they avoid collision. What sense guides their movements?

What have I missed while studying the swallows? Young Baltimore orioles feeding in the autumn olive above the beaver dam, warbling vireos singing out their melodies across the way, the two green herons croaking and chasing one another from log to log, vying for the best fishing spot and, “Yes!”, now most of the pond’s perches host the phoebes, kingbirds and peewees who have been waiting for just the right moment to commence their breakfast search.

Now, an hour into daylight, the mingled voices of an avian choir echoing from above, the beaver makes a final trip to the dam, pats down its last bit of earth, turns and swims purposefully away. Another day has fully come to Beaver Pond.

Trail Wood: Moments in September

First light, I step into the clear, cold, still September morning, quiet, but for the birds' restlessness...

Robins chipping, catbirds murmuring in the underbrush, blue jays calling in the distance and
red-bellied woodpeckers dining on woodbine. Grass drips with dew and pale sunlight touches the trees, leaves hovering between the deep green of summer and the colors of autumn, suspended in time.

Many of the meadow flowers have finished blooming, seed heads slowly drying. The fields belong to the goldenrods and grasses now, Indian grass and the bluestems, myriad shades of brown and gold, subtle, muted beauty... beauty of abundance found in seeds and sheltering stalks, already providing for the coming, leaner season.

Sleek, well-fed and rested, she stands, poised in silence, almost invisible in the meadow grasses. Catching sight of me, she startles and bounds effortlessly towards the woods, white tail flagging, beauty in motion, quickly gone.

It rises lazily, taking its time, lighting the treetops, bathing the meadows in white,

extinguishing stars in its brightness. Daylight, at midnight, stretches across the land.
True katydids call slowly in the chill, enunciating each syllable, "Ka-ty-did," "Ka-ty."
Tree crickets, mimicking spring's toad chorus, fill the fields with song, each trilling a different pitch.

Peace permeates the sanctuary tonight...nurturing, strengthening, enfolding...
Trail Wood beneath the harvest moon.

Reflections from Trail Wood

When, in 1959, after a three year search, Edwin and Nellie Teale finally found, their place in the country, “a place to live in, and to die in too,” as Edwin wrote, they put down deep roots and settled in to live out the rest of their lives. From the beginning, they envisioned Trail Wood, a patchwork of woodlands, wetlands and fields, as a refuge for themselves and the creatures who lived there, a place where first they, and then others might study and connect with the wild that surrounded them.

          As I entered into my first full day of residency at Trail Wood, Vern, the caretaker wrote to me these words, “We are counting on you, and other artists, to feel inspired by this immersion at Trail Wood and hope your inspiration can re-sow the seeds of hope and awareness of our place in the natural world.” His message filled me with a sense of responsibility and the realization that my time there was not just for me, and not even just to expand awareness of the Teales and Trail Wood, itself, but for the benefit of the whole of the land that is our home and our relationship with it. It was with that sense of purpose and gratitude that my stay was filled with observation and with writing. My days began at dawn and developed into a repeated rhythm of walking and observing for several hours, and then writing for several hours, until at last, at night, too tired to do either, I drifted off to sleep listening to crickets and katydids in the meadows, and green and bullfrogs in the pond below the old house.

Every time I stepped outdoors there was something to note.  At times, my observations came as I sat still- beavers working ­­­in the ponds; broad-winged hawks, first heard and then seen from the summerhouse; the hummingbird who dropped into the lone Joe-Pye weed water’s edge; the mama turkey, leading her 7 youngsters behind me as I sat at the picnic table in the yard; the few remaining fireflies of the season; the red-shouldered hawk that flew into the catalpa tree as I sat and watched him watching me; the vast expanse of the night sky with Milky Way and all the stars I cannot see where I now live.

         Many times, the observations came as I was walking and exploring the paths that ran through the woodlands and fields of Trail Wood – more species of ferns co-existing together than I had ever seen before; cardinal flowers in secluded patches along streams’ edges; a wood frog sitting in the path of Ground Pine Crossing Trail; acres of mapleleaf viburnum and beaked hazelnuts growing as understory beneath black and white oaks, hickories and yellow birch; dainty blooming rattlesnake plantain and shinleaf, flowers so easily missed and stepped upon if not careful; newly fledged families of red-bellied, downy, hairy and pileated woodpeckers and yellow-bellied sapsuckers hopping around in trees along the Far North Woods trail; silent but active scarlet tanagers, Baltimore orioles and American redstarts as I walked through the late summer woods, along with the more vocal Eastern wood peewees,  phoebes and kingbirds.

And then, there were observations of what I expected, but did not see, and the questions their absence posed. Why were there so few pollinators, as compared with what I have seen in Pennsylvania and Maryland, particularly on the mountain mint and wild bergamot? Why were there so few spider webs strung across the trails? Why were there no northern mockingbirds or Carolina wrens around the house or inhabiting the brushy tangles along the lower pond? Questions, I am still wondering about…

As I walked the woods and fields, I realized that I recognized the majority of the plants I saw, and all of the birds, and so decided to create detailed lists of both, in hopes that having such information might be of use to the Connecticut Audubon Society, which oversees Trail Wood. Moving deliberately, inching along one slow step at a time, I scanned the forest floor, the understory and the canopy. The plants I knew, I listed immediately, but it was the ones I wasn’t sure of that took the hours of time and effort. In the end, I had relatively complete late-summer plant lists for three of the trails, including 21 tree species, 14 shrubs, 5 vines, 8 Ferns, 35 herbaceous perennials and 3 grasses and sedges. Not counted were the other sedges I didn’t have the time or patience for. The total bird species list stood at 62, not bad for late summer when the birds are less vocal.

As much as I enjoyed the freedom to be outdoors for as long as I wanted to be, I also enjoyed the time and initiative dedicated to writing. I have never had, and may never have again, such a time in which nothing was expected of me other than to immerse myself in the natural world, and to write. And as I wrote, it seemed a new voice, a new way of writing emerged, almost as if spontaneously…not exactly prose, as I knew it anyway, and not exactly poetry, but perhaps a blend of the two. The pieces I worked on while at Trail Wood seemed to come into being almost without effort, almost as if by magic, though I still work on revisions. Now that I am back, I continue putting words to paper, feeling almost as though it has become a calling, a vocation, of sorts. When I was at Trail Wood, I felt that I had come as a person who sometimes wrote, but was leaving as a writer. I am exceedingly thankful for this opportunity that was given me, and, as Vern wrote, pray that my works, can indeed, “resow the seeds of hope and awareness of our place in the natural world” for those who read them.

There and Back Again

Edwin Teale wrote, in A Naturalist Buys and Old Farm, "Sitting under apple trees, walking down the lane, following the wood trails, circling the pond at sunset, our life here as seemed all kernel and no husk. It embraces one of the rarest things in modern life-moments of solitude." At Trail Wood, I found that same solitude, as well the deep companionship of the land and those that live on and in it. It was a place that, I realized after I had been there a little while, I had known for a long time, much like when you meet a person with whom you feel an instant connection. I felt enfolded there, welcomed and freed to not only search out the physical space of Edwin's lands, house and even his personal study, but to explore my own interior spaces, as well.

My days were a rhythm of walking and writing, with some sitting in outdoor spaces thrown in. They were days of observation and contemplation, no two the same, but each one similar. I awoke at dawn, to the voices of catbirds, goldfinches and at least one family of house wrens who foraged in the shrubby growth around the house. I went to sleep to the sound of robust cone-head (yes, that is a katydid species) and true katydids.  I spent a good bit of time at the beaver pond, one morning arriving before dawn to watch the day come into being, chronicling the changes, moment by moment.

I walked the woodlands, making lists of tree, shrub and herbaceous species found there, something I was fairly certain no one had done recently, maybe ever, since Edwin's time. 

When I came back to the house after hours of botanizing, my brain took refuge in writing. When, after a few hours of writing, my brain was ready to go back out into the wilds, again, sometimes in the far off reaches of the property, sometimes in the meadows near the house.

I am still processing much of last week, and its connection to and implications for life in the here and now, and I will, no doubt, muse about both in this writing space, in the future. And when I am ready, I'll add some of my new writings from last week, new in content, but also new in form and voice.

I am exceedingly grateful for the opportunity I had to be in such a sacred space, grateful to God who took me there, grateful to the people who welcomed me so warmly to Trail Wood, and grateful for those of you who thought of me, prayed for me and have encouraged me to be who I am, over time. Thank you, all.

She Was Restless to Return to a Place She Had Never Been

So writes Pete Dunne about a first year peregrine's maiden migratory voyage, in his piece A Peregrine Going South. "She was restless to return to a place she had never been, but one she would know when she got there." That line has stayed with me since I first read it in 1995. I understood the longing to go, because I felt, and feel, it too. While in Pennsylvania, we lived directly beneath a waterfowl migration route and each spring and fall the skies were filled with Canada geese, snow geese and tundra swans, winging their way towards the, sometimes unknown, place that called to their wild hearts. "Take me with you!" my own heart cried, but, as I had had no wings with which to follow, I watched them soar out of sight, lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

I know that same lump of longing each and every time I read Edwin Teale's A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm, an almost irrational pull towards a life that isn't mine, at least as far as I can see. But suddenly, in a couple of days, I will be there...for a week. A week in which I may see not another soul, in which my company will be the field and woodland insects and birds, and the fish, turtles and frogs of their pond, and whatever mammals I see roaming the land. How I will truly feel on this land, I have yet to discover. Will I feel at home? Will I, as a friend asked, feel like an intruder? Will I have periods of fear, moments of elation? 

On Sunday, I will begin a solitary time without internet and superfluous interactions with the rest of the world. I will be blessedly beyond the reach of the media and the angst of the daily news, and beyond the angst of so many of my friends' reactions to the daily news. A passage from A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm comes to mind. Looking back on their first night in their new home, Edwin wrote, "Sitting there in the twilight, watching the fireflies and listening to the whippoorwill that first evening, we seemed to be in the perfect habitat for a pair of naturalists. We felt as comfortable as a rabbit in its form. Here, in every season of the year, we would be living on the edge of wildness. All these acres around us, all these fields and woods, fading into the night, would form a sanctuary farm a sanctuary for wildlife and a sanctuary for us."  

With much thankfulness to God for this wondrous opportunity, I will sit, in spirit, with the Teales, and smile and wholeheartedly agree.

A Month From Now

Imagine stepping into one of your most favorite books and entering into the story that you had, up until that moment, only experienced in print. And, then, imagine that you have read that book so many times that some of its passages have become ingrained into your very being, and that reading it feels much like a homecoming. I have several such books, but most of them are of fiction, and their settings are inaccessible, but for the imagination. But, there is one book, one I have been reading for many years, that long ago sparked a deep longing for land to roam, creatures to observe, plants to recognize and greet in season, and a life lived in companionship with the wild. 

Back when I first started reading A Naturalist Buys and Old Farm, by Edwin Way Teale, I rightly assumed that I would never own a vast number of acres composed of woodlands, wetlands, fields and ponds. Initially, I balked against what I considered to be my lack of opportunity, but in time, I realized that I could steward the half-acre with which I had been entrusted for the benefit of wildlife, and for the joy of watching all who came in response. And that is what I did, and for several years the list of visiting birds and insects grew, and their presence and the beauty of the hundreds of species of flowers, trees and shrubs brought blessing each time I stepped out of my front or back door. 

Time passed and we moved, and moved, and moved yet again - three houses in 5 years, though, as it turned out, the first and third house were one in the same. In each new yard, I planted and got to know the creatures who came to live alongside my husband and I, but the longing for a place to belong, such as Edwin and his wife, Nellie had, still haunted me, now and again. Last February, I got to wondering about what had happened to Trail Wood, their home...was it still wild, did someone who loved it now own it, or had it been bulldozed and built upon, unrecognizable in all respects? An on-line search brought me to the Connecticut Audubon Society and to their ownership of Trail Wood, as Edwin and Nellie had bequeathed it to them, for the good of their land, and all who might want to come and experience it for themselves.

But, there was more...The CT Audubon, now offers an Artist-in-Residence program for four artists, two visual artists and two writers, each summer and each artist lives for a separate week at Trail Wood, working on their craft and living in the Teale's house and on their land. The instructions for applying were straightforward, and the application period was to close one week from the time I read of the opportunity. I surveyed some of my past writings, and some of my current musings and thought, "Well, why not?! I can keep applying year after year, and perhaps one year they might take me." And that was what I did. The writer's submissions could be up to 20 pages, and mine was that exactly. I filled out the myriad pages required, along with an artist's statement, and electronically sent the whole package off. 

To my great surprise, a few months later, I was accepted. I had just come home from a personal, silent retreat at a beautiful spot in eastern Virginia, overlooking a river that hosted nesting osprey and migrating loons and I was filled with the wonder of that weekend. As I began reading the email, I fully expected it to say that they thanked me for my submissions, but had chosen other artists. Instead, somewhere into the reading, I realized that they were thanking me for applying and would pleased to have me come, as one of the four. A few weeks later I was curious and wrote and asked why I had been chosen. I was humbled by the answer. "Your application, in my view, communicated much the same kind of spirit that the Teales possessed: an appreciation for the land and its inhabitants, an understanding of the fragility of nature and the need to work hard to protect and preserve it, and a strong, practiced belief in sustainable living...the Teale's door was open to one and all. I think they would have appreciated the talents and environmental ethic reflected in your application."

My submitted artist statement sums up why I write and what I would like any works that I create to achieve: The natural world has been where I have felt most at home for all of my adult life. As I have lived in many different places, for different reasons, the outdoors that has been my comfort and encouragement and has long been a significant part of my identity. I write, primarily, essays about the natural world and the life found there, and my aims are three-fold. I write to present the natural world as an accessible place, full of wonders and mysteries, for those who are not yet acquainted with it, in hopes that they will begin to see it with new eyes, and learn to care for it. I write, for all who will listen, about our human responsibility to care for the land and its creatures, and present easily implemented steps that people may take to do so in their own home landscapes. And lastly, I write for people of faith who need the reminder that we are called to be stewards in caring for the Creation, and that doing so is an integral part of life with God. As such, my writings are not the technical terminology of scientists, but more lyrical, poetic glimpses into the life of the various ecosystems I encounter on a regular basis. My hope is that, as a result, people will be intrigued and drawn into the practice of noticing, and thereby enter the more sacred practice of caring and protecting. I have been reading Edwin Way Teale for the last 25 years, never knowing that he and Nellie had left their beloved home to the Connecticut Audubon Society. As I worked to prepare this application, I have realized just how deeply his writings and care for the land have shaped and influenced my own.

And so, less than a month from now, I will travel to Connecticut, past the small town of Hampton, through the rural landscape that has endured, over the small bridge and up the long drive of Trail Wood. Whatever I find there, some 42 years after Edwin wrote of his daily exploratory excursions, I will be stepping into the story I have known almost by heart for the last couple of decades. For some unimaginable reason, I will be privileged to walk Edwin's and Nellie's trails, to listen to descendants of the insects they listened to, to dip my feet into their pond, to watch the night sky from their hilltop and to revel in the mid-summer fragrances and peace that they so loved. I am exceedingly grateful.