Foggy Unknown

The year dawned
grey and gloomy,
fields obscured by fog
swathing us
in mist, 
the perfect metaphor
for what lies ahead,
unknown.

The hedgerow stands
bleak, forlorn,
dried stalks and branches
shrouding
feathered ones
who have come to glean
from seedheads and berries,
nourishment for now,
and tomorrow.

In wild abandon
their songs pierce
the doldrums and lift
our spirits,
Carolina wrens,
harbingers of wonder
in this drab moment,
and beyond.

The First Morning

If this morning were the first morning,
the first dawn of the world's awakening,
to what would I be drawn?

Would I pay more attention to what have become
the common, expected happenings of early June...
the red-winged blackbird's squeaky song
and the complicated warbles of the house wren,  
the tiny chipmunk's indefatigable energy
as he bounds around the barn,
startling a pair of chipping sparrows with his 
boisterous antics?

Would I gaze in greater wonder at the sight 
of ruby-throats on the 
blue salvia, meticulously working each flower
or the exquisite colors of the 
fuchsia hanging on my front porch?

Would I delight in the ghostly, 
back-lit appearance of gnats in flight,
or the single strand of a spider's silk glinting in the sun,
or dewdrops sparkling on the still grasses 
in the field across the road? 

Would I smile at the ash's swaying branches,
or the breezes on my cheek,
the bluebirds' soft whistles 
and the catbirds' persistent chatter?

Were it the first morning, I would not need to turn  
to these gifts for solace, 
for refuge in times 
of the fear and anger and sadness
that had not yet come into the world.
And yet, in our day,
these common, expected happenings
of early June
have become just that.
Thanks be to God.

Contemplation Beside a Salamander Pond

Up early, I headed
for a handful of hidden ponds,
hoping for wood frogs.

Like the monochrome of a pencil sketch,
or the patina of ancient pewter,
grey clouds and tree trunks, 
bare branches, rocks and dried leaves, 
stretched in all directions.

The ponds were quiet
with no wood frogs clacking,
no frenzied mating energy
expended. But,
upon closer inspection,
there were eggs, thousands of them,
or maybe millions,
laid on submerged twigs and leaves
in the nights before. 

Captivated, I turned my attention
to what was there...
leaves visible on the pond bottom,
tall trees reflected in still water, 
a teasing bubble as something
swam to the surface...
something long and sleek,
something black with yellow spots,
something gracefully twisting and turning
as it descended, head down,
back into the depths. 

Through binoculars and taking a closer look 
beneath the water,
what had looked like nothing much
became alive with the slow-motion movement of
spotted salamanders, 
creeping, gliding, crawling 
over and under decaying debris,
going about their mating-season, 
daytime rest.

Grateful wonder.
Enfolding stillness.
Unfolding contentment,
Contemplation of what is
rather than disappointment with what isn't.
Truly, is this not what I had really
come seeking?

Communion

What was that wild emotion
as I stood grinning,
gazing up into the bare trees
and balancing on two legs and a walking stick
so as not to topple over?

What was that exhilarating sense of freedom
as I gazed at their dance,
me tethered to the ground,
them swaying far above,
blown back and forth by 
every gust of wind?

When I prayed
(something I had never asked before),
in Your kindness 
You blew a breeze 
that gently lifted every twig,
a whisper that rippled through the woodland
and then was gone.

What was that glad response 
emanating from my deepest self?
That continues on in the memory 
of the moment?

Wonder,
Awe,
Joy,
Gratitude.

Wandering and Wondering Along the Boardwalk

At first glance, the marsh looked almost barren, particularly at low tide. Broken cattail remains dotted the mud flats and the bare branches of silky dogwood and buttonbush appeared as frozen as the ice that clung to the Potomac River shoreline.  As I braced myself against the biting wind, the bright February sunlight did little to warm me and I puzzled, yet again, at how the waterfowl swimming and feeding just beyond the ice can live, and even thrive, in the cold.

The boardwalk runs between the river and the tidal marsh, at the intersection of the two ecosystems, and offers abundant opportunity to observe the life of both.  There were not many ducks in the marsh but, on the river, several species were feeding, splashing and calling with abandon.  Furthest out were the diving ducks-the common mergansers, hooded mergansers, American widgeons and buffleheads and for the most part, each species swam alone, not mingling with others not of its own kind. Closer in to shore were the dabbling ducks, the mallards and black ducks whose bottoms we often see as they tip their heads underwater to feed. This area of the Potomac is rich in the aquatic plant life, fish and crustaceans that sustain the waterfowl who make this area their winter home and the boardwalk is an excellent vantage point from which to observe and learn more about them all.

Though I enjoyed watching the waterfowl, my attention turned to the bald eagle pair perched on a large, bare sycamore nearby. The female should be laying her first egg any day now and, though I believe I know which nest they will adopt, I won’t be sure until she is sitting still for a while.  I have come to quietly watch and wait and, perhaps, to discover.

Absorbed in the eagles, I slowly became aware of new activity around me. The dabbling ducks were on the move from the river into the marsh.  Initially, a few pairs of mallards flew over but, shortly thereafter, groups of eight and ten followed, wings whistling softly as they passed overhead and disappeared into the channels between the cattails. Within a short time, the two hundred mallards and black ducks who had been on the river had flown into the marsh and the seemingly lifeless wetland was alive with sound and splashing and what seemed like joy in returning home.  I puzzled about their mini-migration and realized that it had to do with tidal ebb and flow. I had arrived at low tide and the marsh was drained.  While I focused on the waterfowl and eagles, however, the river slowly and steadily streamed in and, at some definitive moment, the marsh held enough water for the mallards and black ducks to resume maneuvering and feeding in their favored setting. 

I was reminded, yet again, that there is always, always something to be learned when venturing outdoors, whether we live on the border of wild lands or in a suburban community. Wherever we are, we are given daily opportunities to expand our understanding of the natural world, simply by opening our eyes and minds and by paying attention. As we take them in, these opportunities grant a renewed joy in discovery and lead us into a more deeply held understanding of the land and its ways. They connect us to life beyond our own and yet, if we are willing to accept them, invite us into a life of wonder, a life that becomes our own.

Telling Time Without a Calendar

Have you heard them? Shrill, clear whistling from the tree tops, sometimes one alone and sometimes a chorus. Spring peepers' last hurrah as they begin to prepare for winter, no longer in the marshes but clinging to trunks and branches high above us all. Or, how about the raucous raspy strident calls of migrating blue jays that descend upon us in late September, hungry for the acorns that our woodland oaks provide. Or the soft and muffled "wick, wick, wicka" at dusk of restless wood thrushes preparing for their long journey to central America, any day now. 

Have you seen them yet? The white-throated sparrows, who arrive every mid-October and the juncos who arrive soon after. Or, perhaps the purple finches who have chosen to feed in this area of southern Maryland for now. Bright red-purple males and grey females with a distinctive white eyebrow stripe, unlike our resident house finches, have come down from the far north to spend time with us, and whether they will stay the winter or ultimately move on is not for us to know. 

Have you noticed their absence?  The antagonistic migrating hummingbird numbers abruptly decreased overnight a few nights ago, and now I see only solitary individuals, dawdling at flowers and feeders until somehow recognizing when their bodies carry enough fat to sustain them on their journey. A few cricket species still sing on, but the true katydids and cicadas are silent, no longer calling from their summer perches in the trees, their breeding season accomplished. The lovely wood warblers, flycatchers and vireos who arrived last spring to bear and raise their families are gone now, excepting a few stragglers, and already I miss the melodies that were my constant companions these last few months.

And what of the changes in the plant life around us?  The winterberry and dogwoods's berries that were still green a couple of weeks ago are now bright red, signaling their nutrients to passing birds. The last flowers of the season, New England and aromatic aster, orange coneflower, and the ever present white frost aster, continue to bloom in riotous color, signaling nectar and pollen to late season bees and butterflies like the buckeye, and clouded sulfur and monarchs, all still searching for food. 

As we notice these changes, even if we haven't really realized that we have noticed them, we are being invited into a knowing that goes beyond what our busy, technological society deems important. Every day, every season, every moment, we are invited into wonder yet again, and into appreciation and into love for that which surrounds and sustains us. And, in so doing, we come to realize that we don't really need calendars to know what time it is, after all.

The Renewal of Wonder

As a nation, we are in the midst of a difficult season-socially, politically, culturally, environmentally, physically and spiritually. In fact, at the moment, I can't think of a single component of our corporate life that isn't being challenged or threatened or compromised, somehow. No wonder I feel on edge, concerned about facets of national life that I have absolutely no ability to change. 

Even when I go walking, of late, I have difficulty letting go of the dismay, the sense of helplessness and, yes, sometimes the anger that hangs over the DC area these days. While I do not want to give in to these feelings or allow them to consume me, I find that I need tangible and effective means to deter and deflect them. I need something more powerful than my self-righteous indignation. I need wonder.

The healing of wonder lies in its surprise, moments of unexpected grace. Such was the case when, after a weary day with family reuniting after my mother-in-law's funeral, I looked up from the northern Virginia suburban back yard to see a  mass of migrating broad-winged hawks, kettling way up high, directly above my head. Or when, the day after, as I sat on my front porch, idly watching the birds and soaking in the silence, I noticed a commotion in the black locust tree across the road. It turns out that goldfinches eat black locust seeds, opening the stiff pods with their beaks and extracting the seeds one by one, something I had not seen or known before. I had happened to be in the right place at the right time to notice and all thought of commotions in the larger world vanished.

Wonder beckons when I peer into a bouquet of my own flowers, or pursue the insect making its long, high-pitched trill in the house and find a tiny, long-antennaed katydid no bigger than my fingernail. Or when I step out onto the back porch at night and narrowly miss the resident toad making his nightly hunting rounds. Or find a patch of bright pink torenia that, unbeknownst to me, self-seeded into my garden from the hanging basket where it grew last year. Or, glancing at the feeder and find that we are hosting several female rose-breasted grosbeaks on their southward migration.

Each of these gratifying, unexpected moments are gifts that keep me humble and, once again, remind me of how much more there is to this world than the concerns and fears that sometimes consume me. God speaks to me in wonder, and in this moment I can rest...for a while, anyway.

Walking in Wonder

Right here, at the beginning of these musings, I will admit that I wish that all of my moments were spent in wonder, in the noticing what is right in front of me. They are not, however, and sometimes, to be honest, wonder is the farthest thing from my mind. Nevertheless, its invitation is always present, always beckoning, always the means of dropping the cares that consume me, if only for a short while.

Take right now, for example...a gentle rain is falling and, out my window, I can hear every drop pattering on the layer of dried leaves I laid down last fall. Sometimes, as I sit near this window, I hear birds scrabbling through the leaves, looking for worms and insects. Sometimes, in the night, tiny creatures move quietly to and fro in the midst of their nocturnal business. Occasionally, something louder...a opossum or raccoon ambles by, doing I know not what, affording me the opportunity to stop what I am doing and edge closer to the window to better listen to their rustling.

A few days ago, while walking to the nearby wetlands, I happened to look down at just the right moment to witness a mother snapping turtle  laying her eggs in the sandy shoulder of the road. I kept a respectful distance, and she seemed to not notice me, so consumed was she by the task at hand. The next morning, I walked the same route, and found that her egg laying efforts would produce no young turtles this year. Her eggs had been dug up and consumed by a predator, possibly the opossum or raccoons that come through my yard. Each soft, white egg had been torn in half and the contents slurped out, leaving only the broken shells behind, scattered like dried magnolia petals along the road.

On that same walk was a dead tree whose top had broken off some time ago, and only the lowest part of the trunk remained, a common enough sight where I live. This tree trunk, however, was dotted with myriad small, white specimens of shelf fungus, thriving on what had once been alive and was no longer. 

Like the broken turtles eggs that nourished some other being, like last year's dry leaves that carpet the earth, the dead tree and the thriving fungus reminded me of the ways of this world, ways that I don't want to accept or embrace, sometimes. Loss can lead to life, if we let it. It can lead to a new way of being alive, a new way of seeing the world and ourselves, even a new experience of gratitude. Having known loss numerous times...who lives to be my age without its presence...I look back, indeed with wonder, at its softening effects on my heart and soul. Would I have been as pliable without noticing the ever-present examples of transformation that the natural world offers? I think not. These examples are there for all who look and who stop, in their busyness, to pay attention. They are there, for you. May you heed and be enriched by them, as you go about your own life this day.

Noticing

Now and then, various people have commented that I seem to notice happenings in the natural world that they feel like they miss. From what sounds like wistfulness in their voices, I sometimes wonder whether they feel as though I have been granted some secret ability, not available to them. While it is true that I am now innately tuned to the life occurring around me (sometimes to the detriment of conversations with people!) such has not always been the case and, actually, I am not accomplished at noticing visual detail in general.

Certainly, affection for a subject predisposes us to be more sensitive to its presence (as so aptly demonstrated by my young grandsons, who immediately drop what they are doing and look up and into the sky at the sound of an airplane or helicopter,) but the relationship between affection and knowing is a circular one. The more we appreciate something, the more likely we are to want to know more about it, and the more we know about something, the more likely we are to notice and appreciate it.

With that in mind, I’d like to offer some thoughts to consider and questions that you might ask yourselves if you are longing to become more intimately acquainted with the Creation in which you live. Sometimes, all we need is a nudge in the right direction, and our curiosity takes over from there.

Are there still leaves on the trees, where you live? What color are they? What hues of those colors do you see? Which trees turn what colors?

Watch the individual leaves fall for a few moments…stop what you were doing and really watch and savor the wonder. How do they move in their freefall? Notice the differences in the ways that different leaf species twist and turn in the air? Do they tend to land right side up or upside down?

Fall is in the very air, not just in the colors of the leaves.  What does your air smell like? If you come across a fallen log or branch that has started to decay, pull off some bark or some of the wood and smell it.  What does it smell like? Or pick up a handful of leaf litter, feeling its softness and taking in its autumn aroma. Stop and appreciate the fragrances of this fleeting season.

When you go outside to the mailbox, or to your car or for some other reason, pause a moment…what do you see? In the trees and shrubs, what do you see? In any flower beds or weedy patches or your lawn, what is happening in the moment?  What do you hear, when you stop and listen? Insects? Wind in the trees? Crunching of your feet on dry leaves? Nearby birds? What…?

Are there oaks nearby? How long has it been since you really appreciated acorns, that currency of childhood imagination? How long since you stuffed your pockets with them, or just held them in your hand and marveled at their shiny roundness? Maybe now would be a good time to re-experience that delight.

These are just a few ideas to get you started and, if you enjoy the discovery, you have a lifetime before you to pay attention and grow in familiarity and wonder at the world in which you live. And as you notice, greet the creatures, greet even the plants, with whom you come in contact. Greet them as fellow inhabitants of this space we share, greet them respectfully, kindly, lovingly.

As written by Maltbie Babcock, a 19^th century Presbyterian minister who loved God and the land, an obscure verse in the hymn, This is My Father’s World, reads “For dear to God is the earth Christ trod. No place is but holy ground.” Take some time getting to know this “holy ground” a little better. You will be richly rewarded, indeed.