This Moment

Hello Friends,

   After writing on Blogger since 2007,  I began posting to Substack some months ago, while still posting here. But this will be my last post on this blog, as I have been paying a monthly fee to the company that sends out the emails each time a new post appears and there is no need for that on Substack.  This blog as it is as of this post will remain for a while but all the posts I have ever made are also on my Substack, as well.

  If you still like what you read here, I hope you will join my Earthy Blessings posts at that Substack address.  https://annbodling.substack.com  There is no cost to subscribe. 

Thank you for reading all these years.

   Gratefully,
        Ann

 

Today it is too easy
to take the cardinals’
February chorus
for granted
when
only a few days
ago I stopped
in wonder
at their
first notes

My mind rushes
ahead
looks forward
to the first
phoebe’s song
when
all along
the cardinals bid me
“Stay with us
stay here
stay now.”

                            Image from the late Bob Moul's Pbase gallery

First of the Year

The cardinal's spring whistle 
echoes at dawn
across snow crusted fields
laced with heart shaped hoof prints

Bright eyed titmice flit
through cold stiffened branches
their two-note descant
disputing winter's reign

A scurrying grey squirrel
disappears into the hollow mulberry tree
mouth full of leaves
to cushion its nest

The light is changing
Winter does not last
forever 

The Brave Ones

It is yet too cold for gardening
or the turning of the soil 
or planting the seeds that are readily at hand
on my kitchen counter.
The earth's surface is still
encrusted with crystallized shards of ice
that will leave their tiny footprints
as they evaporate or melt into the ground
in a few hours.

The hellebores are pouting after a night
well below freezing 
and the golden ragwort's leaves are
adorned with frozen lace,
as if dressed for a ball.

But the intrepid ones, those 
early blooming bulbs,
brave botanical souls who laughingly
defy late winter and raise their
faces to the dawn,
they impart the courage I need
to trust that winter is receding and
warmth will come.

Later today, when the sun has
warmed the land, 
I will plant peas.

 

Certainty

The changes are subtle and
easy to miss.
Raspberry canes reddening,
willow twigs yellowing,
the almost invisible
purple points of skunk cabbage,
breaking through the forest floor,
exactly the same color
as the muck from which
they emerge.

Not yet the season for courtship,
a new voice has joined the winter throng.
Energetic song sparrows singing their certainty,
proclaiming to the wide world
their confidence
that the time for mating will
not delay.

Like a baby sleepily stretching towards consciousness
unconvinced the time is right for opening its eyes,
like the thaw that teases before
the cold refreezes the earth,
transformation comes fitfully, 
confusingly,
erratically,
unpredictable but incessant.
For this we wait,
offering ourselves to Love's warming,
unable to speed the process, 
unable to shake off winter, 
unable to hasten spring.

Our promise is
the earth's promise.
Growth wins out
as surely as buds break and
fruit forms and
trees reach their branches
ever farther towards
the sky.

Unstoppable

In the season of still-deep-winter
have you noticed
the wild things drawn
beyond this moment?

The juncos have begun trilling
from the treetops,
their restless hearts gladly
anticipating the prospect of moving on,
moving back.
And a single robin whinnies
in the damp woods across the road,
not yet singing, but heeding the
the pull towards longer days and
the hormonal shift
that awaits.
As do the bluebirds,
chortling their sweet notes,
flirting and pairing up,
preparations beginning,
the future on 
their minds.

Snow still lies heavy
on the land
and yet, the inexorable
movement towards spring
has begun, unfolding in
its own time, 
unstoppable,
untamable,
holy.

Have you noticed?

On This Frozen Ash Wednesday Morning

 

They are both calling, a 
duet of sorts, two species
in conversation. Or perhaps three,
my own soul responding 
as I enter in, as I breathe a sigh
of relief at their song
on this grey and
frozen morning, before 
the next round of snow.

Communion between cardinal
and wren. Between them and me.
Between God and them and me
and all that is on this
bright and frozen morning,
before the next
round of snow.

Of Skunk Cabbages and Cardinals (or Hope in the Bleak Late Winter)

They have emerged, unlikely
harbingers of spring's coming
glory, their
inobtrusive mottled
heads rising through the
frozen muck melted by the
heat of their own bodies.
In the days ahead,
at just the right moment,
their humanly unappreciated scent
will draw first-of-the-year
flies and beetles
to feast on their, as-yet-undeveloped,
pollen.

He sings this morning, an exuberant  
rhythmic, clear whistle  
not heard since last spring, 
when he was courting.
February is too early for courting
and yet, in the now,
as the sun rises higher and
the daylight lengthens,
he tunes his voice and
his hopes towards
what is to
come. 

As do I.

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?

Waiting for Woodcocks

I heard them over the fields last week, their twittering, whistling calls punctuating their seemingly reckless descent towards earth from far above the tree line. In the gathering dusk they fly, and at dawn, males hoping to out-do all other rivals for their ladies' favor. I have heard them just a handful of times so far, as they do not like to fly in snow or rain or wind or extreme cold. But they are patient and they wait, as they do every year, knowing the winter will not last forever.

They fly as harbingers of early spring where wet woodlands meet wild fields dressed in the brown stubble of last year's grasses. As darkness settles in, as the cardinals cease their evening song and spring peepers begin theirs, these comical little birds with their large eyes and long beaks waddle from the woods into the fields, positioning themselves for the moment when, as the light fades, their longings launch them skyward in an wide arc above the earth, exuberant in the mating flights that only happen this time of year.

The woodcocks are surely more patient than I am. At least there is no indication that they are fretting at the grayness of the sky or the browns and tans of the landscape. They spend their solitary days probing the soft, wet earth for worms and attending to survival. And then, as the days slowly lengthen, their brains and bodies respond to the onset of mating hormones, and the males begin to fly in what seems such glad abandon, earthbound no longer, suddenly free from the confines of the largely terrestrial life they lead most of the year.

It has been cold again the last few days, too cold for the woodcock's song and sky dance but, soon enough, the temperatures will warm and I will again hear the nasal "peeent" from across the road, declaring that spring, though slow to arrive, will not tarry forever. It is me who needs to learn to wait patiently, not trying to hurry along that over which I have no control or becoming despondent that the winter has seemingly dragged on for so long. Being attentive to the signs I recognize, like the woodcocks flight or the spring peeper's tentative calls, enable me to open myself to what is, even in the midst of grumpy moments. And for this I am exceedingly grateful.

If you would like to know more about American Woodcocks, you can go to this link from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/American_Woodcock/

Beneath the Surface

I find late winter, whether it be uncharacteristically warm or unbearably frigid, challenging. My internal store of reminders about the land’s need for cold and rest is about used up. My aesthetic appreciation for the naked woodland’s structure is wearing thin, as is my earlier delight in the myriad grey and brown birds of the season. Amid the drabness of titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, white-throats, song sparrows, mourning doves, and juncos, the astonishing color of blue-jays and male cardinals and bluebirds, seem a thoughtless mistake…or, perhaps, a bit of grace.

And so, in response to the challenge, out I go, a needy seeker longing for late winter’s assurance that spring will come, despite what my senses might initially lead me to believe. I am not disappointed for, as John Muir wrote, “In every walk with Nature, one receives far more than he seeks.” In my case, even with the ground frozen and high winds roaring overhead, I fill a page with observations, writing with chilled, almost immobile fingers, by the end of my excursion.

Working from just beyond the back door, and out into the yard I find plant shoots determinedly emerging, not far out of the ground it is true, but up and ready to spring into exuberant new growth once temperatures are reliably warm enough. Garden phlox, black and brown-eyed Susans, short-toothed mountain mint, smooth beardtongue and arrow-leaf aster are all sprouting an inch or two of green through the previous season’s still-in-place stalks. Short new blades of Pennsylvania sedge peak through last years dried ones, and moss grows abundantly in and through the grass. Tucked under last autumn’s dried leaves, the green foliage of spring blooming Jacob’s ladder, foam flower, golden ragwort, and creeping phlox promise the bright blues, pinks and yellows that I am so missing on this winter day.

Wildlife that remains through the winter is active as well, though finding its evidence sometimes requires more diligent searching. Beetles and borers tunnel just under the bark of dead or fallen trees, in turn drawing in a variety of woodpeckers, who are happy to find and feast upon them. Soft ridges and ripples undulating through the yard are the work of moles, invisibly expanding their feeding tunnels in search of worms and ground dwelling insects, active just below the frost line. Inconspicuous holes in dried mullein stalks are evidence of downy woodpeckers and chickadees, who probe for insect eggs and larvae as part of their winter diet. Goldfinches forage on spiny seed balls high up in sweet gum trees and ground-feeding juncos eat from sycamore seeds that have drifted softly, like snowflakes, down into the grass, often overlooked by human eyes. Here and there, I find small caches of corn, stashed in the grass, by whom, I do not know. Crows perhaps? Maybe squirrels? Possibly blue jays…Winter riddles.

It is at this feeling-empty time of year that I most need to push myself outside and into noticing. I don’t need to leave my yard if I don’t feel like it, for the busyness of winter life is everywhere. Searching is a bit like pilgrimage, a journey made to some sacred place, for it is in the seeking that I find evidences of Life, and of God, just beneath the surface.