Hearts Hungry *

Hearts Hungry

for beauty, we
savor autumn's palette
before 
it slips away.

Souls longing
for stillness, we 
huddle in silence
gazing
at the stars.

Minds dreaming
of what could be, we
raise our arms
aiming
to touch the sky.

Souls yearning 
for communion, we
lift our faces 
to welcome
the breath of God.

* Title is inspired by words in Glenn Mitchell's Substack,  PrayerNotes from the Homestead.

Beauty Among the Browns

 

Searching for beauty among the browns 
And the greys and tans of
winter’s pall,
I tire of platitudes about
sleeping trees, their well-earned rest
and exquisite structure,
most keenly noticed
in their nakedness.
I tire of their stiffness and the
wind’s fierce moan
pummeling bare branches
and frozen bark,
of icy earth and water.

And so I search, intently,
diligently, persistently, as though
my life depended upon the outcome,
which it does…my inner life that
longs for beauty in the severity
and meaning in the waiting, hope
that this trying time will give way to
flowering and fruiting once again.

In the seeking is the finding, 
subtle though the rewards may be...
a few remaining winterberries hanging from dejected stems,
fuzzy grey magnolia buds and 
the-very-slowly-swelling, creamy
globules at the end of sassafras twigs,
enfolding next year’s leaves.
Beneath the woodland floor lie
tawny moth pupae and grubs and
the pale green points of skunk cabbage,
poking their heads above the surface,
testing the temperatures
undaunted by the chill, 

Are these the vibrant colors I long for?
Those that wind their way into verse and prose, so easily
conjuring images that make me smile?
No. 
But they are the colors of now, of what is now,
and in that I will rest. They are the
colors that protect and surround and
allow the birds of winter to
blend into their background
and become invisible against the tree trunks -
junco’s, white-throats, song sparrows, chickadees, titmice,
nuthatches, woodpeckers, Carolina wrens, mourning doves,
and the Cooper's and sharp-shinned hawks that hunt them, 
drab colors all.

Beauty among the tans and greys,
beauty among the browns.

Own Who You Are

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Some time ago, a spiritual director spoke those words to my husband..."Own who you are!"  But what to do when we don't remember very clearly, when forces beyond our control cause us to forget? These little plants don't look like much at first glance, perhaps. But for me, they were the needed gift. They were what led me back to myself this morning.

It is 39 degrees and windy outside. The landscape is still mostly brown. The March malaise is upon me, the long weariness of winter, frustration at the teasing days of warmth, only to be plunged back into freezing temperatures and muddy ground. The suffering of the globe feels particularly heavy these days...the emotional and physical turmoil of the nation, the farms and cattle and soil that have all been washed away, the loss of people's lives and livelihood, worldwide.

Suffice to say I am not at my best in March. I am tired of grackles and red-winged blackbirds dominating my feeders. I am tired of going out to look for blooming spring garden flowers that I know full well are barely up out of the ground. I long for the blue jay's squeaky, raspy cry to be replaced by the melodies of wood thrush and warblers. Sometimes all that is in me wants to cry out, "How long?"

March is the almost-but-not-quite season. It is the season I begin to forget who I am because, deep down, much of who I am involves the green and growing world and my participation in it. Never mind that there are trays of young lettuce, kale, cabbage, onions, chives, dill, and calendula growing upstairs under lights, or pots of orchids and foliage plants growing happily in my study.  My soul longs for the awakening of the earth and the plants that no one has planted. 

And that brings me to my walk out into the woods behind our house this morning and my rediscovery of the cutleaf toothwort populations carpeting the ground. Flowers that no one planted intentionally, flowers that are some of the very first to support early bees and butterflies, flowers that declare unequivocally that there is order and assurance built into the natural world, if we but wait for it. 

I know that I am connected to the One who mysteriously (and I imagine, joyously) splashed the toothwort across the wooded landscape. But sometimes I forget. This morning was a reminder that participation with the Holy sometimes means waiting and bearing with the longings of the world and, at the same time, there are moments of relief, moments that anchor us, not just in God, but in our deepest selves, as well. 

Soon the toothworts will all be blooming.

Kinship

It was the bite of a newly harvested, Pennsylvania apple that brought me back to my senses. Sweet and tart, spicy and juicy, spark of gratitude amidst the chaos of swirling emotions, acknowledgement of what hasn’t changed.

Christmas fern on the bank up the road, the golden glow of beeches-reminiscent of Lothlorien, chickadee voices that sing all year and that brave, young roadside mullein plant, fuzzily growing taller and trying its best to beat the clock and bloom before the coming freeze.

The robins are here, voices ringing through the woodlands, taking in temporary offerings as they find them, nourishment from holly and bittersweet berries. And I? Where is my temporary nourishment, as needed in this moment? Like them, I ask only for the now, for a way to go on, trusting that when today’s provision is gone, I will be shown tomorrow’s.

It is cold and gray, this morning. I walk, damp and chilled but, driven onto the trails for the warmth of fellowship with disrobing trees, discarded leaves, and the old giants now being whittled to dust by beaks and beetles. The predictable presence of red-headed woodpeckers still surprises me, the prize of many a birder from far away. I can relax here, as their rattling invites me into a world devoid of human social turmoil, but replete with an abundance of grubs in the beaver and borer-killed trees that dot this landscape.

I hear them coming before I can see them, a doe and spike buck moving steadily through the trees, their coats exactly the same color as the bare trunks and branches, more effectively camouflaged than in summer. Close enough for me to read the expression in their eyes, they pause, smelling and wondering, and then, with a bolt, they are gone, vanishing back into the woodlands, beyond sight and sound.

Along the river, I find human fellowship, after all. An older gentleman carrying a long-distance lens watches and waits, dawdling as slowly as I. “There is a lot to see,” I say. “I can only go a few steps at a time before stopping again.” He smiles and nods, “Yes. That’s the way to do it.”
Sometimes, camaraderie comes unexpectedly.

Song sparrows rustle covertly in the thickets, singing improvisational songs and muttering to themselves in the underbrush as I become aware of feet, pattering towards me. Two squirrels, engrossed in aggressive pursuit and heedless of my presence until a few feet away suddenly startle, turn and scamper back from whence they came. 

“Well! What next?” I wonder.

I turn towards home through woodlands still awash in yellow and orange, at peace now, as I haven’t been in days, seven to be exact. One of the ever-present but often-hidden hermit

thrushes teases with its wheezy invitation as I gaze on new evidence that the beavers are back and once again at work.

I have found the temporary nourishment I needed, nourishment to engage the day, to examine my fears, to be grateful for what is, even as I act to change what can be changed. I am of two minds as I look around me, grateful for the moment, anxious for what might come.

Of course all is not lost…Not yet, anyway.

                                                                              

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.