In the Time of Goldfinches and Hummingbirds

"Where do you want to be?" she asked. The veterinarian, who has become my friend, was here to release my old, beloved, little dog from her pain and the discomfort of a large, inoperable, abdominal tumor. My mind slowly numbing, I clutched at the reality that would allow me to bear the next few minutes well, and we went to the front porch. How many times, in how many seasons, have Mollie and I sat on that porch, soaking in the life around us?

These last few days, the tinkling begging calls of goldfinch young and the combative whizzing of hummingbirds have been the audible indicators that summer is waning. Through the open windows, I hear the reminders from early morning until after sunset, so eager are they to take in the nourishment they need to forge ahead into the next stages of their lives. Though Mollie could no longer hear, she watched their comings and goings so closely that I half-feared for the fate of any hummingbirds who swooped down too fearlessly, in their quest to figure out what she was.

As the three of us sat quietly together, I was filled with gratitude for life itself.  For the life of Mollie, for the life of my friend, for the life of the wild ones that surrounded and comforted us, for my own life, and for the life of the Spirit who was so near and present with us. The ancient Christian Celts believed that when God created the world, He did not create it out of nothing, but created it out of Himself and, as a result, they, and I, believe that He has mysteriously left bits of Himself, in all that is. Bits of Himself that connected Mollie and I to each other, during those last moments. Bits that connect me to the wild creatures and to the sources of nourishment that support them. 

Though deeply saddened at Mollie's passing, I know that in loving her, and in caring for and delighting in so many lives in this world...those of people, of wild and domestic animals, of birds and insects, of trees and forbs, I have grown and I have been deepened, through no effort of my own, other than the loving. May it be so for you.

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.

Where is Home?

Today, a new friend asked me, "Where is home, Ann?"  An easy enough question but I did not know what to say.  What she really meant was,"Where do you feel at home?" and that is what gave me pause.  A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to spend hours walking a northeast Pennsylvania woodland whose oaks, hickories, maples, black gums,  various viburnums and fall blooming asters and goldenrods glowed with the colors of fall. I felt a deep sense of "rightness", being in that space, one that overshadowed the awareness that I would soon be leaving to return to southern Maryland. I felt "at home" there, but those mountains were not where I live.

I lived in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania for almost thirty years before moving to start life anew in Accokeek five and a half years ago. And many times over, in the course of these last five years, I have returned to visit my children and their children, good friends and familiar places in central Pennsylvania and I have longed to stay. There are memories everywhere I look... memories that span thirty years of my life. When I am there, central PA feels like home, but we do not live there either.

We have lived in southern Maryland for more than five years now,and lately I sense this place beginning to have a "homeness" to it that I have not experienced here before. Such an awareness is an unpredictable and transient realization these days, but at least it I recognize it when it comes, however briefly. As I always do, I am working on new gardens at this new/old place where we live now and recently I counted the number of gardens I have tended and then left in the last going-on-six years of moving around. I was startled that this is my fifth garden in almost as many years. I have read about gardeners who love to move and begin new gardens, but I am not one of them. 

As I thought of my friend's question this afternoon, I looked around at the woodlands that surround our home and questioned whether it was living in the midst of this splendor that is allowing that sense of "homeness" to come creeping in. But no, I have appreciated and enjoyed many beautiful natural settings without feeling connected to them with any sense of permanence, and so that isn't it. And then I realized what I have been doing the last couple of weeks, what I do every fall when the leaves begin their glorious transformation...I have been planting the landscape, once again, for color and for wildlife. I have planted dogwoods and crabapples for birds, more salvias for next years's hummingbirds, asters, goldenrods, thorougworts and a host of other natives for next years pollinators. As has been and will be for as long as I am able, it is the planting of habitat that links me to where I live, the partnering with the Creator in sustaining the life that lives around me. 

This afternoon, I wondered more about why this is so..why does creating homes for wildlife mean so much to me, other than that I value their presence? And then I realized...I grew up without a sense of home. My family moved twelve times in my first thirteen years and I attended four colleges before finally managing to finish. After graduating, I lived in nine different houses within eight communities in two countries over the course of the next eleven years, finally living at and coming to love the last house for twenty one years before moving to Maryland and beginning all over again, several times. Creating homes for wild creatures who need them is the only way I know to root myself into where I live. The transient life I have lived accounts, at least in part, for the deep longing and sense of vulnerability I sometimes feel...the tendency towards feeling lost and lonely, without moorings and the connection of place. Creating  spaces for creatures to live their lives in relative safety and stability affords me the opportunity to do the same. I am humbly grateful for their companionship and for that of our Creator God who lives among us.

Much Needed Respite

Pollinators, pollinators everywhere in the yard! Bees of all shapes and sizes, butterflies and hummingbirds...Everywhere I look there is buzzing, humming and the fluttering of wings...swamp milkweed, green-headed coneflower, ironweed, joe-pye weed, cardinal flower, garden phlox all playing host to our tiny native wildlife...I feel like a shepherdess winding through the plantings, keeping watch over her flock, ensuring that what they need for life and health is provided.

I have spent much of my day outside, longing for peace and respite from the upheaval and concern of these tumultuous times.  Sometimes I go into the garden as a naturalist, to watch and observe the biological interactions. Sometimes I go for the joy of myriad colors, fragrances and bounty of life. But sometimes I wander into the garden because I am troubled, and it becomes a place of sanctuary, a place of refuge for me, as much as for wildlife.

Stepping into my yard, where the wild comes to live alongside me, does not remove the fears or losses of my life, but it does provide a space large enough to hold the accompanying emotions and ensures comfort as no other place can. The life found there pries my eyes off myself and points them to something greater than my worries. I am reminded that there are seasons and cycles to life and that calm really does return after storms. I am reminded that life goes on. The garden that was created to be a home for wildlife has become home to me and, surrounded by its abundance of life, I am blessed.