The lupines are out in full force. Radiant spikes of purple-blue with occasional pinks and whites line the roadsides, appear at the edges of forest, peek out of tall grasses, and stake their claim amidst acres and acres of green.
Two nights ago I stopped along a gravel road to pick a bouquet. I felt like a thief! Lupines should truly be left where they grow. Still, I couldn’t resist plucking a handful. These glorious blooms hold an honored spot on our kitchen counter and feed our souls each time we enter the kitchen.
Why are lupines so magnificent? Part of their wonder is in their wildness. They are hardy enough to survive among tall weeds and grasses that would overwhelm other varieties. Yet they seem frail and elusive. Where will they show up next? What colors will be revealed? It’s hard to know until they appear. Locals and visitors both relish these few short weeks of summer that sing with lupines!
But lupines aren’t the only blooms over which we hold bragging rights. Driving back from teaching my t’ai chi chih moving meditation class in Cornucopia last week I saw a field of white daisies. They were so plentiful they resembled snow covering the field of grass. When I attended retired biologist Tom Gerstenberger’s slide presentation on “Special Places in Bayfield County” at the Bayfield Library last Saturday night (part of a 24-hour BioBlitz), he mentioned that same field of daisies. They were fabulous!
Several other beauties of the northland: buttercups spring up abundantly, adding a yellow glow to the summer heat. Orange hawkweed, too, hums its vibrant tune along the roadways. Both varieties are a delicious treat; too delicate to include in bouquets but eye-catching in their natural habitat. I can almost see wood nymphs dancing across their blossoms in frenzied delight!
Blackberry bushes also blossom prolifically; large white flowers that whisper a promise of delicious fruit. I impatiently await the small purple-black berries that will soon hang heavily at the ends of these branches.
Every summer these indescribable wildflowers surprise me with their fortitude and vibrancy. They’re truly a gift of pleasure and presence. Just yesterday this song from the musical “Carousel” echoed into me: “June is bustin’ out all over. All over the meadow and the hill! Buds’re bustin’ outa bushes And the rompin’ river pushes Ev’ry little wheel that wheels beside the mill!” Rodgers & Hammerstein had it right. It’s almost July but June IS bustin’ out all over!
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Rebirth and Death
Spring is a time of rebirth. It’s easy to understand why when we see grasses, plants, and flowers weave upwards through the soil, greening, budding, and flowering; birds laying their eggs in newly-built nests; and bear, deer, fox, and other creatures of the wild delivering their young into dens and deeply hidden places. But this spring has also been a time of death and dying. Frances’ mother died April 3 at age 93. I, too, lost an uncle and then an aunt this spring. They all lived good, long lives but death is always hard to embrace no matter how long-anticipated.
My cat Hiziki’s health (“Zeke”) is also failing. Three or four months ago he started drinking more water. Then he lost weight. In late May he ate a woodpecker and began to vomit, ceasing to eat or drink at all. Oh, how I’ve grieved! Zeke is the family member with whom I’ve lived longest. I moved away from my parents at age 17 but Zeke has been with me for 18, 19, or 20 years. His purr soothes my spirits daily. His beautiful green eyes hold my gaze with love, acceptance, and appreciation.
Zeke shared most of the eight years I lived alone in a Minneapolis apartment. Desperate for attention, he climbed into my lap and onto my keyboard each time I sat down to write at my computer. When I moved onto four and one-half acres of suburban land with Frances, he moved too. Initially frightened, he soon acclimated himself to the excitement of nighttime hunting. He let himself in and out of our front door by lying on his back and wedging his claws underneath the heavy wooden door until he could pull it ajar, flip quickly onto his feet, and run hurriedly inside.
One night Frances and I awoke to feel Zeke chasing a baby bunny across our bodies in bed. Another time he appeared after a battle that left part of one cheek torn away from his face. Though injured, his attitude was one of great pride and accomplishment. “You should see the other guy,” the look in his eyes said.
Our move to the woods north of Bayfield added new challenges. Zeke took to hunting in the wilderness with the same spirit of adventure that he’d shown in the suburbs. This time, though, he was coping with coyotes, wolves, and bears. The story of his face-off with a black bear our first spring here in the woods is described in a previous blog (“Lions and Tigers and Bears … Oh My!” June 30, 2007).
Several weeks ago while he was still unable to eat I found Zeke outside underneath a fern next to our house clenching a red squirrel between his teeth. Maybe he couldn’t eat, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him, dammit!
For the moment Zeke is stable. After a trip to the vet I decided not to use any additional measures to extend his life. No blood tests or x-rays, no fluids under the skin, no updated shots, no teeth pulled. I love and comfort him, give him daily reiki energy sessions, turn on the faucet in the bathroom tub when he wants to drink, and squeeze tuna water out of the can when he wants to eat.
This past month reminds me of the final days in both my father’s and mother’s lives. I was present with both of them when they died and my memories give me the strength to carry on with this beloved cat of mine. Though incredibly difficult and painful, I’m also grateful and filled with love and appreciation for this great grey creature—once 16 pounds—who continues to bring such joy to my life.
My cat Hiziki’s health (“Zeke”) is also failing. Three or four months ago he started drinking more water. Then he lost weight. In late May he ate a woodpecker and began to vomit, ceasing to eat or drink at all. Oh, how I’ve grieved! Zeke is the family member with whom I’ve lived longest. I moved away from my parents at age 17 but Zeke has been with me for 18, 19, or 20 years. His purr soothes my spirits daily. His beautiful green eyes hold my gaze with love, acceptance, and appreciation.
Zeke shared most of the eight years I lived alone in a Minneapolis apartment. Desperate for attention, he climbed into my lap and onto my keyboard each time I sat down to write at my computer. When I moved onto four and one-half acres of suburban land with Frances, he moved too. Initially frightened, he soon acclimated himself to the excitement of nighttime hunting. He let himself in and out of our front door by lying on his back and wedging his claws underneath the heavy wooden door until he could pull it ajar, flip quickly onto his feet, and run hurriedly inside.
One night Frances and I awoke to feel Zeke chasing a baby bunny across our bodies in bed. Another time he appeared after a battle that left part of one cheek torn away from his face. Though injured, his attitude was one of great pride and accomplishment. “You should see the other guy,” the look in his eyes said.
Our move to the woods north of Bayfield added new challenges. Zeke took to hunting in the wilderness with the same spirit of adventure that he’d shown in the suburbs. This time, though, he was coping with coyotes, wolves, and bears. The story of his face-off with a black bear our first spring here in the woods is described in a previous blog (“Lions and Tigers and Bears … Oh My!” June 30, 2007).
Several weeks ago while he was still unable to eat I found Zeke outside underneath a fern next to our house clenching a red squirrel between his teeth. Maybe he couldn’t eat, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him, dammit!
For the moment Zeke is stable. After a trip to the vet I decided not to use any additional measures to extend his life. No blood tests or x-rays, no fluids under the skin, no updated shots, no teeth pulled. I love and comfort him, give him daily reiki energy sessions, turn on the faucet in the bathroom tub when he wants to drink, and squeeze tuna water out of the can when he wants to eat.
This past month reminds me of the final days in both my father’s and mother’s lives. I was present with both of them when they died and my memories give me the strength to carry on with this beloved cat of mine. Though incredibly difficult and painful, I’m also grateful and filled with love and appreciation for this great grey creature—once 16 pounds—who continues to bring such joy to my life.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Taking Flight
SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 2008, 10:00 am
I’m on the deck watching two goldfinches at the feeder, one adult and one fledgling (?). The one I call fledgling is smaller, less colorful, with a skinnier head and neck and more plain looking ... I’d call him “unfinished.” As they sit on the wire before flying to the feeder, the babe cries out high-pitched needy sounds. Could they be father and son? I don’t know the parenting habits of finches so it’s all a guess.
We’re still anticipating the departure of our eastern phoebe nestlings from their home above the kitchen window. This morning I saw two of the four “twiddly butts”--that’s what Frances calls them--with faces to the wall and butts pointed out into the world. I’m anxious, thinking that they’ll be gone soon and I’ll miss their presence.
SUNDAY, JUNE 22, 2008, 7:30 am
Yes!!! Our eastern phoebes took flight this morning! I was busy with morning chores but sneaked a peak at their nest and saw the fledglings positioned differently. Beaks pointed out from the nest instead of inward toward the house. I felt a sense of alertness and expectancy. An hour later as I prepared my own breakfast I checked the nest again. Only one baby remained. It stood sleepily on the human-built deck beneath its nest then gradually turned its head and blinked its eyes. I sat quietly, watching, since I knew that the end/beginning was near. Before long it casually flung itself into the air and was gone.
I still marvel at the sight of fledglings leaving the nest. (See last year’s blog dated July 2, 2007.) Just 15-16 days after breaking out of their eggshells, eagerly accepting insects from their parents’ beaks, and quickly growing to almost-full size (7”), they venture into the world. They’ve never flown prior to this day yet they glide and lift gracefully into the unknown. They’re good role models for adult humans who hesitate, procrastinate, and exasperate themselves and each other with their timidity and hesitancy to take a risk, to try something new ... to spread their wings.
Ah yes, the next time I’m reluctant to push beyond my comfort zone I’ll remember the eastern phoebe fledglings who vacated their nest on untested wings and soared through the air to their next grand adventure.
I’m on the deck watching two goldfinches at the feeder, one adult and one fledgling (?). The one I call fledgling is smaller, less colorful, with a skinnier head and neck and more plain looking ... I’d call him “unfinished.” As they sit on the wire before flying to the feeder, the babe cries out high-pitched needy sounds. Could they be father and son? I don’t know the parenting habits of finches so it’s all a guess.
We’re still anticipating the departure of our eastern phoebe nestlings from their home above the kitchen window. This morning I saw two of the four “twiddly butts”--that’s what Frances calls them--with faces to the wall and butts pointed out into the world. I’m anxious, thinking that they’ll be gone soon and I’ll miss their presence.
SUNDAY, JUNE 22, 2008, 7:30 am
Yes!!! Our eastern phoebes took flight this morning! I was busy with morning chores but sneaked a peak at their nest and saw the fledglings positioned differently. Beaks pointed out from the nest instead of inward toward the house. I felt a sense of alertness and expectancy. An hour later as I prepared my own breakfast I checked the nest again. Only one baby remained. It stood sleepily on the human-built deck beneath its nest then gradually turned its head and blinked its eyes. I sat quietly, watching, since I knew that the end/beginning was near. Before long it casually flung itself into the air and was gone.
I still marvel at the sight of fledglings leaving the nest. (See last year’s blog dated July 2, 2007.) Just 15-16 days after breaking out of their eggshells, eagerly accepting insects from their parents’ beaks, and quickly growing to almost-full size (7”), they venture into the world. They’ve never flown prior to this day yet they glide and lift gracefully into the unknown. They’re good role models for adult humans who hesitate, procrastinate, and exasperate themselves and each other with their timidity and hesitancy to take a risk, to try something new ... to spread their wings.
Ah yes, the next time I’m reluctant to push beyond my comfort zone I’ll remember the eastern phoebe fledglings who vacated their nest on untested wings and soared through the air to their next grand adventure.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Rise and Shine
Morning quiet in early June. It’s cool—-40 degrees-—but a welcome calm weights the air.
“The woods are quiet, dark, and deep ...” I look out on a world of green leaves and hazy, almost-drippy dimness. An overturned bowl of condensed soup covers the sky, thick white. It rained much of the night and will likely rain much of this day too.
A chorus of squirrels sings from a circle of trees by the south deck. This woodland choir pleases me and I’m reminded of my mother’s favorite wake-up call, “Rise and Shine.” She’d sing the words up the stairwell or through one-inch square holes in the living room ceiling, the heat source for the bedroom I shared with my younger sister. It was a lovely, hopeful, just-right promise for a new day, the “shine” trailing upward in an insistent soprano, then sliding downward to completion.
I can still hear my mother’s voice--and feel her intent--three years after her death. Of course, my sister, brother, and I groaned under the weight of such morning glee. We didn’t want to get out of bed to get ready for school and no song, performance, or enticement made the least bit of difference. It was downright aggravating.
Too late I regret my childish disregard and hopefully revisit this joyful refrain. I occasionally sing “Rise and Shine” to Ander and Lucy as I let them out of the barn. The geese seem unimpressed but I sing it anyway. Some days I sing it to myself, a silent voice bouncing around inside my head in search of a fertile spot in which to take root.
Even though today’s air is heavy with the possibility of rain I remind myself to “rise and shine.” I must create my own light today. What better way than to start, as the squirrels and the birds do, with a song?
“The woods are quiet, dark, and deep ...” I look out on a world of green leaves and hazy, almost-drippy dimness. An overturned bowl of condensed soup covers the sky, thick white. It rained much of the night and will likely rain much of this day too.
A chorus of squirrels sings from a circle of trees by the south deck. This woodland choir pleases me and I’m reminded of my mother’s favorite wake-up call, “Rise and Shine.” She’d sing the words up the stairwell or through one-inch square holes in the living room ceiling, the heat source for the bedroom I shared with my younger sister. It was a lovely, hopeful, just-right promise for a new day, the “shine” trailing upward in an insistent soprano, then sliding downward to completion.
I can still hear my mother’s voice--and feel her intent--three years after her death. Of course, my sister, brother, and I groaned under the weight of such morning glee. We didn’t want to get out of bed to get ready for school and no song, performance, or enticement made the least bit of difference. It was downright aggravating.
Too late I regret my childish disregard and hopefully revisit this joyful refrain. I occasionally sing “Rise and Shine” to Ander and Lucy as I let them out of the barn. The geese seem unimpressed but I sing it anyway. Some days I sing it to myself, a silent voice bouncing around inside my head in search of a fertile spot in which to take root.
Even though today’s air is heavy with the possibility of rain I remind myself to “rise and shine.” I must create my own light today. What better way than to start, as the squirrels and the birds do, with a song?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Green Mile ... Er, 25 Acres
Vivid greens—-lemon lime ferns; rich, forest green pine branches tipped with tender green; apple green maples, oaks, and poplars—-suddenly crowd the woods. Frances looked out the window at a nearby maple this morning. Bright green light reflected off the vast expanse of each leaf and bounced into the room.
“Wow, those leaves are big!” Frances said, “Have they always been that big?”
“No,” I replied smugly, “Not since last year.”
They DO look huge. “HAVE they always been that big?” I wonder after she’s gone.
All this green is unexpected. Overwhelming. Still, during the transition from winter to spring green is a promise hidden in the trees and plants and dirt. The gradual transformation from bare branch to bud to leaf unfolding doesn’t happen overnight.
A new editing client who works as a doula (birth assistant) told me on the phone yesterday that “transition” is a legitimate part of the birthing process. It’s a short period of time, she said, seven to ten minutes when the woman may shake and vomit. It’s too late for medication but too soon to begin pushing. Stuck, almost every woman giving birth says she can’t do it, said my client. After this brief phase is over the pushing begins, followed by the birth.
An apt metaphor: Like a pregnant woman engaged in nine months of gestation who brings her babe into the world, Mother Earth goes through a similar cycle. Just when I think that spring, then summer, will never arrive it slides into view like a baby’s head breaching the cervix.
The natural world is transformed. I hungrily gobble up greens, inhaling the sights, sounds, and gradations of color. When I glance out the window, a Phoebe pumps its tail up and down as it perches on a wire cage encircling a bleeding heart. From another angle I spy a forget-me-not nodding its flowery blue face. But now, NOW, all is surrounded by green. I feel the way I did at the birth of a friend’s second son. I’ve just witnessed a miracle.
“Wow, those leaves are big!” Frances said, “Have they always been that big?”
“No,” I replied smugly, “Not since last year.”
They DO look huge. “HAVE they always been that big?” I wonder after she’s gone.
All this green is unexpected. Overwhelming. Still, during the transition from winter to spring green is a promise hidden in the trees and plants and dirt. The gradual transformation from bare branch to bud to leaf unfolding doesn’t happen overnight.
A new editing client who works as a doula (birth assistant) told me on the phone yesterday that “transition” is a legitimate part of the birthing process. It’s a short period of time, she said, seven to ten minutes when the woman may shake and vomit. It’s too late for medication but too soon to begin pushing. Stuck, almost every woman giving birth says she can’t do it, said my client. After this brief phase is over the pushing begins, followed by the birth.
An apt metaphor: Like a pregnant woman engaged in nine months of gestation who brings her babe into the world, Mother Earth goes through a similar cycle. Just when I think that spring, then summer, will never arrive it slides into view like a baby’s head breaching the cervix.
The natural world is transformed. I hungrily gobble up greens, inhaling the sights, sounds, and gradations of color. When I glance out the window, a Phoebe pumps its tail up and down as it perches on a wire cage encircling a bleeding heart. From another angle I spy a forget-me-not nodding its flowery blue face. But now, NOW, all is surrounded by green. I feel the way I did at the birth of a friend’s second son. I’ve just witnessed a miracle.
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