Mea Culpa

This blog entry has been a long time coming. Yes, my daily T'ai Chi Chih practice and blog have continued unabated but this blog--my initial courageous entry into the world of blogging--has suffered the consequences of my other writing obligations (even when I said I hoped/expected/anticipated that it wouldn't).

I think of Under the Forest Canopy often (in fact, every time I enter blogger.com to post my entry to "Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky"). Unfortunately, thoughts don't necessarily mesh with actions and, thus, I'm in the particular spot that I'm in ... acknowledging my lapse in entries here and now, hereunto, and herewith.

Much has happened in the almost-two months of absence from these posts. First and foremost among them, I was diagnosed with heart disease in late March and am currently spending much of my available time focusing on my health first and foremost. In addition to my regular daily T'ai Chi Chih moving meditation practice I now walk daily for one-half to one hour.

I've also extensively modified my diet due to high cholesterol counts and now eat mainly vegetarian foods (i.e., beans and rice) with occasional ventures into chicken and fish territory. As one of my long-time friends who has lived most of his life as a vegetarian counseled me: "Steph, become one with your bowl of rice." (Thanks, Doug.) I'm also trying a variety of new supplements to help regulate cholesterol levels as I am highly adverse to taking pharmaceuticals.

I recently wrote an article entitled "For the Love of ... Silence" that is scheduled to appear in a new book due out near the end of May as a fundraiser for the Bayfield Regional Conservancy. Its tentative title is "Love Stories of the Bay" and it should be available through blurb.com in short order.

Per the editor/coordinator of this effort, Ros Nelson, there are 40 authors and 115 pages of stories that range from love stories about people, Lake Superior, animals, a sense of place, the loss of love, children, friends, and more. I'm anxious to hold this precious little gem in my hands as Frances took the photo that accompanies my story and I know there are many talented writers and artists in this area who likely took part in this wonderful venture....

So, yes, I'm back ... in the saddle, at the wheel, on the keyboard, and here, under the forest canopy. It's spring and, sure enough, May is bustin' out all over. Birds are returning to our woodland yard, bear are bending over our bird feeder post and vacuuming the sunflower seeds from the ground lying beneath the feeder, the Eastern phoebes have changed the location of their nest from over our kitchen window to the south side of our house over the patio door, and yes ... my friends the ruby-throated hummingbirds should be appearing soon, perhaps even as early as this weekend just in time for Mother's Day.

It is a wonderful time of year because each and every day offers something new: a new bud or blossom, a different migrating bird returning to the feeder, tiny footprints in the dirt, or a vibrant shade of green bursting into view. Spring ... what a blessing to be born anew each and every year.

The First Twitter

Before twitter.com there was the first, the truest, the most natural twitter. It was issued by ruby-throated hummingbirds as they soared toward their feeders.

Frances and I are inundated by this twitter-mania everyday. As young’uns ready themselves for their southern migration (they vacate our yard shortly after Labor Day) they engage in nearly continuous battles for food. The ravine on the south side of our house brims with jewel weed, a hummingbird favorite. But it’s the hummingbird feeder outside our patio door that attracts the most rambunctious crowd.

Currently four to six birds share this feeder. It’s dominated by one male. He perches on a dead branch conveniently close to the food source. As other hummers swoop near, he dives toward the feeder with a rush of twittering. Though his “words” are hard to interpret, his intent is not. I imagine his message as follows: “Hey, dude. Get out!” “U move it!” “Ur out of ur area little miss.” “Are U lost? This is mine. Mine! MINE!”

The other bird swoops, chattering, away. Then our dominant male perches on the metal curlicue above the feeder and twitters on: “Stay away!” “Beat it!” “Get a clue, sweet♥s.” “This is MY breakfast,lunch,dinner,snack,snack,snack!” “2 bad for u.”

Of course, he’s not the only one given to self-expression. Other hummingbirds seated on nearby branches, perched atop fragile flowers, or hovering mid-air argue back: “You’ll get yours, buster.” “LOL, man.” “Oh yeah? U wait!”

Not a tweeter or twitterer myself, I listen with interest to the challenges and short bursts of conversation that surround me. Then there’s a brief pause. A welcome silence. Suddenly the dive-bombing reconvenes … along with the twittering. The hummer who stays behind twitters. The hummer who flies away twitters. They both twitter mid-flight as they careen past our observation posts, two lawn chairs positioned on the deck slightly below and to the side of the aforementioned battleground.

You may accuse me of anthropomorphizing the interactions of my tiny friends. It doesn't matter. I enjoy these birdie twitters. These excited bursts of conversation will soon, all too soon, be gone for another year. And, truth be told, human tweets--140 characters or less--don't undo me like the twitters of my feathered friends! I think it's the tone of voice, rather than the words, that makes all the difference!