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.

Green Goodness

It’s a glorious spring day! Clear azure skies. Full sun. Still. Twenty-six degrees. Yipes, 26 degrees!?!

As expected, May did bring flowers. Bayfield's spring promotion, “Bayfield in Bloom,” begins today. Businesses in the area boast a profusion of daffodils—-cream, yellow, amber—-that spill over front yards, beside signs, into ditches.

Several days ago Frances and I walked down a dirt road near our house and spotted tiny white wild strawberry blossoms in the ditch. The other side of the road was aflame with brazen yellow marsh marigolds. When we looked closer, we singled out purple and blue violets trembling in the grasses ... anemones and bellwort.

Each day envelops us in its expanding spectacle of green as leaves unfold, growing larger, and blue sky slowly disappears behind this lush canopy. Meanwhile, creeping ground cover, grasses, and plants push farther out of earth. I'm a child again. Marveling at the richness of rebirth that comes in all shades of green: forest, lime, evergreen, emerald.

I remember other spring days, decades ago, when my dad walked through the woods on our property, my sister, brother, and me trailing close behind. He pointed out a profusion of colors and spoke the names of wildflowers we picked, a Memorial Day honorarium in memory of his mother and father.

From Dad I learned to cherish the beauty, fragility, and elusiveness of shade-loving forest flora. After retirement he grew his own profusion of wildflowers in the front yard of his farm home. When he died, 10 years ago this June, we honored him by gathering bouquets of wildflowers—-from his front yard garden, the ditches, and the woods—-to place near his body. It was only right that this man of field and woods should be surrounded by nature’s royalty.

For me, spring is a sacred time. A time to hearken to nature's stirrings. The spirit of my ancestors, my farmer dad--his parents, too--and all those who've worked the land and walked its woods and fields and streams, is reborn in the green goodness of the earth.

April Showers

... bring May flowers. I don't remember how many times my mother repeated that familiar phrase during my childhood. It helped me wait patiently through the too-brown, overcast, grey days of spring when vibrant blossoms were still a distant memory from the previous year.

Today I rose after a long night of rain to my first outcropping of nightcrawlers and angleworms. A moist, earthy smell filled the air. Our small pond, now deeper, attracts the geese to its banks daily. There they circle on the waters and plunge their beaks into the rich, dark, mucky earth that lines the edges and bottom of their miniature lake. They pluck at roots and detritus, shaking their discoveries into the water, nipping and nibbling, contributing more ingredients to the muddy broth.

For over a week now Frances and I've raked leaves off our small flower gardens and out of the ditches where daffodil and tulip bulbs and other indeterminate greenery poke their heads up through the earth. Several days ago Frances pointed out a tulip that pierced through a pile of leaves to reach light. It was quite the sight; pointed green leaves growing straight up through the center of dry, brown oak leaves left lying from last year's treefall.

Bird calls emanate from every direction. Spring peepers sing at the end of our drive and along Emil Road where wetlands are more prolific. A pileated woodpecker appeared to Frances today. The day before two birds--a purple finch and a chickadee--flew to our patio door, sat on the back of a folding lawn chair, and stared straight through the glass at us as we sat in the living room. Finally Frances said knowingly, "Oh, they're telling us that we need to fill the feeder...."

Sounds and sights and smells are everywhere. And tomorrow ... May flowers.

Twigs, Mud, Dried Grasses and ... Polypropylene Fibers?

Today, full sun and blue skies. I lean back, tip my head skyward, and watch the sway of treetops filled with red buds. These tender tidbits marinate themselves in sunshine. Soon enough their flavor will burst forth. Juicy, delicious shades of green circling along branches, dripping magnificent cool shade onto the forest floor.

Is it obvious that I've tiptoed--and now tumbled--into spring? There's no going back. A few frozen snowpiles lie hidden in shaded harbors but my senses are attuned to the sights and sounds and smells of spring....

On our walk to the mailbox several days ago Frances and I found a bird's nest in the ditch along our drive. Delicate and fragile, it was tiny, just two inches deep and three inches across. This lightweight home was woven from dried grasses with a few bits of birch bark curling along its outer edge. Most remarkable were the traces of manmade trash that coated its exterior. White, fluffy, polypropylene fibers--probably stolen from one of Namaste's stuffed dog toys--served as insulation. None of that fiber invaded the interior of the nest, though, where eggs and, later, tiny babies probably rested.

We placed this miniature woodland house on our fireplace mantel alongside an earlier model. That nest, discovered last year, is much larger, heavier, and sturdier, three inches deep and almost six inches across. Its materials, too, include dried grasses but its circular "concrete" walls are made of mud and thin, tiny twigs.

These nests remind me of a recent email: "Duck Story." It tells of a mama duck who built her nest on the second story concrete awning of a downtown San Antonio, TX bank building. Then she laid 10 eggs. Through words and pictures the duck tale unfolds.

When all 10 carefully watched eggs hatched, one bank employee took mama and her 10 ducklings under his wing. Once he saw the first babe fly/fall to the cement sidewalk below he quickly positioned himself below the nest. There he caught each baby as it flung itself into the air; then gently placed it next to its mama.

Once successful, this man then realized that the birds were still two blocks away from the San Antonio River. He cringed at the thought of their trek down sidewalks and across busy intersections. Retrieving an empty cardboard box, he gently placed the babies within, and led mama to the river. The final family portrait, taken after everyone was safely in the water, showed 10 babies lined in rows facing the camera with mama in the front, beak open.

I do wonder: What happened to the tiny beings that were hatched and tended in my two empty nests. I hope they, too, experienced a picture-perfect moment after leaving the nest.

Speeding into Spring

Today we moved into the 21st century! Frank, a local computer technician/magician, connected our computer to high-speed internet service. Already--one hour later--we're rushing from email to blog to internet search. Finally, Frances can be on the computer while I'm on the phone or vice versa. Life is good.

I know, I know. Many people left dial-up connections behind years ago. Though we may be in the forefront of trends involving health and wellness, computer technology and innovation aren't on our Top 10 list.

Soon I'll revisit and edit posts from our trip to Mexico and Central America written earlier this year. No longer constrained by dial-up lethargy the "add image" icon at the top of this blog makes me smile with anticipation.

Spring has sprung in the Northland. Then unsprung. Then resprung. Last week ended with full sun and highs in the 70s and 80s. Then new snow fell the following day; now we're back in the 40s and 50s. "Typical spring weather," we say to comfort ourselves and our neighbors.

The days inhale and exhale abundance. As green shoots find their way up through leaf-covered earth, woodpeckers and sapsuckers hammer on hollow trees outside our windows. Namaste spends long hours guarding the bird feeder; he works mightily to keep squirrels suspended in trees above his head, chattering excitedly. Later he enters the house carting along his most recent collection of ticks.

Our well-loved Eastern Phoebes returned on tax day, April 15th. Their familiar song, "phoe-be" and their characteristic tail pumping while perched on a nearby branch sent waves of tenderness circling through my heart.

Each night we carry our bird feeder into the house to prevent black bear vandalism. One afternoon last week while Frances and I sat on our deck drinking coffee we heard the loud crash of a not-too-distant tree. Namaste's finely tuned nose had pointed in that general direction for a good long while as he barked repeatedly.

We looked at each other and nodded, "Sounds like a bear." Yep, it's spring. Along with improved computer mobility comes a new lease on life. Bring it on ... greening grasses, bursting buds, energizing sunshine, revitalizing rain, and blossoming daffodils. I'll take it all.

Birds of a Feather ... Float through Life Together

Taxes.... Does that adequately explain my writing silence for the past 10 days?

Yesterday I guided Ander and Lucy to the pond gathering liquid on the south side of our house. A backhoe scooped fresh earth and buried rock out of this ravine last fall. We hoped that spring thaw would create a natural pool cum swimming hole for our goldfish and geese. Perhaps someday a geothermal heat source could be harvested from these humble beginnings.

During the six years that we’ve lived here, our geese—water birds that they are—have survived in the woods with a small rubber bucket that holds two, maybe three gallons of water from which they drink and bathe themselves. In the hottest, most desperate days of summer Frances fills a small children’s swimming pool with water and one goose at a time floats serenely in its coolness.

But yesterday Lucy, then Ander, walked down the slight snow covered mud bank and glided into this small natural pool. Immediately the two began their water dance: dive, surface, turn, flap, and float. In the 14 years I’ve known these blue-eyed birds I have never seen them so intent on submerging their entire beings in watery wetness: unabashed splashing; long, silent dives beneath the water’s surface; then placid floating.

After I re-entered the house I peeked out to observe their lively bathing. In time Lucy hauled herself out of the water and onto the snowy edge where she spread her wings and groomed her back with fresh-washed beak. Soon Ander joined her. He, too, began to groom, wings rising up and down, beak traveling along feathers that carried a winter’s worth of accumulated grime. In short order both geese were back in the pond, floating and basking in chill spring waters.

When we lived in the Twin Cities, on several hot summer days Frances and I loaded Ander and Lucy into the cab of our old red Dodge pickup. We drove to a small nearby lake where we unloaded geese and inflatable kayaks. Soon we formed an unlikely chain of water traffic: Frances in her inflatable boat, then Steph, followed closely by Ander, then Lucy.

We paddled into water lilies and stopped while the geese explored the water and weeds around us. Slowly the four of us paddled back to shore where we reloaded boats and geese for our return. In those days the geese seemed nervous about their truck ride and, suspicious of our destination, stayed within arms’ reach. Though they enjoyed their water outing they seemed relieved to return home to their swampy suburban wetland.

But yesterday was a special treat for us all. What a wonderful, wet, fleeting-flapping-floating celebration of life!

Spring is a long time coming ...

These days, everywhere I go, everyone I talk to sings the same refrain: "Oh, I can't wait for spring! This winter ... I'm so over it!" I feel that way, too, and I was gone to Central America for seven weeks this winter.

On Monday Frances, Namaste, and I drove down to the Twin Cities to visit with my sister, Mel. She flew to Minnesota to meet staff and conduct business for her new job in Baltimore, MD. We spent just a few hours visiting over several evenings but it was a golden opportunity. Even though she and I talk by phone most weekends, two years is a long time to not have face-to-face time with one of your best friends.

During our stay "down south" another winter storm flashed through the area leaving snow and subzero temps in its wake. On Thursday we left Minneapolis at 4:00am. Departing temps in Minneapolis were -3 but as we traveled further north they dropped to -9, -14, -18, and finally bottomed out at -24. The inch or two of new snow lining the streets of Minneapolis shrank in comparison to the eight plus that lay in our woodsy backyard.

Everyone's ready for spring. Our geese were more than happy to stay in their heat-lamp-heated barn during this most recent cold spell. Frances wondered aloud about our neighborhood wild turkey. "Can he dig into the snow?" she asked, "How does he keep warm when these temps are so cold?"

At the end of our road trip we discovered "our" turkey sitting in a tree next to the road about a half-mile from our house. "Oh, that's what he does," Frances commented when she spotted him. She'd imagined that he'd find someplace warmer than his traditional roosting spot.

Today the sky is blue beautiful. The sun glances off heaps of white that stretch off into the woods. In recent weeks squirrels race around our house tempting Namaste into hide and chase games. And, no, Namaste never wins.

Spring signals her return in longer days of sunshine and increasing animal activity. Next weekend it will be official ... Spring Equinox. Soon black bear will emerge from hibernation and knock down bird feeders. Then migrating birds will chirp familiar songs as they flash brilliant colors from tree branches. And, finally, finally, the snow and ice will begin to thaw.

Our first spring in Bayfield--2003--my brother and his girlfriend visited. On one of our outings we rode the Madeline Island ferry. Huge chunks of ice bobbed around the ferry, bumping up against its sides as we made our 20 minute journey across the bay. It was Memorial Day Weekend, the last weekend in May. What, I wonder, will this year bring?

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.

Birdy Twirties

I heated sugar and water then filled and hung two hummingbird feeders yesterday morning. To me, that’s a sure sign of spring. The local wisdom: Put feeders out by Mother’s Day and take them down by Labor Day. We haven’t seen any hummers yet, but more winged relations appear daily.

Two days ago we saw our first rose-breasted grosbeaks. The triangle of red on their breasts is eye-catching and the deep black on their heads and backs, handsome. I admit it, I'm a glutton for the colorful flights and songs of spring. Right now I'm impatiently awaiting indigo buntings and baltimore orioles. Our neighbor Florence, who lives seven miles away, sees indigos each evening on the ground under her feeder. Their vibrant blue-violet feathers are gorgeous. I nervously mentioned my desires to Frances several days ago. "Don't worry," she assured me, "We'll see indigo buntings too."

On my way back from the mailbox several evenings ago I sensed a slight movement in the woods. When I stopped to look, I spied a pileated woodpecker climbing a tree trunk. He was shy and kept his body protected from my gaze by climbing the far side of the tree. Pileateds are fabulous creatures, large (19”) with a stunning red crest on their heads.

Our eastern phoebes were some of the first to return home to the woods and they're busily building a nest. They chose to reestablish themselves on the shelf Frances put under the eaves above the kitchen window. The old nest is still there from last year but it looks as though phoebes, like humans, prefer to expand their townhouse and condo developments. The new nest shares a common “wall” with the old.

Last week we had our first black bear visit under the cover of darkness. Our sunflower seed feeder was pulled to the ground and emptied (but not destroyed!). We’re more careful now to bring feeders in before bed and re-hang at morning’s light.

I overheard another patron at the library a month ago say, "Oh, I get so excited by spring ... Doesn't everybody?" Spring IS a glorious time. Birdsong greets me each morning and a delicious variety of birds linger in still-naked tree branches. I live amid a whirlwind of movement and sound: wings flapping, colors flashing, beaks pecking, bills hammering, birds competing for seeds, songs spilling out -- a cornucopia of delight!

Nature's Quiet Miracles

Even though the pulse of spring throbs through my veins … It’s still not here! Yesterday I sat out on the deck for several hours just noticing the sounds—and the quiet. It was 50 degrees in the sun (yes, I wrapped myself in a blanket). What a miracle to soak in the sun’s warmth while surrounded by acres and acres of snow!

Today clouds cover the sun and temps are back down to 20 degrees. Both earth and sky are white, the trunks of trees the only darkness in this wooded landscape. I can see a few flakes of snow—and now a growing abundance—drifting down-down-down.

The earth unveils herself a bit at a time … Now we have a large front yard of mud and we “walk the plank” (a 2x4 board we’ve placed over the worst of it) each day to get to the other side. The drive is so snowy-muddy that we parked our car at the bottom early this morning to avoid driving on it, wearing deep tracks into the slippery-slidey muck.

Frances and I (i.e., Same Spirit) are collaborating with Pinehurst Inn B&B on a spring retreat May 15-18, 2008 called “Nature’s Quiet Miracles.” We’re offering a beautiful location, healthful meals, bodywork sessions, daily T’ai Chi Chih moving meditation, meditative walks through the woods and on the beach, group writing and conversation sessions, ritual, and lots of time to nap-read-write-walk-observe-converse-listen-dream-r-e-l-a-x-BE. I’ve been contemplating quiet and wondering …

What is quiet? It’s space to breathe and listen and hear the sounds of nature all around me. It’s making a choice to sit instead of run, lie instead of stand, observe instead of do, and gently float on the tides of thought and senses instead of control what I experience.

Quiet is taking the time to be alone. It is taking the time to hear, see, feel, experience your Self without any need to don masks or personas.…

Quiet is watching the waving branches of a tree, listening to the shuddering flap of bird wings as they flutter away from the feeder, noticing the small brown leaf that has melted its way through the crusty snow all the way down to the earth.

Quiet is experienced in the cheep of a bird flying overhead, the gentle tapping of a squirrel’s paw nearby, the repetitive knock-knock-knock of a Downy Woodpecker’s beak.

When I quieten down, I don’t necessarily experience total silence. Rather, I enter into a state of being where speed, hurry and busyness are purposefully set aside in order to rest—truly rest—peacefully in the moment.

If this opportunity for quiet appeals to you, contact us through our website, www.same-spirit.com, contact Nancy or Steve at 877-499-7651, or go to www.pinehurstinn.com. Ahhh ….

Ah, Spring!

It’s the 11th of March, 10 days ‘til Spring Equinox. Pure white snow presses itself tightly against the earth. Its undulating dips and mounds replicate the Earth’s feminine nature. Trees sway their naked branches in circulating rhythms. They look like they’re still asleep but now there’s a whisper—just a whisper—of rebirth. (Their sap is running and it’s time to harvest their deliciousness.)

I can feel it … the advent of spring. It’s subtle, I admit. But there are signs. Signs! Cleaner, clearer skies. More intense shades of blue. Wider, brighter expanses of light. Here and there, an island of dark earth and dry, brown grass emerges amidst the vast expanse of frozen landscape.

The air is different. I can’t tell you how exactly. But spring quivers in the breezes.

The birds’ winter routine is altering too. They no longer vie for their spot at the feeder with the same level of competitive violence. Last week there were a dozen Pine Grosbeaks surveying the deck floor for oily black sunflower seeds. Black-Capped Chickadees, Nuthatches, Pine Siskins, Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers lurked at the feeder. Now, one single Chickadee feeds alone.

The cat anchors himself on the edge of the deck, his head dipping over the side to monitor the squirrels below. He hasn’t hunted that single-mindedly for months. The dog, his light fur coat no match for cooler temps, tends to his own routine of hunt and sniff, hunt and sniff. Last night he came in and out repeatedly as dusk fell. His vocalizations have increased dramatically, another indication that more creatures are afoot in the dark woods that surround us.

Excitement percolates beneath the surface of my skin. There is a subtle, shifting change despite the fact that I continue to wear wool socks, long underwear, layers of polypropylene, and Sorel boots. Something new waits beneath layers of snow and sturdy ice; some new being hides behind well-insulated walls and sealed windows and doors. When will it, she, I, we emerge?