ss: 7.6.11

I am accepting the Juniper tree as my plant teacher.  When I sit amongst  his/her boughs, there is an energy that keeps me, that accepts my wandering mind and soul and quiets them.  It happened again last night as I set out with a different mind set: stop running deep into the woods in search of escape; remain closer to the community and find a bridge between civilization and wilderness.  A gesture of acceptance for what challenges me.

In this new but old spot the Junipers called me to their perch, just above a den that has hidden sleeping wild creatures.  They sheltered me as I peered out from their feathered branches into the meadows and the gulch.  A robin hopped along the creekside, looking for worms after a hard afternoon rain.  And then as the light darkened to grey, I turned my focus to the little meadow — the place where the fox darted weeks ago.  And there came a bobcat, silently plodding along, out for the hunt.  It was but a two second glimpse into his life, but it felt private.  It is a powerful feeling to remain hidden from the wild creatures that know so much more about the forest and its inhabitants than we do.

ss 7.3.11

Today as I approached my sit spot, with an attention to being invisible, I happened upon a hummingbird harassing a ground squirrel.  I wondered why a hummingbird would care about a ground squirrel, and felt humbled by how little I understand.  Everything is connected.

Across the meadow a weasel spotted me.  He stood up on his hind legs and watched me as I watched him.  Eventually, he determined I wasn’t significant and carried on, down the meadow out of my sight.  I feel that weasels are trying to teach me something.  Our paths keep crossing.  I’ll have to think on that.

I sat in the quiet and listened to the cicadas clicking and buzzing.  The forest was alive with sound.  Something I’d never heard before called from across the creek.  A bird I thought, but perhaps not.  I am still a little tormented by hearing something I can’t see, but my skills are not developed enough, yet, to track down the source.  My learning is just in becoming familiar with the sounds, creating my own library of forest noises.  There will be many years to make connections.

I walked through a strong new odor.  Upon reflection, I am proud to be noticing smells.  Indeed my awareness grows.

I brought home the currants with the white umbrella like clusters of flowers.  I think they are black currants, but the ID isn’t certain.  I’ll have to note their location and watch for the fruits.

it’s all connected

I have maintained this spot, off and on, as a place to gather my thoughts and observations as we romp in the woods, mama and kiddos.  The thought was to create a themed space, but as it turns out, to categorize our experience with the earth as separate from everything else we do feels so directly in contradiction to our experience — our connectedness to the earth is all encompassing, it is theme-less.  So I’ll keep sharing our experiences at our catch-all home on the web: connected at the roots.

a hairy fellow

The two harbingers of spring in these parts are the Mountain Bluebird and the Pasque Flower (Prairie Crocus).  Bluebirds are tough to miss: an impossible blue, a merry flight, a preference for open land where they are easy to spot.  And when you see one, you will see many.  Bluebirds announce the arrival of spring with song, dance and celebration.

The Pasque flower, on the other hand, represents the quieter side of spring.  To notice this hairy little fellow, quite modest in its early days, one must walk slowly.  Perhaps it’s my fondness for plants, or perhaps it’s an appreciation for the humbler side of spring, or perhaps it’s just the anticipation — the slow daily walks with an attention to the details.  Regardless of the source of my admiration, my first spotting of this early-bird crocus brings me a quiet delight, a celebration of the heart.   The boys enjoy the hunt too; and they celebrate, for a fleeting quiet moment.

two worlds

Yesterday we watched a water glider skitter around in fresh snow melt.  Water gliders make me think of summer.  Wow.

We didn’t have to travel far, though, to forget those thoughts.  Just inside RMNP there’s still deep snow.  While there was sunshine and short sleeves at home,  in the park snow was whirling up high; down low it was still gloves and hat weather.  We visited my favorite quick winter stop: the Cub Lake trail head.  A frozen river, big river-worn rocks, and a short walk guarantee an easy good time.  We could stay for hours doing nothing more than throwing rocks and breaking ice.  I don’t know if it gets any better for a few boys that need to blow off some steam and a mama at the end of her day.

With the boys’ tired out from lifting and tossing, they slowed down a bit and we started seeing the world as opposed to just rushing through it –it’s always good to take care of bodies first then minds.  The bright colors of the willow were in stark contrast to a day of browns and grays.

On our way out of the park we got the grand show: bull elk congregating in Horseshoe Park and bighorn sheep along Fall River Road.  We played tourist and stopped along side the road to watch.  We also spotted a magpie nest and bluebirds flitting about all over Moraine Park.  Even with whirling snow, spring has sprung in the park.

lessons from spring

in the last two days we’ve seen mountain bluebirds return from their southern home, wyoming ground squirrels emerge from their underground beds, earth worms tilling the earth, geese announcing their northward flight, and the most unbelievable: an itty-bitty grasshopper, plucked by very delicate hands from the straw that covers our garden bed.

spring is such a grand reminder of the regenerative power of the earth. the same regenerative power exists within each of us. this seems an important time to be reminded of that power. it helps me to focus on that in these times that are incomprehensible. strength and fragility coexist. in spring. in life.

march

This weekend we were skiing out our front door in 18 inches of fluff. Today the sun overwhelmed us on our early morning walk. There are some crazy days ahead, no doubt. I have complained before. But, actually, I am developing quite a fondness for spring in the mountains– the blue sky days as well as the snows and winds. What I look forward to most in these next months is the slow emergence of life. There will be no fields of color springing up, no green canopies. In the mountains, that is the stuff of summer. Here admiring spring requires a slow step, a faithful heart, an observant eye. It is the season that finds me bent over with field guides in hand, persistently looking for the next bit of life to emerge. Spring, though fierce and showy in the skies, is so humble on the earth.

Today, on this first day of March, my eyes were lifted from the earth. We were gifted with a pair of Golden Eagles circling over the rock we call Shaman. Even E-man, whose soul has been noisy and mind busy as of late, stayed behind a little longer while his brothers and I were pushed on by growling bellies. Yes indeed, what a gift.

skeletons

straw colored seed heads
glow
in the warm light of dusk

winds rush, then settle
thoughts drown
in earth’s ujjayi

little heads bob along
behind
before
beside

look! skeletons!
of summer’s aphid-infested flowers
remembering ladybugs we once cared for so thoughtfully

one littte head wonders “what do aphids doooo?”
he is looking for poetry
not answers

i dig deep to meet him
it is hard work
lifting myself from my mind

last breaths

There is life and death happening around us in these forests.  Last week there was a mountain lion kill, a buck, on the Field of Dreams, all covered in grass.  The kill was moved from the field and the coyotes were heard celebrating their scavenged feast in the wee hours of the night.

We found a lesser goldfinch where the boys play, under a wall of windows, where the bird likely hoped to fly into the reflected blue sky.  We acknowledged his life, admired his beautiful feathers and his tiny feet, and said a little blessing that we borrowed from Gwynneth.

Tonight, we dealt not with death, but with dying, which feels much different.  The boys found a young flicker, with just the beginnings of  feathers, lying on a concrete sidewalk, bloodied, but still breathing.  Oh, what is there to do in such a situation?  The mind nods, yes this is part of the cycle of life.  But it is such a fragile part, the moment between life and death, a moment that lingered far too long for this little bird, all alone on a concrete sidewalk.

We picked up the little fellow.  We noticed his parts: his big beak and tiny eyes, his surprisingly large wings and feet, the barely-there feathers already showing signs of their colors — little bands of orange on the wing.  We held him.  We kept him warm.  All of this, I realize, was totally unnatural.  But he was a baby and he was suffering and it seemed clear that he shouldn’t suffer alone.  We provided presence for a little bird that should have felt warmed by his nest-mates and parents.  We acknowledged his life.  We emitted an abundance of love.    Yes, totally unnatural.  But not.  We had a choice to act from our human hearts or our scientists’ minds.  The heart seemed the natural choice.

Tomorrow, we’ll return the little fellow to the earth and let him be a feast for other life.  That experience seems much more clear to my heart and mind  than the experience of suffering and dying.  I am comforted by the significance of this moment for our little people and grateful for the life that provided them the opportunity to feel an abundance of love for a little wild bird.  I know that love will carry over to admiration and respect for all creatures.

pink

So many flowers.  I am admiring this one.

Shooting Star.  Amazing that something so PINK can grow in the shade.