Visitor

Sunday morning in the Tennessee Mountains, and the sky is blue and full of freshness. I sit on the back porch sipping coffee, and I look beyond the porch railing and spot a cardinal, its red colors standing out like a lit ornament. He’s set against an opaque backdrop that is easily discernible through the thick debris, without the foliage of summer. Nothing to capture it with but words; my camera is inside.

 Some things are best captured with prose, without the leading and distractions of imagery. A picture can lead its audience in a direction that misses the point entirely. Sometimes the point is one a lonely soul needs. 

He drops out of site for a moment, probably getting me used to him being away. “I am still here,” he says, “watching over you.” I can hear his sweet song.  Not a warning call, but a calming tune that will comfort me the remainder of the day.

I am reminded that my birthday passed by a few days back. No recovering my lost day in the woods. My back issues are not yet healed. I look forward to a yearly hike on my birthday, in the stillness and quiet of the forest. Another is on the way, still in the distance, barely a seedling at this point. With hours of preparation in between. His message is to prepare now for what awaits later; don’t miss an opportunity. 

My cardinal is such a beauty. Earlier this morning I heard his call of warnings when I stepped outside. Didn’t see any visible signs but words can do the job. Why warnings before the calm? Now he basks in peace and beauty.

He steps away for a moment, and now an unexpected breeze flows, out of character with the still morning. It rattles leaves and stirs the air.

The cardinal made me think of a friend’s mom. The friend’s comment a week back, that a visit from a red cardinal signifies a visit from a loved one from heaven. Her wonderful mother passed away recently, after a life full of treasures placed upon those she knew. She couldn’t linger forever in person, and it would not have been fair of her to do so. We must step up and make our own memorial.

Some people leave their indelible touch on us, with a reminder of them everywhere we look. A lift of the spirit, of our faith. Memories. Talking about them is time well spent, for it renews lessons that are worth reliving. It helps to unlock their secrets that were in front of us all along.

A tree is now fallen on a steeply pitched hill below the deck I stand on; I visualize a family of squirrels darting in and out, it being the shelter when raising their young. Now it’s nourishment for the ground it fed, yet it serves as a reminder when I look at the rotting tree, now in pieces on the ground, and host to a nice array of greens, reds, and yellows that cling to its shell. I envision the images I captured of this tree with my camera almost ten years back. The next generation won’t see this tree as more than what once was; something of the past with nothing left to offer. This puts such a burden on me to leave an indelible mark for others to visualize what I see.

Where do these thoughts of goodness that flow through me come from? How many generations back of planting good seed? 

A reminder was sent to me today by a messenger. Unknowing to the cardinal? I don’t think so. He knows how to look at me, what to say and how to Say it, and to remind me of what is good. Perhaps it comes as instinct, for animals do as they are programmed, unlike many people. Their purpose is set, and while they are free to enjoy many things while on the earth, they don’t take more than they give.

I long to walk in the woods on my birthday.

Nature's Changing Face

I’m at my desk writing, gazing out the picture window in front of me at waning daylight. Its sharp lines of sunlight are like spotlights directed at me, not to make me center stage but sent as a reminder of the brevity of time. Light drops by the moment, fading into what will be a spectacular finale of color.

Baby pines in the front yard are  the next generation, ready to step up when their time arrives. Mama doe walks cautiously with her two fawns, which are now close to having no spots at all. They have cleaned off the low hanging fruits from the blueberry bushes, and they’re looking among the shrubs now.

A brown rabbit sits hunched up on its hind legs, nearly blending in with the pine straw strewn behind it. Watching for predators and rummaging for food.

Ravens call to one another, and then meet in the grass below, looking for a meal. Or perhaps shiny new trinkets to carry to their nest.

I am at home in such a place, with nature’s miracle unfolding in front of me. And, I find much to write about here. The city lights are enticing and fun for an occasional excursion, even if only to remind me of how wonderful a place I find in nature, along a wooded path, listening to the music that fits together far more intricately than any symphony. A master composer and musicians may come close, but I have to believe their inspiration comes in part from a setting like this, so beautifully intertwined in both sound and spirit.

And then the creatures of the night come alive. At dusk and early on the music is intense and overwhelming. Fireflies randomly display the darkness with enough of a flicker of light to leave questions in the recesses left behind. What is in that dark spot of woods? Did I see something move? I heard a sound from out there. 

Tree frogs, cicadas, crickets, and on occasion a coyote’s scream pierce the night air. Take a short walk with a flashlight and be careful to avoid stepping on the frogs and snakes. Walk near the thick grove of trees next to the garage and a thunderous rattling of wings nearly makes you fall. Then you wonder; was it an owl? A hawk? It was quiet and breathless until you step over that line of personal space.

From deep in the woods a low, guttural “cronk” sound fills in the gaps of sound, and as it approaches I am sometimes tempted to retreat. But I long to be in a tent, deep in the woods, sleeping peacefully to the sounds of nature that can’t be adequately described with mere words. I feel night time’s cool air as it seeps into the tent and fills every pore of its fabric. I become immersed in the surreal world of the night, stepping outside my normal realm into a fictional story, a fantasy where my imagination can fill in all the blank pages of unseen treasures.  Then, in the deep of the night, as the night creatures begin to slow in their drunken revelry,  a deep, satisfying sleep will close the chapter and usher in a new day. No evidence remains of the night before, and a new beginning full of new hope emerges with morning's soft light.

Trapped

A hummingbird fought against itself, fluttering about near the ceiling of our garage. A small area where plaster has fallen looked like a window as she moved about in a panic, exhausting herself, trying to escape. The garage door was wide open.

Light flowing in through two windows may have confused her, as well as the light brown patch that seemed to draw her attention as much as anything else. Her tunnel vision was to hug the ceiling. Seemed safer up there where the unknown couldn’t slink along, catching her by surprise. It’s a common reaction for people. But birds, if they survive, have built-in instinct to protect. Like the inner voice we often ignore, or over time lose the ability to distinguish between its good or a voice of evil.

She kept flying above the opening and resting on the chain drive for the garage opener. This took away the option of lowering the door and raising it back because that was her place to rest and regroup. After a time of watching the same pattern repeated I grabbed a broom and tried to gently direct her in the path of safety, but she resisted, and finally landed on a window sill, about six feet off the floor, completely exhausted and with no more fight left.

I haven’t photographed a single hummingbird this year, but I had an opportunity to touch this one, as her exhausted body didn’t resist. I gently picked her up and walked outside through the open garage door. Looking around for the part-time feral cat that sometimes uses our yard as a hunting ground, I found an old bird bath with a top over it that seemed safe, and put her down carefully. I stroked her green body with one finger and then backed off as she summoned all her strength and flew upward long enough to reach a tree branch that was close to the height of our garage ceiling.

Hopefully she survived the ordeal. I checked later and her perch was empty, with no trace down below of the beautiful creature. I’m hoping she just needed a helping hand and a little direction. I’ll write the final chapter that way.

Illinois Beach State Park

I managed a couple hours away, on a brief stay in northern Illinois in early July. Always looking a good nature spot to explore, I decided to find a place to see Lake Michigan, which was under wind advisory with high surf. I’ve never made it up that way to see any of the great lakes.

I looked over the map I had of the area and picked Illinois Beach State Park, which as it turns out was the first nature preserve in the U.S., established in 1964. I like the concept of nature preserves; it's tough now days to find a place that hasn't been uprooted by development.  I walked a loop trail that was just under three miles. The first leg was through a wooded area with an abundance of wildflowers. Not the ones back home in Georgia that are already wilted, but with vibrant colors and in full swing. Temps were in the mid seventies and breezy. After turning and heading back along the other side of the loop, the wind began picking up, and dunes began to appear. Walking a short trail to the lake and looking out over the expanse, I felt like I would come up on a shoreline littered with seashells and crabs, but the lake is freshwater. Lots of smooth, polished rocks dotted the shoreline.

The winds felt like gale force a few times as I walked along the water’s edge briefly, and then rejoined the loop trail and continued walking parallel to the lake. Such a beautiful area, and so well preserved. 

I didn't have my DSLR with me, but the point and shoot did okay. Here are a few images-

Saturday, May 4, 2013

A rainy day in Georgia.......good weather for opening the door going out to the screen porch and listening to the steady, relaxing drone of water rifting through the leaves, while sitting down with my laptop and writing. Despite the temps hovering around 55. Instead I grabbed my rain gear and headed out for a 4+ hour hike, in a steady rain with a friend. The sounds are like what you would expect on a nature CD, especially as you get deeper into the woods, away from car noises and into the areas that  give a sense of "getting away from it all."

The trees have never looked greener. Everything is brought out. With steady lighting across every plant and rock, and a dampness that seemed to freshen everything living, the scene was surreal. Having the time to explore and fully enjoy the scenery was refreshing. Nothing looks good in the rain through a windshield, with wiper blades obscuring the view even further. All five senses need to be used, and you have to be in the middle of it all to experience it. The patters of rain hitting my parka, and the drops hitting water puddles that built up on the trail. The sight and smell of greenery, and of a dampness in the air. Actually, one thing we normally use  isn't required: speech. Let nature talk during such journeys; we talk over it enough.

The trail hugged a lake, and followed a creek during another section. The wooded portion was like a roller coaster with steep inclines and drops, and a section of granite that was slippery on the inclines. My favorite part may be the puddles on the trail. I still enjoy splashing through water puddles, just like when I was a kid. With or without a bike.

 Birds chattered incessantly throughout the day, although I didn't see too many of them in the thick foliage. As if they were saying "Welcome to our world, so few take the time to visit."