Revelation

Barred Owl Feather

Walking in the woods today, I found an owl feather caught in the bare branches of a sapling. It shimmered in the breeze, the pale color iridescent in the sun. I know the owls who live in these woods: Barred, Great Horned, and Screech Owls are part of the winter night-song and I feel protected knowing our valley is watched over by the bearers of Wisdom.

Today is November 11, 2011: Eleven, eleven, eleven. In numerology, eleven is the number of Divine Revelation and I am touched that the Universe has chosen to send me an owl feather on this particular day. I need the wisdom of Nature, wisdom that reaches beyond what our rational minds can see. I need vision that pierces the darkness of fear and worry and sees a world of possibilities and hope. Most of all, I just need to know that there are powers greater than I, powers that are good and strong and care for me, my family, and the Earth that is our home. That is the Revelation given me today.

Phenomenon

Bird's Foot Violet

A few days ago, my Mom and I were hiking and decided to take an old logging road back to the house. As we headed down a steep and rocky grade, a glint of purple caught my eye. In spring or summer I might have missed it, but now, in the somber autumn woods, it stood out like a gemstone. I bent down and to my surprise, discovered not an amethyst but a bird’s foot violet.  Bird’s foot violets are common in Missouri, but not in November. These delicate beauties cover rocky slopes in the springtime, joining forces with spring beauty and sarvis as the first hint of color in our Ozark woods, so seeing one this day was something quite remarkable.

“Have you ever seen anything so amazing?” I asked Mom.

“Yes,” she replied, “and so have you.” Mom went on to tell me the story of another autumn day, when I was three years old. On that blue-sky October day, Mom had taken me on a walk to look for fall treasures. We collected acorns and fallen leaves, identified asters and goldenrod, and even found a blue jay feather to put in our scrapbook at home. Then, on a similarly rocky path, we found a bird’s foot violet.

“Would you look at that,” Mom said, “A spring flower blooming in the fall.”

“Nomina! Nomina!” I exclaimed.

Using the translation skills only a mother has, Mom asked, “Do you mean phenomenon?”

I smiled and nodded my head, “Nomina.”

Now, forty years later, I wonder what message the Universe is sending me through the bird’s foot violet. Perhaps it means I’ve come full-circle and have arrived at a place where I can experience Nature as I did when I was a child: Before my life was made of schedules, goals, pressure to ”succeed.” The violet says, “Slow down, be authentic, bloom when you feel like it, regardless of the season.”

I take a photo of  the flower so I will remember what who I am – who the Universe has called me to be. I reach down to caress the velvety petals and say a prayer of thanks.

 ”Nomina,” I whisper, “Nomina.”

The Offspring of Sun and Sea

The First Snowfall

“Nature chose for a tool not the earthquake or lightning to rend and split asunder, nor the stormy torrent or eroding rain, but the tender snow flowers noiselessly falling through unnumbered centuries, the offspring of the sun and sea.” – John Muir

 

Results May Vary

Song Sparrow

Bird fever has hit. It comes upon me every fall and makes me a woman obsessed. From the time I could hold a camera I wanted to photograph birds. Just looking at the bright images in National Wildlife or Missouri Conservationist made me yearn to capture this elusive prey with my camera. Little did I know, the birds have a plan for people like me and as surely as they lure me into the woods on a bright autumn day, they set in motion their initiation ritual - the one I must survive if I am to be found worthy to take the images of my dreams.

Birds watch bird photographers as avidly as we watch them and I am convinced that over the decades they have developed a sanity test for anyone who wants their picture. They are professionals in testing human sanity: Quick, efficient, more frustrating than you can imagine.

First, there is The Tease: Rather than hiding the moment a photographer appears, birds coyly flutter into sight, landing on perfect, bare branches, singing their lovely songs, begging to be photographed. Of course birds also have excellent timing and they use this skill to pinpoint the moment they are in focus, so they can flit merrily away or ruffle their feathers into an incomprehensible blur just as the shutter closes.

Next, there is the Light Show: Birds understand the importance of light in a photograph and do their best to position themselves in the worst lighting possible. Woodpeckers always go to the shady side of the tree trunk and colorful birds, like robins and bluebirds, will leave a bare branch that’s in full sun to glower in the crook of a limb as soon as I get my camera out of the car.

Then there is Playing-Hard-to-Get: Birds measure distance extremely well and are able to estimate the focal length of any lens on sight. This gives them the ability to flutter into the air time after time, always landing just a few feet too far away. This move is usually followed by the “tail-flip,” which is, in the truest sense, giving me “The Bird.”

You may be thinking that these are perfectly normal behaviors, all designed to ensure survival in case I am a predator, but how do you explain The Taunt?  This occurs when a bird flies into sight and calls loudly, announcing its presence for all the world to see, then flies into a perfect position and adding a dash of The Tease, disappears into the woods where it continues to call loudly- just to make sure the photographer knows what is being withheld.

If, on occasion, the bird community deems a photographer worthy, then good photographs may be taken. The designation of “worthy to photograph” has a very short duration and can be revoked at any time, after which, the photographer is back at square one and must run the gauntlet again before further pictures may be taken. No deposit, no return. Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate. Store credit only on returns. Results may vary

 

Lord, It is Time

Wild Grapes catch the last light of an October day.

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine. – Rainer Maria Rilke

Simplicity

A wild turkey feather, found among the leaves.

For all the glory and color that is fall, this is my favorite time of year because the lesson of autumn is simplicity. Leaves fall, the light wanes, birds grow quiet and the earth draws a deep breath and says a silent prayer before she goes to rest for the winter. I need simplicity in my life, to pare down to the bare branches of thought so my mind can be open to the voice of the wind. I need to listen more than I speak, to feel more than I think, to get back in touch with the rhythms of Nature. I have but one goal this season: To take to heart the words of French writer, Michel Jourdan: “To drift like a dead leaf fallen from the tree and taken up by the wind, knowing not if the wind carries you or if you are carrying the wind.”

Survivors

Ruby is a survivor – one of seven who escaped the coyotes when they attacked her flock on a stormy day in June. After the assault, I gathered the survivors and moved them to a cozy box-stall at the barn where they would be safe from predators and where I could keep close watch over them.  The hens stopped laying eggs and spent most of their time sitting silently on their roost. Ferdinand, the only duck to survive the onslaught, slept for two weeks straight. He was covered in the dried blood of his comrades and although uninjured himself, seemed to be deeply traumatized. He quit eating and refused to bathe in the little pool I had set up and I worried he might pass away from grief.

Then, one morning in July, something changed. I walked into the barn and heard the cheery cackle of happy chickens. I hurried to the stall and looked through the chicken wire: The six hens were off the roost, scratching in the straw. Ferdinand was still laying down, but his head was out from under his wing and he was watching his flock-mates busy about their work. A few days later, the first egg appeared in the manger and by the end of the week, Ferdinand took his first swim. Joy had returned to the camp.

This evening as I did chores, I took this photo of Ruby, napping in the late afternoon sun. Watching her doze in the golden light, it occurred to me that her life is not very different from my own – or from the lives of most human beings. Ruby is a survivor and so are we.

Life is hard and it doesn’t play favorites. Tragedy comes even to those who are gentle and pure in heart, to those who least deserve it. So what do we do in the face of a Universe like this? My solace is found in the words of writer James Allen: “For those who will fight bravely and not yield, there is triumphant victory over all the dark things of life” …and in the courage of a chicken named Ruby.

The Age of Discovery

If you look in a history book, it will tell you that the Age of Discovery occurred from the early 15th century and ended about 200 years later, in the early 17th. It seems to me a dangerous thing to proclaim an end to an age with such a name, as if there is nothing new under the sun, for it is the thrill of discovery that gives life real meaning. It is the good fortune of all who love nature that historians have it wrong: The Age of Discovery is alive and well – right in your own back yard.

Today, I was hiking in the woods, reveling in the crisp autumn air and the fragrance of curing leaves, when I came to a steep ravine, carved in the hillside by eons of rainwater, and studded with moss-covered boulders. I’ve seen many such washes in the Ozark woods, but this one held a work of art.

Upon the boulders at the head of the ravine was a stack of flat rocks, piled on atop the other, like dishes in a China cupboard. They were too large to be placed by human hands and their edges were etched with carvings by the most ancient craftsman: Water. All of the moss covered rocks bore wavy cuts and carvings, as if the stream that once flowed down this hillside carved a self-portrait that would last for all eternity.

As I placed my hand on the soft, damp moss, that graced the stones, I felt life pulsing within - the heartbeat of a river long since dry, and I felt the rush of Discovery – of seeing something few other humans had ever seen. It brought to mind a quote from my favorite childrens’ book: The Wind in the Willows.

“The days pass, and never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes. ‘Tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new.”

So, dear friends, I tell you: The Age of Discovery is here, it is now and we are the explorers.  That is the gift and the challenge of life. I hope you find it as glorious as do I.

The Good Earth

My Family of Inky Caps

Margaret Atwood once wrote, “In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt,” but I’ve found this wisdom applies to most seasons. Today, walking through the woods, I found a fallen tree, decaying on the forest floor. It was covered with moss, lichen, and the most charming dark-brown mushrooms. I tried to photograph the mushrooms standing, then kneeling, but I wasn’t getting the picture I wanted – a shot that put me in their Lilliputian world. I realized the only way to get photos of their world was, of course, to enter their world fully: To lie in the dirt and leaves, my face inches from my subjects.

It is always odd to me how, as much as I love Nature, I balk at getting dirty. The school-teacher in my head says, “Keep you clothes clean, young lady. Wash those hands and stay out of the dirt!” and too often I am convinced. Too often I pass up a chance to be one with the Earth, to be just another creature, rather than a being destined to “rise above” such primal habits. Today, however, the voices of my better angels won the day and I lay on my stomach in the dirt and duff, breathed in the heady fragrance of curing leaves, let small beetles skitter across my hands and became as one with a family of mushrooms.

Look Underfoot

Yesterday was cool and rainy, a perfect, equinoxial rain that pattered gently on the fallen leaves and called into being the most delicate forest beings: Indian Pipes. Seeming more of springtime than autumn, these translucent white fungi with a soft pink bloom, stand like tiny sentinels among the decaying leaves, watching, marking time. Time is crucial for Indian Pipes, for their lives are very short. Rising after an autumn rain, they exist for only a day or two, then they melt away into the duff, their short lives and rare beauty only noticed by those who care to look out for them. Days like this bring to mind a quote from naturalist John Burroughs:

“The lesson which life repeats and constantly enforces is ‘look under foot.’  You are always nearer the divine and the true sources of your power than you think.”

Indian Pipes