A little romance

We've been getting just a taste of the intensely cold weather the rest of the country's having. Thursday was extremely chilly here, with enough wind to make walking outdoors less than blissful. I hiked about half my usual distance and decided that was enough. At one point on the trail--which was completely deserted except for me and one scrambling chipmunk--I encountered an overpowering odor of skunk. That seemed a little odd. Cold weather generally encourages skunks to stay huddled in their dens. I figured some unlucky guy had ventured out in search of a snack and become one. Skunks are a favorite food of great horned owls.

Friday morning's temp was around 3 degrees Fahrenheit, which was cold enough to keep me inside, but I was out again today, happy to get some exercise and fresh air--until I ran into another skunk stink, in almost exactly the same spot where it had been before. I kept an eye out and walked on for about 50 yards, then I heard a critter noise up ahead I couldn't quite identify. It was a sort of squealing trill, accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves.

I had to stop and look around for a while before I spotted them: A pair of beautiful, silky skunks locked in an amorous clutch, rolling and romping like porn stars. They were about 40 feet ahead of me, right next to the trail. The noise was mostly coming from the female, who appeared much more enthusiastic about the encounter than her feline and canine counterparts usually do. The male was very busy and intent. He kept changing position. The boy had technique.

The boy had stamina, too. I thought they'd soon finish their procreative business and I could walk on, but no. Fifteen minutes passed and they were still hard at it. I did something I almost never do when I'm out hiking. I pulled out my cell phone and called Dave--"Hey, guess what I'm doing? I'm watching skunks have sex." For some reason I just felt the need to share. He was suitably amused.

Interspecies voyeurism only has so much entertainment value, and I was starting to get cold, so I finally decided to turn back and leave the devoted couple alone. I felt happy. The world doesn't especially need more skunks, but it's always delightful to see life beget life, especially when everyone involved is having fun.


Photo from birdphotos.com via Wikimedia Commons.

Living color

Sunday morning was a study in gray. A flat, dove-color sky was reflected in the lake, which was perfectly still. Staring at the water gave me a sense of being suspended in a void. Not an unpleasant sensation, but it had the odd effect of snatching my thoughts. I felt as I sometimes do just before I fall asleep--that my brain was still ticking away, cataloging perceptions, but none of the data was making its way to consciousness. I just stood a while and let myself not think. There was no sound except a crow complaining in the distance, and a little rustling of leaves by the squirrels, who never seem to take a break.

Olfacta commented on another post about the minimalist beauty of the Southern winter landscape, with its “million variations on neutral grays and browns”—a perfect description. I was thinking about her phrase as I walked along the trail away from the lake, when a poppy-bright cardinal flitted by me. A little further on I walked by a patch of moss, brilliant green. Those islands of color against the drab forest thrilled me. I don’t mean that they were merely pleasant or pretty—they thrilled me. A little jolt of happiness hit me. My heart beat faster, and I could feel my shoulders relax, my face soften into a slight smile.

I don’t usually think of myself as someone who is acutely sensitive to color. Nature seems to have blessed me with better than average senses of smell and hearing, and evened the score by giving me very weak eyes. My sense of sight started letting me down in childhood, so I have always tended to be a little less emotionally attached to visual pleasures, compared to the ones that come by other routes.

So when I encountered the bird and the moss, it was a mild shock to feel the joy of color so strongly. For just an instant I forgot myself, overwhelmed by the power of sensation. It mirrored the reverie by the gray lake, when the emptiness sucked away my thoughts. The color filled me with itself.


Some fun links:

An explanation of how color vision works

An interesting article about the consequences of color vision

A little visual trick


Concert of Birds, Frans Snyders (1579-1657)

Do not disturb

The temperature last Wednesday morning was above freezing, but a brutal north wind made it feel much colder. I kept putting down the hood of my jacket, thinking, Oh, it’s not that cold, and then a gust would hit me and I’d put it back up again. My eyes were streaming before I’d walked a quarter mile, so I was continually debating whether it was worth pulling one of my hands out of its warm pocket to wipe them.

It was especially windy at the lake, so I headed around to the little lagoon that’s sheltered by low ridges on two sides. The wind was whipping through the top branches of the trees but down at the bank the air was fairly still. I could stand there and enjoy the reflections on the rippling water, a natural kaleidoscope enhanced by the light of the rising sun.

I was strolling along the water’s edge, enjoying the respite from the cold and noting that all the birds seemed to have decided that this was not a day for early rising, when suddenly a great blue heron rose up out of the lagoon and flew silently out over the main body of the lake. He had only been about 25 or 30 feet away from me, but I never saw him until he took off.

Great blue herons are always a pleasure to see—they’re so big, and they fly so gracefully—but I immediately felt guilty for disturbing him. He had obviously been looking for a place of shelter himself, and my appearance had destroyed his temporary refuge. Of course, he was probably engaged in making life less happy for the little fish in the shallows, but I still pitied him as he disappeared into the cold, and I wished I could give him back his peace.

If there’s one lesson I keep relearning on my walks in the woods, it’s that life is a continual search for the lagoon. Everything alive seeks comfort, peace, a sense of safety. Those things are as necessary to survival as food and water. To steal sanctuary from another creature, even if we do it innocently or inadvertently, is a crime against him.




Video uploaded by mcnod at Youtube

Howl

The human noises that intrude on my woodland walks are usually something I resent. Traffic sounds, the rumble of trains, the growl of distant machinery--and above all, the sinister whine of chainsaws--make me grit my teeth. I have to discipline myself to ignore them, and not let them distract me from the singing of the birds or the rustle of a vole in the fallen leaves.

But human noises are animal noises, too, and sometimes our species harmonizes with others in delightful ways. This morning I was near the edge of the park when a siren sounded at the nearby fire station. Then the fire trucks began to scream, and somewhere in the distance a cop car chimed in, growing louder as it approached. A pack of dogs, probably penned hunting hounds at one of the houses just outside the park, began to yelp and sing. All together they made quite a concert, and I smiled because my own dogs like to sing duets with sirens. Then from the top of a ridge perhaps a hundred yards away, a solitary coyote cut loose with a full-throated howl, as if to say, You guys are pathetic, let me show you how it's done.



Photo of a gray wolf by Retron from Wikimedia Commons.

Hibernation

Maybe you're wondering why this guy is making an appearance in the dead of winter. Well, it's not because I saw one of his kind in the woods recently. It was 9 degrees Fahrenheit here this morning, so all our snakes are snuggled deep in hibernation--and I realized yesterday, as I walked toward the Solstice sunrise, I'm in hibernation, too.

Not physically, of course. I've been out hunting and gathering in typical 21st century human fashion, but spiritually I am half-awake, dozing and waiting for spring to rouse me. That's why the posts on this blog have gotten so sparse. My body is taking me along for our daily walk, but I don't feel inspired to interpret the sights and sounds along the way. My brain, for once, is silent.

I've been a little troubled by that internal silence, wondering if maybe this walking meditation is becoming a dead ritual or a chore, instead of the blissful practice it's always been. But it dawned on me--literally--as I did my Yule observance that it is inevitable that my talking self would retreat during this time of the year. A friend appeared for a moment with the rising sun and explained it to me.

A long time ago, when I first began to understand that there might be something of value in my intuitive connection to the earth, the snake became my totem. It was not a conscious choice, and I didn't do any ritual or dream work to determine it. The serpent just declared himself my companion and that was that. It made perfect sense, because the snake is associated with healing and with the power of transformation, both things I desperately needed at the time. As the years have passed I've come to see that I always had an affinity for the special energy of snakes, and that their particular forms of wisdom--decisiveness, resilience, the ability to change--are gifts I will always lack.

And so, as the earthly serpent goes underground and sleeps during the dark season, so does the spiritual serpent inside me. My own energy is inextricably tied to his. Nothing's wrong, we just need to be a little quieter now.


Photo of a black rat snake by Patrick Coin from Wikimedia Commons.

Missing the juncos

The Dude returneth. He was back in his corner of the lake yesterday--alone, as usual. Actually, not entirely alone, because a flock of dark-eyed juncos were hiding in the tall grass along the bank. They took flight as I walked toward them, buzzing the Dude’s head like low-flying aircraft. He didn’t seem to mind at all. Apparently, he’s fine with avian companions as long as they are not his own kind.

The juncos were so pretty they made me sigh. I’m too lazy to go looking for the post, but I know I’ve blogged at BitterGrace Notes about how the juncos abandoned my feeders a few winters ago, never to return. I still miss them.

I’ve never been a scorekeeping sort of birdwatcher. You know, the type who keeps a careful record of exactly how many species she’s seen, and always has a hit list of birds she hopes to add to the tally. I do get excited about seeing a rare bird, and I’m sure at some point I’ve gone through my Peterson’s guide to see who I’ve missed, but I never feel any sense of accomplishment or failure. My birdwatching is pretty much a goal-free activity. I do it solely because it gives me joy to look at birds, to know they’re alive. That’s the reason I feed them, too. I might make noises about promoting their survival or whatever, but really, I haul those bags of seed home for purely selfish reasons. If I put out food, more birds will come and entertain me.

What is so enthralling about these creatures, especially the little ordinary feeder birds like the juncos? Isn’t it amazing that human beings all over the world, if they have the resources to spare, will feed birds just for the pleasure of watching them eat? Let’s face it, birds, taken objectively, are not especially appealing. They fight constantly, they prey on each other’s young, they carry any number of human diseases; and yet, most people are completely charmed by the sight of them.

Not everyone, of course. My brother lived for a while with a young woman who seemed sort of vacuous but basically harmless. The first (and I think only) time she came to my house, she saw my bird feeders in the back yard.

“I hate birds,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say in reply. It’s funny now, but at the time it actually shocked me a little. What sort of person hates birds? I felt a sudden, visceral dislike for her, as if she’d insulted my religion--which, in a way, she had. My encounters with the birds are sacred to me. They are, pompous as it sounds, moments of mystery and higher consciousness. I look at those delicate beings and see myself in what is not myself. It’s a kind of ecstasy.



Video of dark-eyed junco uploaded by Midhue at Youtube.

Two flocks

Except for our few days in New York, I've done my usual tromp through the woods every morning. I haven't been doing Turn Outward posts primarily because nature has been so damned peaceful. Winter is a still season here. It gets chilly enough that a lot the wildlife semi-hibernate, or at least wait for the warmth of the day to get out and about; yet we rarely have any dramatic winter storms or brutal cold to report. Our winter, for the most part, is just a lull between the brisk, busy fall and the budding of spring.

I was thinking about the quiet yesterday as I walked toward the lake. We'd had some rain, and there were perfect frozen droplets resting on the fallen leaves. They crunched underfoot, and that was about the only sound I could hear. A couple of woodpeckers were hammering away somewhere in the distance, but no one was singing, no deer or squirrels were rustling the leaves. I found myself looking around for some sign of a vole, or even a cricket. Nothing.

The lake has a little thumb, almost a lagoon, that presses into a shaded hollow. It's prime catfish territory, so there's often someone fishing there, but I found it as deserted as the rest of the park. I stood staring down at the dark water, feeling a perfect solitude, so zoned out that I didn't hear them coming: Blackbirds, that is--one of those enormous winter flocks that seem to come from nowhere; grim, noisy flash mobs that suddenly fill the world, and then just as suddenly disappear.

They landed heavily in the trees on the opposite bank, and the air vibrated with their chatter. It's thrilling and slightly creepy to be in the presence of all that combined avian energy. I was happy to have my reverie disturbed, but I felt sort of surrounded--then I realized I was surrounded: A second large flock, a mixed group of finches, had quietly taken over the trees on my side of the lake. Their twittering was a gentle counterpoint to the loudmouth blackbirds, and they flitted between the branches as lightly as the leaves they sent falling.


Wheat Field with Crows, Vincent van Gogh, 1890.