Category Archives: Nature

Oh, Look (1)

Posted on by
4

If we are paying attention, we know we cause trouble for ourselves, spending so much time in the future or the past, planning (scheming?), regretting, having arguments with other people in our heads. I am sitting in bed sipping my morning lemon drink when I hear the rustling of a plastic bag outside my window. I consider getting up to see who is out there, but then I decide hearing a plastic bag can only be good. It means someone is picking up after their dog. I think about how upset people get about the dog poop, how they decide no one picks up after their dogs, how clearly wrong that thinking is. If that were true in our neighborhood we’d be awash, piles of poop everywhere, no open ground. I grimace because as usual it is the one rotten apple messing things up for everyone, making me think of the recent poop appearing along our road and my grumbling suspicion of the people who let their dogs run loose. I remember one of them, a little yipping thing, chasing me on my bike the other day. Before I know it, I am having a long imaginary conversation with the creepy owner. I even bring my aunt from Palm Desert into it, how she is deathly afraid of dogs, how we can’t even walk down the street. (We wouldn’t anyway, but I thought this was good “ammunition” for my argument.) Then I am back in my home, the warm, round cup in my hands, the scent of lemons and garlic. I can see the tops of the sunflowers and the bougainvillea blossoms in the courtyard. The house finch are chirping, quiet breakfast chatter. I hear the high-pitched twittery sound of mourning dove wings, and someone else who I don’t recognize is cheeping from the top of the power pole on the other side of the trailer. My body is tense from my imaginary worked up anger, my manufactured argument. I am annoyed with myself for adding to my own stress in such a ridiculous way. I know I do it all the time, but today I have no sense of humor about it. Today it just pisses me off. And that makes me sad. How do I cultivate a lighter touch? Where is that kinder, “Oh, oops” when I need it? How do I come to celebrate instead with a glad heart each time I return? Where is that gentler voice? I’m glad you’re back, Riba. And, look. There is a white-crowned sparrow sitting on the fence.

My Mockingbird Grows Up (57)

Posted on by
Reply

I know now where my mockingbird sings. Last year they cut down this old behemoth of a tree that used to block the last hour of the sun for me in high summer. They left the trunk with all it’s sawed-off limbs, still tree-high, taller than the trailers. Right now my mockingbird is perched upon it singing to us all. Now and then he sallies forth, small leaps into the air, glorious in his dark grey and white display. Then he settles back down again upon the brown trunk. His song has smoothed out over the past weeks. He sounds like a pro now, all fluidity and grace. The only reason I know he is mine is from the way the sound comes to me. I have imagined him in the night, wondering where he was. I knew he wasn’t in my neighbor’s tree. But I thought he sounded too close to be in one of the palm trees. It wasn’t until the other day I realized where he was. His sally caught my eye from my own perch in bed. It was too tempting. I had to go get my binoculars to watch him up close. The screen on the kitchen window made him a little blurry, but I sat there grinning at myself: birdwatching from bed.

Mockingbird Practice (56)

Posted on by
6

I have a mockingbird this spring who comes nearby and sings to us during the night. He seems to be a bit awkward about it. I think he might be young, just learning how to mimic, still growing into his song. His repertoire seems limited, his delivery stilted. It doesn’t flow from one sound to the next. I picture him out there practicing, trying hard to get each sound right. Maybe in the longer pauses he tries to remember a new sound to do next. It makes me smile, imagining. I hope it is a good effort for him, the kind of concentrating on something we love that requires all of our attention but can feel almost effortless. I hope he feels like that, all intense focus and deep joy and nothing of angst, of worrying he may not be as good as his cousin or as quick to learn. I hope he is pleased with his efforts. I’ve never noticed a mockingbird learning his song, though maybe even the adults practice to master new sounds. It make me feel a little vulnerable, my heart softened for him in his youngness, his big fresh desire, his newness in this world of ours. May he be well loved along the way, and may his songs unfold over time, seamless and soulful in the dark, quiet night.

The Vernal Equinox (52)

Posted on by
4

On Saturdays when time allows I like to read the “Saturday” section of the L.A. Times and the weekly forecast on Astroblogick. My paper was still stopped yesterday, but I read about this week’s celestial events on my mini iPad. It looks like a busy week for the planets, and we have a full moon eclipse coming, too. But the part that fascinated me is that at the exact time of the vernal equinox, “the principles of duality . . . are temporarily suspended,” and that “being centered in this fleeting moment seems to carry a sacred significance.” It reminded me of C.J. Cregg on The West Wing determined to set a raw egg upright on the table during that moment (and succeeding only after the poker game had broken up and everyone left the room). I didn’t give it another thought until this morning. This week part of my homework for my mindfulness based stress reduction class is to record the details of one experience each day on our “Pleasant Events Calendar.” So last night I wrote about eating sushi. I was intrigued by the mystery of the event, the unusual feelings it evoked in me. It wasn’t until this morning I put it together in my head with my vision of the clock beside my bed when I began eating last night. It was maybe 20 minutes after 9:00pm. (The exact time for the equinox was 9:30pm.) I’d gone downtown, picked up an avocado roll with extra ginger on my way home. I took a quick shower, climbed into bed, lamented eating so late, and relished every morsel of my sushi. I licked the wasabi and gluten free tamari from my fingers and thumbs. I cringed and savored the heat in my sinuses. And after, I sat there gazing at nothing, the empty container balanced on my belly. I felt clean and clear. Relaxed. Satisfied. Calm. Soothed. For a moment I wondered if it was the drug of the wasabi. But now I think it may have been the exact moment of the equinox working on me, all unknowing. I recorded that I felt quiet inside, hollow but not empty (the duality suspended). I felt whole. Knowing or unknowing, these moments twice each year can only do us good, I think. Happy spring equinox, everyone.

The Bird on the Wall (51)

Posted on by
2

I lay out my green yoga mat on the far side of my mother’s pool. It seems like the best spot. The concrete is level, the valley stretched out before me to the west. The sun is low in the sky, and I angle my mat so when I’m standing I’ll be facing the orange ball while it sinks behind the mountains. (True sun salutes, I think.) I begin lying down, stretching my spine, my hips. Yesterday was the first day I did my yoga in a long, long time. I was surprised my arms were able to hold my weight when I lowered myself to the mat from plank position. I was wobbly when I came back up to standing, but it didn’t matter. I was just so glad to be doing it again. Today when I get to the sun salutations, my arms are sore from yesterday and won’t hold my weight in that slow lowering to the mat. I have to touch my knees down, and still my arms hurt with the weight of me. When I am back on the mat, dropping my knees from side to side, I see a little bird on the wall near me. I don’t have my glasses on, can’t be sure what kind he is. He looks like he might be a flycatcher, but he stays put on the wall. I decide he may be a young mockingbird, even though he is silent. I slow my movements, not wanting to startle him. He tilts his head, seems to be studying me, strange being on the ground. He stays on the wall for the rest of my yoga, and I am touched and honored by his company. The moon is out, too, bright with daylight. I am fragile today, so the wonder of these two companions swells my heart. When I sit up after chavasana, the bird is gone. But I can still touch his soft, quiet peace. Thank you, little one.

Touched by Sweetness (49)

Posted on by
2

red tulips in the sunlight

I wake up today to sunlight on the red tulips beside my bed. “Good morning,” I say to them. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” Then I sing happy Valentine’s Day to myself to the tune of the happy birthday song. I like this silly start to the day, lie grinning in the sunny room, the mountains spread before me. I began buying flowers for myself when Sable died. I needed that life here in the room with me. But these are the first tulips I’ve had since his black furry form left this world. Did you know cut tulips keep growing in the vase? I think they may be the only ones who do. I like that about them. And I love how sturdy they are, how upright. I love watching them open and close in the course of a day. Right after Sable died, I wanted a reading, found Rhonda at the crystal store. She told me there was nothing I could have done, eased a weight inside me. “Do you have a plan?” she asked me. A plan? I babbled something I can’t remember now, about how I might try to take care of myself without him here. Maybe about how I wanted to honor the death of both my furred ones by remaining pet free for this next stretch of my life, knowing as I do how it may bring things best served by this. She didn’t even blink, just listened. But then she said something that made me realize she didn’t ask me if I had a plan. She asked me if I had a plant. Ha! It made me laugh. I was touched, too, by her kindness in not correcting me. And I do have a plant, it turns out. I have a small cactus Mami gave me a year ago last Christmas. Right after Boo died, I found tiny red buds all over it. It felt like a message, like a gift. Now it’s in bloom, big deep pink blossoms like exotic birds, my Christmas cactus valentine. I heard the mockingbirds last Wednesday for the first time and wondered if they might be practicing their love songs for the big day. One is singing now as I write, his clear liquid notes drifting through the kitchen window, valentine serenade. May we all be touched by sweetness, today and always.

Rubbing the Wrong Way (48)

Posted on by
Reply

This morning the yoga class before our meditation runs a little long. I sit on the bench outside the door and pay attention to how annoyed it makes me. I wanted time to find my spot, get settled. I’d rushed the whole way, walking fast in the hot morning. I was sweating. It was the principle of the thing. The whole time part of me is incredulous. Was I really going to get all bent out because I had to wait a few minutes? The principle of the thing? Really?

A woman walks out of the studio smiling. My answering smile feels stiff on my face. A man comes out and sits beside me on the bench. He’s all blissed out from a good class, his movements slow and deliberate, taking it all in. I soften, feel the dumb irritation slide away.

My neighbor from Canada, one of our snowbirds though she hates that designation, keeps asking me if I’ve been away. “Are you okay?” she said one evening when I passed her sitting on the porch after picking up my mail.

“Yeah,” I said. But I bristled inside. Why would I not be okay? Today she asks me again if I’ve been gone. I’ve already explained why she might wonder. I haven’t been sitting in the courtyard. I no longer talk to my cats. I am a quieter neighbor these days. My work is quiet, too. “I haven’t been outside much,” I say again.

“Oh, well,” she says. “You need to get out. Get some fresh air.” I laugh and tell her how much it bugs me when she says things like that. I hate being told what to do. But the laugh is genuine, and I let it go. Later, I see two white-crowned sparrows sitting on the wall across the road. I talk to them through the open window for a moment before they fly away. I want them to winter here now every year, our true snowbirds. Maybe when they come back I’ll be sitting in the courtyard again.

In the late dusk the moon is a sickle in the southern sky. I realize I’m too tired. Everything chafes.