Last night I heard an owl family in conversation. Their hooting was so loud that it was spooking the cats. Ordinarily they just call out to each other from the trees. This was different. Their hoots were echoing across the sky. Clearly there was a strong need to communicate something. I wish I knew what it was. Imagine living a life where you didn’t need a strong signal or miles of wire to talk. Or even a pen and paper. Just a good strong “hoot” to let your family and friends know what was happening.
The loon’s cry haunts me. But the owl’s call stirs my imagination. More than any other bird call, it makes me aware of a whole world out there that works at a completely different level. I feel so limited and constrained. When I hear owls talking, I tuck in and listen, momentarily transported to a world of mystery.
Happy St. David’s Day! March 1 is the feast day of St. David, patron saint of Wales. It is said that St. David lived on bread and leeks. The leeks gave the saint a strong and clear voice for preaching his sermons. (On a side note, the Roman emperor Nero also ate leeks to help his singing voice.) There is a song for this day! St. David’s Day Song highlights the daffodils along with St. David.
In Wales, people celebrate with parades, concerts and eisteddfodau (festivals of music, language and culture). They also celebrate wearing daffodils or leeks. Daffodils are the national flower of Wales and leeks are the national symbol, though at one time there was some trash talking about whether the daffodil or the leek should have that claim. Welsh legend tells of a battle on March 1 in the seventh century where soldiers in the army of King Cadwallon of Gwynedd wore leeks in their helmets as an identifying symbol. They fought off Saxon invaders after eating leeks growing in a field nearby.
It is gusting at 40 miles per hour today. My cats are edgy. My heels are so dry, I could grate cheese with them. While I was cooking Valentine’s Day dinner a line of storm squalls moved right over my house. Squalls! In the desert! There was hail, then thunder, then lightning which flashed a vivid blue into the hallway. I hurried to get dinner in the oven in case the power went out. This February has been full of the strangest weather I have ever witnessed here in Arizona. Some days Phoenix has been colder than New York City. Flagstaff (a three-hours’ drive north) has been colder than Quebec.
One stormy morning I stepped out on the front porch to listen to birdsong. A Gila Woodpecker flew just above my forehead so fast, had I stuck out my hand I definitely would have been injured. I heard the whoosh of wind being displaced by the woodpecker’s body hurtling toward the west. Woodpeckers can fly at speeds between 20 and 30 mph. It is one thing to see birds in flight at a distance. Seeing and hearing this woodpecker up close gave me a new appreciation for the flight paths of birds in the sky.
It has been a month of water in abundance in the American southwest. Regions in California are getting more than they can handle, while here in Arizona I am grateful for every single drop and snowflake. Some reports say this is enough to lift us out of a severe drought. Others say it’s not enough. We won’t know until snowmelt how much of an impact the snowpack will have on significantly refilling our reservoirs and rivers.
Winter is the time for water energy according to the Five Element Theory of Chinese Traditional Medicine. Yin water is the deepest manifestation of the thinking process. It is the force of creation, the power of originality and creativity. Water’s superpower is flow. It moves with effortless progress, flowing around obstacles, gentle but all powerful.
I am using this time of water energy to listen quietly, nurture ideas for future projects, and let my creativity be fluid. Water carves its own path, and I am taking my cues from rivers and streams.
It is an interesting mix of Fall and Winter here. The leaves are in full Fall mode, changing colors and drifting down to earth. Driving through neighborhoods, the lemon yellows and plum reds seem as common as Fall in Boston Common. It is very unusual to see this much color. Japanese maples (Acer palmatum) and Chinese pistaches are signaling the weather like never before. At the same time, snow clouds are cruising above the trees on their way north and east.
In Chinese medicine this time of year is Metal energy, a time of clearing out anything that no longer serves us. This can be material things or less tangible things like emotions. Watching leaves drifting peacefully off their branches is a visual lesson from nature in learning to let go.
It is a busy time of year but I savor the quiet mornings to look out at the frost-covered roofs and steam rising from the pool. In these still moments I see only that which is right in front of me. I am free from things I don’t need.
For two weeks in October I was at sea on a cruise in Canada and New England. We launched from Montreal, stopped for a day at Quebec City, and got soaked in Saguenay. From there it was on to Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Sydney and Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Saint John, New Brunswick. The ship set anchor in Bar Harbor, Maine and after a brisk ride in the tender I and my sister met the tour guide for the Ocean Trail walk.
We decided to stay in town for lunch. My sister had seen an advertisement for “The Best Blueberry Pie in Town” at a café on the pier but was disappointed to find that the café was out of blueberry pie. She picked an alternate while I walked to a mom-and-pop restaurant that had boxed lunch lobster roll. They also had beautiful wedges of pie heaped with blueberries. I ordered two slices.
We met up in the park overlooking the harbor. I savored the sweet lobster meat with the sun warming my face, a cool ocean breeze occasionally shifting my hair. The air was crisp and clean, so different from the smoggy stagnant air at home. I took a bite of blueberry pie and melted into the present moment of not-sweet-yet not-tart blueberries.
On the way back from a driving tour of Acadia National Park, we saw that the café was closed. Not just closed for the day. Closed for the season. We took the last tender of the day back to our ship on the last cruise of the season. In this era of everything-available-all-the-time, it restored my soul to connect with seasons and flavors that can only be enjoyed in the present. All five senses were engaged in reminders that everything in nature exists for a reason, at a specific time and place.
It seems everyone is talking about migration this year. (In the context of my newsletter I mean bird migration.) During the pandemic many of us became more aware of birdsong in our neighborhoods. And we are more than ready for Fall, for a shift toward cozy time and the predictable rhythm of this particular season when so many things seem to be dissonant, off key with the harmony of the universe.
The Cornell Lab of Ornithology produces a map of real-time bird migration detected by the U.S. weather surveillance radar network. It shows the migration traffic rate in birds/km/hour from sunset to sunrise. In looking at the map, I now understand why I heard a bird hit my bedroom window in the early hours of the morning. I thought all birds were asleep, but the timing of the window thwack matches rush hour traffic for birds.
For someone who geeks out on weather radar maps, I love this tool. You can view it here: Live Bird Migration Map.
Equally intriguing is the bird migration forecast maps, created by Colorado State University and the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. The maps are updated every 6 hours, and I wonder if they’ve been adjusted for Hurricane Ian. It appears that way, judging by the precipitation swirl over the Carolinas. Click here to see for yourself: Bird Forecast Maps.
Bird migration is a tough endeavor on a clear day. I hope they have a safe journey, and that the humans are able to rebuild quickly and sustainably.
Birds in the Arts
“For the Birds” is a star-studded, 242-track collection of original songs, readings, and field recordings inspired by or incorporating birdsong. It is bundled as a 20-LP boxed set of artwork and music to benefit the National Audubon Society. You can read more about the project here: For the Birds: The Birdsong Project.
I also highly recommend The Lost Birds album, featuring Christopher Tin, VOCES8, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, and Barnaby Smith. For stunning video, liner notes, and an explanation of the project, visit Christopher Tin’s website The Lost Birds.
Five spiders have taken up residence on the outside of the family room doors. Two have spun a network for their residences on the east side of the fireplace, and as I observed this morning, three on the west side. In the early morning light I can clearly see their thin long legs. By afternoon the wheat color of their limbs blends in with the door jambs. I’m not sure of their relationships, particularly those residing on the east side. One is the size of a tablespoon, the other a teaspoon. When the smaller one tried to pass the larger one, a battle ensued. 16 legs tangled with each other in this turf war. The smaller one eventually retreated back to its corner.
Are the east siders aware of the west siders living in webs across the next set of doors? It’s a mystery. As is what they are eating, though I am grateful for whatever they catch and keep out of my home. My three cats, in the meantime, are somehow oblivious. Little do they know the show they are missing just inches away from their faces…
I have a family of hawks in my neighborhood. The “babies” have a raspy, loud voice when they are hungry. One morning I saw mama or papa perched on top of an antenna. The babies were insistently crying to be fed. What sounds like a vulture’s cry is in fact the baby hawks.
A monsoon storm blew in quickly and fiercely. I watched a hawk get blown back by the outflow wind and into the pine tree. I got to see the full span of the hawk’s wings and the beautiful pattern of its feathers. This hawk stayed huddled on the pine branch. It appeared to scrape its beak on the bark or else eat bugs while riding out the storm. Another hawk flew in and perched on a branch higher up. It appeared these were the parents. I don’t know where the babies were. Eventually the hawk flew away.
When I pay attention to the world outside my window, I see these stories unfolding that show the intricate connections of nature.
Today it is raining in the way I used to remember from the summer monsoons. Not the downpours following a crash of thunder, but a slow, steady rain that cools the hot desert air.
I’ve just returned from standing under the mulberry tree in the corner of my yard. Its branches had grown so long and heavy that they now touch the ground. Standing inside, it is a fort made of soft leaves and sturdy branches. All I can see is the screen of green surrounding me. Rain drops lightly patter against the leaves, a drumming that draws you in. Every third drop slips through the foliage umbrella, soaking through my shirt in a quarter-sized drop. After a week of 112 degree temperatures, the air is cool, sustaining, pleasant. My weather station says it is 85, a miracle in the desert.
