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.
I recently read Jane Goodall’s The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times. She lists four things that give her hope. One is the resilience of nature. I think about the giant sequoias in Yosemite National Park and how they have survived both droughts and wildfires. I imagine all they have witnessed, some for 2000 years.
Throughout the book Jane tells stories of how humans have worked together to make small changes that have an impact on their community. In watching the news, there are few stories of humans working together toward something positive. But watching the firefighters intently monitoring the sprinkler system and doing all they can to save the Grizzly Giant in the Mariposa Grove restores my faith in humanity.
I wish I could hear what these giants are saying about the tiny people weaving around their roots in an effort to save them. What is changing in their needles with all the smoke? Are their trunks already in the process of growing a new protective layer? With all the uncertainty in the world right now, I look to the trees for their endurance and strength.
There is a bird mystery in the zen garden outside my window. One bird perches in a particular spot at the same time every day. It is the second-highest branch on the tree, just above a place where a branch was cut. With a distinct long black beak and a curve at the tip, this bird seemed different from others in the neighborhood.
I checked my Merlin app to identify this bird. The bird’s size, colors, and location in the tree seemed to match the Eurasian white-collared dove. The description says these doves migrate to eat saguaro cactus blooms. The saguaro in my front yard has been noticeably more productive with saguaro blooms this May. I’ve been hoping to see a dove eating the blooms at either dawn or dusk, and yesterday I finally saw her atop my saguaro!
She nipped at the saguaro fruits, disappeared for a moment around the other side, perched on top of the saguaro, then repeated this routine. Most June days in the desert heat are a monotony of endless searing sun. But seeing this bird here to feast on the saguaro fruit gave me a new appreciation for other living beings who benefit from this season.
I am savoring this book one essay at a time. Robin takes you on a journey of slowing down, communing with nature, and building a relationship with all living things.
This is a classic of British nature writing, considered by Barry Lopez to be one of the most important books in twentieth century nature writing. Baker’s observations of peregrines visiting the Essex coast in winter are captured in daily essays that place you right there with the author.
James is the first son of a shepherd, who was the first son of a shepherd. He chronicles a year in the life of a shepherd in the Lake District, sharing a deeply-rooted connection with the land
In this highly anticipated book, Haskell traces animal songs and their evolution in their environments. He then tracks the evolution of human music and language. The last section highlights the erasure of sonic diversity and this impact on the world’s creativity.
Punxsutawny Phil saw his shadow…six more weeks of winter! Add an extra layer of blankets and pull on your coziest socks. Most people are likely not happy with this prediction. The east coast of the United States is getting slammed with another winter storm.
But I look at all that beautiful snow and think…no pollen! No allergies! (I say this in full acknowledgment that I don’t have to shovel snow or drive on ice.) This time of extended dormancy has a role in the natural world where all living beings are equipped to handle the weather.
Sadly, New Jersey native Milltown Mel passed away just before Groundhog Day. May he have a smooth journey across the Rainbow Bridge and a warm burrow waiting on the other side.
This friendly gnome is just waiting to show you hidden treasures during each month in real-time. Things like fresh snow on the mountains, or a flock of geese heading south for the winter. Starting in February, check back to see what’s behind the door!
September is a time of transition. The days here are still hovering at 106 degrees but the sun is setting just before 7:00 p.m. giving a false sense of cooler weather. Pumpkin spice lattes are back. At the same time local menus are featuring peach cobbler and locally made peach jam. Summer is lingering but everyone is really ready for Fall this year.
Why the pumpkin spice latte? It engages the sense of taste as a marker for Fall. Yes, it is flavored syrup in a cup of coffee to manufacture a sense of the season. But the anticipation of its return tells me people are deeply seeking a connection with the seasons. We crave those little sensory signs to signal that time has moved in the patterns and cycles of nature that we need despite our technology-driven daily life.
I won’t be ordering a pumpkin spice latte until the temperature is below 100 degrees. But I will be taking down the flower arrangements from Summer and getting the hearth ready for Fall.
Seeing Fall colors was hit or miss in Flagstaff and Sedona. A brief winter storm blew the leaves off the aspens, ending the chance for a return visit to my favorite trees up at Snowbowl. But I did see beautiful colors in town, like the tree pictured here. I spent time at the Flagstaff Arboretum and enjoyed taking in Fall through all the senses. The road was so rutted from the recent floods that I almost checked to see all my teeth were there after the jolting and bouncing during the two-mile drive. No wonder the road closes in November.
I saw a squirrel hard at work, bounding from tree to tree preparing stashes for Winter. A quarter mile later I saw a tarantula crossing a few feet in front of me. I stopped to let him (her?) pass. The tarantula had a definite agenda, walking over pine needles toward a rock with the same sense of purpose we do when running errands. I felt like a guest in someone else’s home, and it was fascinating to step back and see what was going on in a world outside my human frame of reference. The scent of mulch underneath the pine needles was different this year, almost overpowering with hints of citrus, maybe a result of the abundance of rain after an extreme drought. I plucked a juicy pine needles and munched on it as I walked, its sharp orange taste waking up my tongue. At the end of the trail I closed my eyes for a few paces, listening to the wind murmuring in the branches, telling its secrets in a language only trees understand.
The closing ceremonies of the Tokyo Summer Games were particularly moving this year. The host city perfectly captured the spirit of coming together despite global challenges. I always get weepy when the flame is extinguished. There are few opportunities in life to witness the transitory in such a tangible way. The athletes, their triumphs and disappointments, and the culture of the host city will never intersect in the same way ever again. These moments only exist in a two-week span. Like a hike through a forest or a stroll along a beach, no two moments will ever be duplicated.
The Closing Ceremonies exemplified the Japanese culture of celebrating the beautiful in a simple moment. In the story leading up to the extinguishing of the flame, a mother leads her children to gaze at the sky. They point out constellations, smiling as they share with each other. They anticipate what is next, looking to nature. The flame slowly goes out, the petals of the cauldron slowly close in circular bands until the cauldron is once again a perfect sphere. The memory of the flame is safely tucked inside. The woman and the children curl their hands into a ball, symbolic of prayer, peace and gratitude. All is as it should be. It is an ending, but a symbol of how in nature everything cycles from one state to the next. You never know how much time you have in a place, or with loved ones, but there is comfort in knowing life flows in nature’s pattern.
