Yesterday was Easter and in contrast to many believers who spent the morning in their respective churches, I spent mine in a quiet, lovely garden here on the farm. The garden was created some decades ago when the original owners lived here and is filled with plants from a bygone era...boxwood,spirea, lilacs, dogwood, viburnum, many blooming cheerfully on this bright and sunny Easter morning.
This year, as I do every Easter, I wondered about how and why most Easter Sunday services have evolved into that which characterizes our modern day celebrations. Why is there so much pomp and loudness and so little time for quiet reflection and simple gratitude? Why must they be so noisy? While I am sure that many believers appreciate the grand music and air of joyous celebration that fill their congregations on Easter morning, I have found that I appreciate just the opposite and so I went to the garden.
I sat in stillness and prayed and read the Gospel resurrection accounts. I sang some of my favorite hymns and Easter songs, accompanied by mockingbirds and brown thrashers and by the rustling of wind in the trees. I looked out over the landscape, man made and wild, and felt the Creators presence all around me. And I thought of the women long ago who ran to the garden where Jesus was buried and what they must have felt on that long ago morning. I mused about how I would have felt and reacted had I been among them.
Today is another bright and sunny morning. The wind is moving the tree tops and those same mockingbirds and thrashers are singing their songs of the new day. I am grateful to look out on the same landscape in which I sat in quiet reverence yesterday and be reminded of my own Easter vigil. I'm grateful for the continuity of daily fellowship with God and His land and creatures. I am especially grateful that "in the rustling grass I hear Him pass. He speaks to me everywhere," and for His willingness to do so.
John Muir was on my mind this morning, as he often is when I am out rambling. He who walked 1000 miles from the mid-west to the Gulf of Mexico carrying the barest minimum of what was needed to make the trek, sleeping in barns and graveyards, begging food at farmhouses, enduring heat and cold and happy in the bargain. I have wondered at least a thousand times what life would be like if lived that way.
I spent a good part of the morning out walking through woodlands and wetlands, surrounded by song, swamp and white-throated sparrows and serenaded by bald eagles and red-shouldered hawks overhead. The marshes were filled with singing spring peepers and painted turtles littered every log above the water. Carolina chickadees pulled at narrow-leaved cattail seeds and downy fluff floated through the air like snow before settling onto the water in fuzzy tufts. Everything was right. Food was there for the taking in the water and above, nesting holes were prevalent in the beaver-killed hardwoods, shelter was to be had in the upland hollies and red cedars, water was plentiful for spawning. I lost track of time watching and, as I stood in the midst of all the busyness of day to day survival, I felt like an outsider…in the marsh but not of it.
As I turned towards home, I had the all too familiar qualms about what I would find when I got back. I would find stuff, stuff and the bother of keeping it, arranging it, and caring for it. There are some who say I have comparatively fewer possessions than many people in our society but I don’t find that pronouncement particularly convincing. I have far more possessions than many people in the world, but more to the point today, I have far more possessions than the creatures I stood so long observing this morning and far more than John Muir ever dreamed of taking on any of his long treks. Today, I envy his and their freedom.
I am asking myself once again, “why?” “Why do I have all this stuff, how does it encumber me and what am I going to do about it?” What would it be like to come home from a long walk in the wilds and not feel weighed down by possessions as I walk in the door? What would it be like to have only what I need? Perhaps, by God’s grace, this will be the year I find out. Perhaps I will figure out how to live as simply in my home as on the trail. Time will tell.
“When you hear the calls of the tundra swans, you are hearing the voice of the Arctic,” wrote a friend of mine a few years ago. This past week, the swans have been winging their way north through the light of day and dark of night and last evening their calls reverberated through the night sky high overheard. There is a wildness in their calls that lodges in my heart, unlike any other sound I know. It is the call of wind and wide spaces, of purpose and determination against all odds, of surrender to the annual urge that propels them back home again to breed on the Arctic plain’s vast tundra. Though other waterfowl migrate from wintering grounds to breeding grounds annually, the swans are special. Perhaps it is their grace and beauty on the wing or the sheer distance of their migration that compels me to stop what I am doing and look up. When they pass by in long broken lines, bodies glinting whiter than any snow, voices echoing to each other up so high that sometimes I can’t see them without binoculars I am filled with wonder, sometimes expressed in wide smiles and tears at the same time. I am an onlooker, a bystander allowed to observe and learn, but not to take part. I am an earthbound creature and they are not and so I watch with longing as they pass over, wave after wave on their way to a place I may well never get to see.
It is likely that the swans will pass over you for a few more days. If so, when you hear a distant sound like a muffled horn playing the same one note over and over… or when you catch a glimpse of white, glinting in the sun against a bright blue sky, stop what you are doing and look up and listen. The moment may be as close as you will ever come to the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, but if you can imagine the tundra filled with swans breeding and raising a new generation, you will never think of it in the same way again.You will recognize it as the natural home of these wondrous creatures and pray that it will remain so forever and ever.
At first glance, the marsh looks almost barren in wintertime, particularly at low tide. Broken cattail remains dot the mud and the bare branches of silky dogwood and buttonbush appear as frozen as the ice that clings to the Potomac River shoreline. As I braced myself against the biting wind, the bright February sunlight did little to warm me and I wondered yet again how the waterfowl swimming and feeding just beyond the ice can live, and even thrive, in the cold.
The boardwalk runs between the river and the marsh, at the intersection of the two ecosystems, and offers abundant opportunity to observe the life of both. There were not many ducks in the marsh but on the river they were feeding, splashing and calling with abandon. Furthest out were the diving ducks- the common mergansers, hooded mergansers, American widgeons and buffleheads and for the most part, each species swam alone, not mingling with others not of its own kind. Closer in to shore were the dabbling ducks, puddle ducks as they are sometimes called, the mallards and black ducks whose bottoms we often see as they tip their heads underwater to feed. This area of the Potomac is rich in the aquatic plant life, fish and crustaceans that sustain the waterfowl who make this area their winter home and the boardwalk is an excellent vantage point from which to learn more about them all.
Though I enjoy watching waterfowl, my attention turned to the bald eagle pair perched on a large sycamore nearby. The female should be laying her first egg any day now and, though I think I know which nest they will adopt, I won’t be sure until she is sitting still for a while. I have come to quietly watch and wait and, perhaps, to discover.
Absorbed in the eagles, I suddenly became aware other movement I hadn’t noticed before. The dabbling ducks were on the move from the river into the marsh. At first just a few pairs of mallards flew over but shortly thereafter groups of eight and ten followed, wings whistling softly as they passed over my head and disappeared into the channels between the cattails. Within a short time, the two hundred mallards and black ducks who had been on the river had flown into the marsh and the seemingly lifeless wetland was alive with sound and splashing and what seemed like joy at arriving home again. I puzzled about their mini-migration for a while and finally realized that it had to do with tidal ebb and flow. The tide was low when I had first arrived and the marsh was drained. While I had been focusing on waterfowl and eagles, however, the river was slowly and steadily streaming in once again and at some definitive moment the marsh held enough water for the ducks to resume maneuvering and feeding in their favored setting.
Once again I was reminded that there is always, always something new to be learned when venturing outside, whether we live on the border of wild land or in a suburban community. No matter where we are, we have daily opportunities to expand our understanding of the natural world just by opening our eyes and minds. If taken, those opportunities will also bring a renewed sense of the joy of discovering something that we hadn’t known or noticed before. What will the day bring to you? Keep your eyes open and senses attuned and find out. At the end of the day, you will feel richer for what you have learned.
The old beech tree stands in a stony pull off area in front of the farm manager’s office, just off the farm road. Decades ago her office may have been a creamery, judging by the cream separators bolted to the floor. Now the old machines stand as witnesses to the past, to the former ways and means of a family dairy in times gone by. The tree may have been a sapling then, planted intentionally or perhaps the offspring of one of the many beeches that dot the woodlands and pastures here. Many of those ancient trees have fallen or are filled with decay but they are older than this tree. This tree may well be their progeny and have many years left to live and bear beechnuts.
I think of this tree as female. She is strong and sturdy of trunk, with arms that grow horizontally and then bend down, as if reaching to welcome all who come near. Though her lower limbs are thick and burly, her outermost twigs are as fine as lace and dance in the slightest breeze. How she can stand so strong puzzles me, given the many cars that have driven over her roots day in and day out for these many long years. The entrance to the barnyard would not be the same without her.
This has been prolific year for beechnuts in most of the eastern states and reports coming from as far north as New Hampshire and as far south as Georgia report an outstanding beech nut crop. Our barnyard beech tree is no exception. Wave after wave of birds have been eating from her for months, beginning back when her bronzed leaves hid her tiny, spiny nuts. At times, mature and immature red-headed woodpeckers chatter and swoop in a seemingly non-stop parade, plucking nuts and flying elsewhere to open them. Blue jays and downy woodpeckers also frequent her branches and cardinals, juncos, and white-throated sparrows pick through the rocks beneath, foraging and finding nuts whose shells have already opened. Squirrels are ever-present and when the goats are fortunate enough to break out of the pasture, it is to the beech nuts that they head.
Wherever I look into the trees on this farm I see abundance…food for birds and mammals almost without end. Come spring, these trees’ blossoms will provide the vital early nectar and pollen for our native pollinators and draw insects that will become food for our returning warblers, thrushes, orioles and other neo-tropical migrants. Those insects will pollinate the flowers that will become next autumn’s nuts and berries and the cycle of abundance will begin once again. Just as I should be and, I pray, will be for many seasons to come.
It was drizzling this evening as I headed down to the barnyard. The sky was grey and dusk was early and most of the chickens had decided that staying indoors and dry was preferable to being outdoors and wet and they didn’t seem to mind being closed in a tad earlier than usual. Our laying flock includes several breeds - Red Stars, Black Stars, White Rocks and Barred Rocks laying brown eggs of various shades, Leghorns laying white eggs and, Americanas laying lovely eggs of blues and greens. We also have a flock of young Red Star pullets that will begin laying in three months, perhaps around Easter…New eggs for Easter…makes me smile to think about it. The chickens are housed in four coops built long ago, having sheltered literally dozens of generations of laying hens who have roamed the chicken yards, shaded by sycamores and sweet gum trees. Now our flocks roost on the old roosts and lay their eggs in the old nest boxes and who is to say how many future generations will do the same.
As is often the case on weekends, the farm was quiet and this evening I was alone with the animals- a rich, sweet, peaceful aloneness in which everything felt exactly right, exactly as it ought to be. As I made my way into the barnyard, the animals were waiting for me. The watch-geese, I call them, have the loudest voices on the farm and sounded a raucous alarm that the evening routine was about to begin…someone has to do it, I suppose, and they have taken the important responsibility to heart. I gave the donkey his hay in the pasture, allowing the geese and I to scoot into their pen at the back of his stall. I closed them in for the night as they greedily gobbled up their corn and then called to the turkey who was already on his way to his own quarters. Eager for his ration of wheat, corn and chicken feed, he unhesitatingly marched right in and I latched the latch and left him happily pecking his way through dinner.
It was time for milking and I gathered the washing solution and washcloth and the milk pail and headed in to the cows, already in place and munching blissfully on fragrant alfalfa hay. I breathed in deeply and smiled. Though the world is filled with many wonderful scents, I don’t think there are any finer than that of warm cows and good hay and here were both together, just as it should be. I looked around the small old milking barn, wondering how many cows had previously stood in the stalls that are now occupied by our cows, how many gallons of milk had how many hands milked into shiny metal pails just as I was doing and others will do after me.
There is a rhythm to life that I was unable to recognize or appreciate when I was younger. I have come to realize that each stage of our lives has its own joys and sorrows, its own challenges and fulfillment and at any given time we are unlikely to know in advance what the next stage will bring. As it turns out, this stage is offering a life that I used to dream about living, though never seriously imagined I would. I am deeply grateful for the time and the role I have been granted here, for as long as it is mine to live it and pray that my presence will bless and encourage others as much as I am blessed by what I have been given.
It has been almost two years since writing…two years since moving from my Pennsylvania home and yard, from the creatures who lived there and from family and old friends. In my last post I looked back at the life I had lived and wondered in print about what was to come and what I would find. It was an anxious time of facing the unknown with no idea how life would unfold.
Today I live in the modest farm manager’s house on an old farm perched high above the Potomac River, surrounded by woodlands, wetlands and fields. The view from my window is framed by two large red cedars and beyond them, a sea of trees-myriad oaks, beech, tulip poplar, American holly and pawpaw standing as sentinels, as guardians of this land. Many of them were here long before this farm was carved from the rocky landscape and will live on long after I am gone.
The house and farm were built in the 1920’s and though now an educational center, the farm has been worked for generations. I am not the farm manager. I am the gardener for our half-acre children’s garden, caretaker of our flock of laying hens and multi-purpose farm helper. This evening I’ll collect the eggs and close our chickens in for the night, milk our cows, feed our geese, turkey and donkey, set out hay for the goats and sheep and bid everyone a good night and pleasant dreams before climbing back up the hill to our house.
God has granted me a rich and satisfying life in this place, a wholly unexpected opportunity to experience that which, until now, I have only read about. I am blessed to arise each morning, not knowing what the day will bring, but knowing I will be outdoors in the wild and domestic landscapes and among the life that both support. A verse from a favorite hymn, Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing, rings through my mind repeatedly as I walk these old farm roads. “Hither to Thy love has blessed me; Thou has brought me to this place. And I know Thy hand will bring me safely home by Thy good grace.”
It is with thanksgiving that I once again begin chronicling my life, intimately intertwined with the Creator and His land and creatures and I hope the stories will bless those who read as well.
As in many parts of the East today, this has been a day to remember. A snow of snows following hard on a previous snow of snows a few days ago. A day, not of staying inside warm by the fire, but of re-shoveling almost invisible paths that wind their way to feeders in the far reaches of the yard. I do not mind the heavy snows. I only mind that they make food sources scarce and keeping feeders open difficult. But for the most part my labors were rewarded, the birds were able to find enough to eat and now that the darkness has come, I am relaxing knowing that I need not venture out again until morning.
My husband and I are preparing to leave a home and yard that I have been working on for 20 years. For the first number of years here I fretted and wished to live some place wilder, some place more beautiful and more secluded than was our half acre lot sited on a rural road lined with other similar houses. But in the last few years, as the gardens and habitat have matured and dozens of birds and pollinators made this place their home, I have known a new peace, gratified in the realization that that to which I couldn't seem to move I created here instead.
There are special, individual memories here, unexpected snapshots of life in the wild, lived under our very noses....toads emerging last spring from a window-well just off the driveway under whose leaves they had apparently slept through the winter; a bright male cardinal walking along the top of a fence back at the herb garden, plunging from the fence into a patch of rue time and time again and only after careful inspection through binoculars could I tell that he was plucking small black-swallowtail caterpillars to take back to his hungry babies; witnessing a Coopers hawk's in-the-blink-of-an-eye abduction of a young gray catbird just five feet from where I was standing; the sight of hundreds of fireflies lifting off at dusk like so many tiny Tinkerbells in Neverland.
As I look back on my life to this point, raising my children stands out as my greatest accomplishment. But making it possible for this land to raise countless generations of life of all kinds surely ranks almost as high. When we leave and move on what work, I wonder, will be credited to me? By what means will I benefit the earth and the people who live upon it in my new setting? A friend, just today sent me a quote by St Teresa of Avila that affirms what I have learned from living on my small bit of land in my small, humble home. "Do you think it is only a little thing to possess a house from which lovely things can be seen?" No, indeed. No little thing at all...I may not yet know what the future in an unfamiliar place will hold. But what I do know, having learned and lived here, is that there will always be something I can do to add beauty and sustain life no matter where I reside. For as long as I am able, I know this to be a work God has apportioned to me. Wherever I live I will be working to create "lovely things" knowing that they are the life source that nourish the other creatures who share this world. No little thing, indeed.
Sometimes, at this time of year, no matter how many "talking-to's" I give myself and no matter how many good intentions to the contrary, I fall into what I can only call the winter doldrums. The recent severe cold and biting winds have accentuated my vulnerability to this winter-induced glumness and admitting that I am weak in this regard seems wiser than denial. I recognize I am not alone in these afflictions and at the same time wonder why some people don't seem to have much trouble with winter, and in fact, look forward to it...though by mid-February I don't know if I have ever heard anyone say, "Boy I wish this freezing weather would last all year."
Winter is still a blessing for those who plant for wildlife and put up bird feeders, however. Hosting the birds and other wildlife that come to share the bounty is its own reward and watching their antics is guaranteed to lift the spirits. During this time of bitter weather the yard has been as active as I have ever seen it, with white-crowned, white-throated and song sparrows busily scavenging on the ground, accompanied by mourning doves and juncos. At least one pair of downy woodpeckers feeds on the homemade peanut butter suet mixture and the peanut feeder, along with chickadees, titmice and white-breasted nuthatches joined, now and then, by an imposing red-bellied woodpecker. The mockingbird and blue birds are feeding at the winterberry bushes, having already eaten most of the old dried crab apples and the goldfinches are still gleaning seeds from the dried asters and goldenrod, and from the sweet gum tree's pointy seed balls.
Recently, while watching the eastern bluebirds and northern mockingbirds, normally insect eaters in the warmer months, I had a question that perhaps could help me prepare for my own trying winter times. Every fall, these two birds must go through a profound change in their feeding habits as the insects they had previously depended upon give way to the cold. They travel as far as need be to find the berries that will sustain them until spring and from all appearances, they do so without grumbling, stomping their little feet or complaining that winter is upon them. Wasting energy on negativity would not help them survive and, in fact, would weaken them. It occurs to me that perhaps they are among the best examples of those who seek out that which sustains life, no matter what their external circumstances. I will ponder their flexibility for a while, considering what their cold-weather habits might have to say to me as I seek to approach these winter months with a more positive attitude.
"Consider the birds of the air" has taken on a new meaning.
It is the third day of the new year, at least as we count time. How does the earth count time, I wonder? Would it count from the beginning of the growing season or the ending? Would the earth's fiscal year stretch from harvest to harvest? At what time of year are tree rings laid down and at what point is new growth on turtle shells distinct? And how in the world do shallow rooted plants and hibernating frogs live through this frozen time of year, emerging again to welcome spring when the time comes?
This day, it is hard to believe that spring will ever really arrive...hard to believe that those invisible forbs and buried frogs can possibly live through what seems the cruelty of winter. This is the season in which my faith is sorely tested and tried as I strain my imagination to believe that renewed life is even possible, let alone likely. The words of In the Bleak Mid-Winter come to mind right now... In the bleak mid-winter, frosty winds made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Today, where I live, the ground is frozen as solid as concrete and the winds are bitter and unrelenting, and yet...
And yet, a poem I came across in a British magazine many years ago always brings comfort through the long and trying months of winter, whether my winter be simply the season of the year, or a season of change or perhaps grief. It speaks of purpose during this time of forced waiting, of rest that fuels new growth when the time is right. I have found over the years that it is during these trying times of seeming inaction that our spirits can be fed and deepened if we will but cooperate.
A Time to Meditate
The heart must have its wintertime, A time to meditate, when peace Like snow, descends with calming grace And all life's fruitless worries cease.
The heart must have its wintertime A time when dreams, like roots, can sleep And gather strength until the day They have a rendezvous to keep.
The heart must have its wintertime An interlude when hope sprouts wings As bright as any cardinals And newborn courage softly sings.
The heart must have its time of snow To rest in silence and to grow.
May God in His mercy give our souls the time of quiet we need now in order to tackle whatever it is that will come next in our lives. And may He grant us patience and attentiveness to His abundant provision as we move forward.
Pollinators, pollinators everywhere in the yard! Bees of all shapes and sizes, butterflies and hummingbirds...Everywhere I look there is buzzing, humming and the fluttering of wings...swamp milkweed, green-headed coneflower, ironweed, joe-pye weed, cardinal flower, garden phlox all playing host to our tiny native wildlife...I feel like a shepherdess when I am out watching...
So began a Facebook entry a few minutes ago after coming in from trimming in the garden. I have spent my time today inside and out, with the outside times be a respite from the upheaval and concern for many of my husband's coworkers we are living with the last few days. Close friends and colleagues are being laid of at the State Library of Pennsylvania, from the least senior to the most senior and I feel like life as we knew it has completely spun out of control. We think his job is secure, as of yesterday, but with each new surprising revelation we wonder all over again. So, as I said, the garden is a place of sanctuary, a place of much needed refuge for me, this time, rather than just for the wildlife.
I've been thinking lately that the longer we live, the longer we love people and pets, places and endeavors, the greater the loss when they are gone. Over the years, loss upon loss changes us and makes us more tender or more hardened, more pliable or more rigid. Being out in the wilds, or in the garden where the wild comes to live along side me, doesn't take away feelings of loss or fear but it does provide a place big enough to hold these emotions and to provide comfort as almost no other place can. The natural world pries my eyes off myself and always points them to something, to Someone greater than my own worries. And though I may liken myself to a shepherdess at times, there are other times, like right now, when I feel more like a lost sheep in need of a Shepherd. And like the sheep my only security in times of danger comes in keeping my eyes on Him as He leads the way forward
The following is an article I just finished that will appear in the summer issue of the Shalom publication of the Brethren in Christ church. Since it won't be out for a while and not everyone will see that publication I'm also posting it here.
“I’m going out to see my Father’s world”, Maltbie Babcock would say as he walked out his front door on a hike or jaunt around his northern New York home in the late 1800’s.It is said that one of his favorite destinations inspired his hymn, This is My Father’s World and there is a line from an obscure verse we do not often sing that sums up not only Maltbie’s understanding of God’s perspective of our world, but mine as well:For dear to God is the earth Christ trod, no place is but holy ground.
Dear to God… Holy ground…These lyrics have been echoing in my mind since reading them a few days ago. They resonate as old friends, as restated convictions that have guided my relationship with the land, with my land, for more than 30 years. Those convictions were forged and formed when I was a child during annual visits to my grandparents in the Appalachian mountains of Kentucky.I had an uncle who took me on rambles up the hollows and down the riverbanks and it was on those outings that the wonders of the natural world seeped deeply into my soul without my consciously realizing it.
As an adult, finally with my own land to cultivate, I naturally gravitated towards planting for the life I had come to appreciate on those long-ago Kentucky walks.
When I moved to my present home 20 years ago the house stood as an island in a sea of grass, as did many of the other houses on our road. Land that once hosted a thriving forest community had been all but stripped of beneficial vegetation and a modern suburban landscape had been planted in its stead…a landscape almost entirely lacking the ability to feed and house the creatures that would have previously lived on this half-acre. What most homeowners did not realize then and do not recognize even now is that in order to sustain the populations of pollinators and songbirds we appreciate, the land must be planted to plants indigenous, or native, to the locale in which we live.For reasons too lengthy to address in this article, we now know that only our native plants, plants that were found on our continent before the Europeans arrived, can sustain the native insect populations that are the foundation of any given ecosystem The exotic plants that fill our garden centers and nurseries, and most often our home landscapes, cannot.
The journey of remaking my yard into native habitat supporting an untold number of insects and a “bird list” of more than a hundred species has been a rich and rewarding endeavor, one appreciated not just by wildlife but by human visitors who are taken with its beauty.We recently hosted my son’s wedding in the back yard and the gardens were a patchwork of color: deep red cardinal flower, pink and white garden phlox, red and purple bee balm, white daisy fleabane, orange butterfly weed, rose-pink swamp milkweed, and bright yellow black and brown-eyed Susans.During the wedding ruby-throated hummingbirds zipped about, grey catbirds murmured in the shrubs behind the pastor, mourning doves cooed in the background and robins, Carolina wrens, northern cardinals and cedar waxwings sang their evening song, to the enjoyment of everyone who paid attention.For many of the guests, this was the first time they had ever been surrounded by songbirds and pollinators and they were delighted to be a part of something even larger than they knew.They had come for a wedding but, in addition, witnessed an abundance of life that can only be had in a native landscape.
In contrast, sometimes I am almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of the damage we have done to our collective land, to God’s land. We have paved over a vast amount of acreage. We have erected shopping malls on valuable marshes that should have never been built upon. We have fragmented our forests for the sake of cell phone towers and summer homes.We have introduced invasive plant and animal species that are now destroying the last wild places we have left.At times I wonder how any of us can make a significant contribution to altering the course of destruction our society seems bent upon carrying out.And then, when I walk out into the backyard, I remember.
The answer lies in something each of us can contribute to the wellbeing of the earth and the creatures God has placed here.Whether our yards are large or small, whether we live in the country or the city, whether we appreciate informal or formal gardens, we can plant to provide nurture for the insects, birds and other wildlife around us. Gardening with native plants gives us the opportunity to make a real difference in the life of the region in which we live.It isn’t necessary to give up all the exotic plants that we enjoy, only to invite into our gardens many of the wonderful plants that are indigenous to our own area. I have learned that when the earth is protected and cared for, it responds with bountiful provision, once again filled with the promise of life for all who depend upon it. Meandering through my own yard reminds me anew of the land's abundant potential and of the opportunity we still have to take care of that which has been entrusted to us since time began. With God's help and by his mercy and grace, we still have time to relearn how to "tend the garden" and to partner with God the Creator in sustaining what He began.
This morning while my children, husband and friends were in their various places of worship I was out walking on the well traveled road I take when I need to talk to God privately and need to hear the assurance of His presence. This is a summer of uncertainty, of loss and joy, and of abundant opportunity to determine to trust God in the moment and for the future. And it is times like this morning, when I am torn between trust and fear that I need to be alone with God in the quiet, winding along streams, woodlands and meadows that have comforted me for the past 20 years.
As I expected, I was renewed and refreshed, surrounded by the sounds and sights of God's provision all around me. This being Sunday, the sunny meadow was populated with the Amish farmer's cows lazing about and his mules enjoying their day off. Barn and tree swallows zipped above me, red-winged blackbirds chased each other along the fence rows, cardinals and kingbirds scolded me for being too close to their hidden nests and a mother mallard with babies in tow made her way upstream. It struck me again that all of these creatures can go about the business of their lives because what they need to live is close at hand. In one way or another, all are provided for. As am I, I reminded myself.
I walked back home humming the lines from my previous post "This is My Father's World", thankful for the power of music and hymnwriters who wrote the convictions of their hearts into melodies that sustain my soul and spirit in times of need. Today's worship was rich indeed, full of confession, supplication and praise. And this morning different words from the same hymn are ringing in my ears, "The Lord is King, let the heavens ring. God reigns, let the earth be glad."
This is the time of year that the sunny-area gardens begin to come into full bloom and the yard is filled with birdsong and buzzing of bees from before dawn till after dusk. Even I am surprised by the number of successful nestings this year, though I don't know if we really have had more than usual. Confirmed nesting species include: house wrens, cardinals, robins, grey catbirds, chipping sparrows, house finches, mourning doves and common grackles with several nestings each. The number of species in the yard has been far higher however and I am both delighted and puzzled. Apparently mothers have been bringing their young to the yard from other nesting sites, probably in the nearby woodlands, and they are coming because of the abundant food supply found here. While I have a homemade suet mixture hanging from one tree, that isn't the primary source of nourishment. All young birds eat a diet primarily of insects and I am puzzled that the yard is actually supplying so much of what they need.
Though I have long planted with insects in mind, planting plants indigenous to this area, I am still surprised both by the numbers that must be here and by the fact that I don't see many of them in my daily work in the yard. The myriad pollinators feeding at the flowers are obvious, of course, but those aren't usually what the mothers are feeding their babies. Be that as it may, I daily see a steady stream of bird after bird carrying tasty morsels to their nestlings and recently fledged young. At this point the list of babies, aside from those previously mentioned includes: at least two broods of downy woodpeckers , a family of white-breasted nuthatches, Carolina chickadees, Carolina wrens, tufted titmice, and ruby-throated hummingbirds.
As I report each year at this time, the yard will now host hummingbirds every day until late September as they take wing on their southward migration. They come because they have found food here in previous years and they know that this is a place to stop and eat on their toilsome journey. The males have already begun their travels and the females and young will follow in early August. I have had both for the last couple of weeks. The females and young I see now at the flowers and feeders have recently nested somewhere close by and are coming in for daily nourishment.
The garden will be glorious panorama of changing colors and textures in the weeks to come. I wish I had some way of knowing just how many pollinator and other insect species are fed here each year.
Perhaps you will enjoy pictures of the gardens as they are today.
What I can't capture in pictures is the amazing sight of lightening bugs by the hundreds rising up out of the vegetation each evening. They began appearing weeks ago, long before they appeared in my neighbors yards, and the backyard seems to be filled with dancing stars as dusk settles in. It is such a beautiful and peaceful scene, one to take the breath away.
Lines from the old hymn come to mind:
This is my Father's world and to my listening ears, all nature sings and round me rings the music of the spheres. This is my Father's world, I rest me in the thought of rocks and trees of skies and seas; His hand the wonders wrought.
This is my Father's world, the birds their carols raise, the morning light the lily white declare their Maker's praise. This is my Father's world. He shines in all that's fair. In the rustling grass I hear Him pass, He speaks to me everywhere.
I have recently been encouraged to begin writing again and it isn't so much a friend's personal affirmation that has sparked my resolve, as his words concerning how his faith life is strengthened by what he finds here. I am copying some of our written discussion because his thoughts have reminded me of what I may bring to others who look at and live life differently than I do. We were recently discussing the sometimes controversial (for those in the Church, that is) subject of caring for the earth and I wrote:
"I see absolutely no reason that the topic of caring for the earth we were put on should be controversial. Do we get so bent out of shape when someone suggests that we care for our home and protect it from degradation? Of course not. I know the topic is touchy and that some folks find it a political and social cause, which inflames other people's sentiments. But isn't it true that this is the only place we have to live and the less we care for it the more our own lives are compromised? Aside from all the other creatures that share the world with us..."
And my friend wrote back:
"You have such a very centered understanding of this topic (I was going to say “balanced” but that’s not exactly what I meant) because it is grounded in simply caring for the good gifts God has given us as well seeing and even hearing God in His Creation. Quite frankly, I give thanks to God for you and people like you who help people like me to think about these things in that divinely centered way."
So... if my writing helps anyone else to recognize and know God in the natural world He has given us and if If God can use the insights He has granted me to edify and strengthen others it will be reward enough for my literary labors. Keep your eyes and ears open as you walk through your days. God's presence is all around us, not only in the people we meet, but in the sights and sounds of His creatures and the works of His hands.
But for the birds in my yard today I think I might be overwhelmed with sadness as a result of the recent, disturbing news on the international,national and local level. It seems the longer I live the more deeply the world's hurts bore into my daily consciousness and I do not know what to do with their effects, especially since most of the situations are far beyond my control. Fortunately for me, the birds are here and being that we are in "the bleak midwinter", they are hungry...which is really why they come, of course. Out my living room window, where I am writing, I can look up and see downy woodpeckers, goldfinches, pine siskins, Carolina chickadees, and tufted titmice in the tree branches of the front yard. The siskins and goldfinches are feeding from feeders, but also from the tiny seeds of the sweet gum balls that are still hanging on the tree. The woodpeckers, chickadees and titmice are feeding from a homemade peanut butter suet mixture but also from dead branches and a large hollowed out piece of tree trunk we attached to the sweet gum a couple of years ago hoping to attract screech owls . From this window I have watched the Carolina wren, the chickadees, the titmice and the woodpeckers going in and out of the large hole all morning and I wonder what they are finding inside.
Pennsylvania has been invaded by pine siskins and by white-winged crossbills this winter. Both are usually a northerly species that sometimes come this far south when the cone crops fail in their home range. Both have found refuge and nourishment from Pennsylvania's trees and people and we who watch birds are delighted to have them as part of our avian neighborhood this winter. Come spring they will be gone and probably won't be back in numbers like we are now having for decades. Because of today's extremely cold and windy conditions I spent a good part of the morning taking care of my feeders and thinking about where to add new ones and I finally got around to installing our old Christmas tree in the front yard as a temporary winter shelter. It is also a good place to hang pine cones covered with peanut butter and sunflower seeds as high energy treats. I will be watching through the day to see which birds first figure out that the cones are edible and start feeding.
It was in the process of making the peanut butter pine cones that I thought about feeling like a child again today. Making them took a good bit of time and effort...there was the gathering of the pine cones, the making of hangers out of some thin wire I bought this morning, the mixing of the peanut butter, lard, pecan meal and cornmeal, the rolling of the sticky cones in sunflower seed bits and finally braving the wind and taking them out to the newly installed Christmas tree to hang them....just what I needed to get through this frigid windy day in good humor. I thought about how children feel when they are happily working on a project, no matter how humble. Until they reach an age of worrying about other people's opinions they are proud and pleased with their creative prowess, and then delighted in the final result. I felt the same sense of satisfaction with my own efforts. It was a balm for my sadness to be doing something constructive, something that would tangibly benefit the creatures in my tiny bit of the world. Small an effort though it may be, I know that what I can provide sustains beings that come to find nourishment here and in the result warms and enriches me as well. On this cold, blustery and inhospitable day I feel once again the old delight in partnering with God in caring for what He has made. I only wish I could do the same for the inhabitants of rest of the world.
One of my favorite books “Let Your Life Speak” by Parker Palmer contains some good advice as we head into winter. He says, “In the Upper Midwest, newcomers often receive a classic piece of wintertime advice: “The winters here will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them.” Here people spend good money on warm clothing so that they can get outdoors and avoid the “cabin fever” that comes from huddling fearfully by the fire during the hard-frozen months. If you live here long, you learn that a daily walk into the winter world will fortify the spirit by taking you boldly to the very heart of the season you fear.”
Even though many of us would not choose winter as our favorite season, it is hard to deny that winter has a beauty and an invitation all its own. It is a time to soak up the silence of a snowy landscape, to be awed at the architecture of the trees we so often overlook when all is green and to joyfully welcome back the birds that call our land their home for these cold winter months. In the coming days, take the time and make the effort to heed Parker Palmer’s advice to “get out” into winter. Go for walks and watch the familiar juncos and white-throated sparrows as they scurry through the underbrush. Go search for the harder-to-find rough-legged hawks and flocks of horned larks, American pipits and snow buntings in the farm fields or the elusive hermit thrush in the woodlands. May the winter season, even as it sometimes tries the soul, bring us a sense of joy and of gratitude for the birds we will miss and fondly remember when they leave us in May. Get out and go look for them while they are with us and enjoy the seeking as much as the finding.
A man I have respected for many years passed away yesterday, the result of an unexpected accident on Christmas day. His life touched so many people both locally and around the world and his passing leaves a hole in the faith community and church of which he was a part. We are all grappling with that hole, with his absence, not quite believing it is real yet, not able to believe he is really gone.
Once again I am struck with the uncertainty of our lives...the fact that we can never really know what the next moment may hold. I am left with the familiar and well-worn question of how to live my life to the fullest. Not full in the accumulation of things, nor in recognition nor fame, nor in doing whatever I want to do. In my mind, living life to the fullest means living in communion with God...with knowing and serving Him as I am able, whatever that be. Everyone who thinks on this friend who died will think of him with fondness and with gratitude, whether they were actually personally close to him or not. He was the kind of person who enriched everyone around him by his caring and compassion and by his vital relationship with Jesus. He pointed people to God, just by being around them and everyone who knew him was richer for having come in contact with him. What more can anyone ask for as they leave their mark on this world?
I am reminded of the similarities between death of plants and animals in the natural world and such a person's passing beyond this life. In the woodlands or fields when something dies it leaves sustenance for the life around it in its remains. As its body is broken down, nutrients are made available to strengthen and nourish what takes its place in the ecosystem. My friend's life was like that as well, though in the spiritual realm. His legacy is a reminder of what a life consecrated to God and dedicated to loving people looks like. While we surely recognize those traits in people while they are living, oft times their character hits us with renewed force when they are no longer with us. Sometimes it is when we are keenly aware of their absence that the seeds they have scattered abroad into the lives around them take root and begin to grow into their likeness. May we all live lives, as our friend did, that cause others to see God and His invitation in us. May we grow in our communion with Jesus and encourage that same growth in those with whom we come in contact. And when our own passing comes, may we be remembered as ones whose lives and deaths pointed people to life in our Lord.
I've just come in from the back what I like to call the vegetable garden area. Many years ago I created some raised beds in a back corner of the yard and they started out as a butterfly habitat area when there wasn't much other habitat in the yard to speak of. Over the years, as the yard plantings have expanded, the beds have served as an herb garden and a vegetable garden, though last year, I am sorry to say, my dachshunds managed to eat more of the produce than the humans did. Fencing the area will be a priority this spring.
Most years I have taken better care of putting the garden to bed than this year and this morning I was feeling considerable remorse for ignoring the soil that should be protected through the winter. Since the weather wasn't too cold or wet, this became the morning to take care of the long neglected chore of gathering my neighbor's piled up leaves and grass clippings and mulching the garden beds. The wheelbarrow and I made trip after trip gathering and dumping and though I took a break for a while, I knew better than to hope I'd finish it another day if I stopped for very long. Finally after a couple of hours in the wind I was satisfied with my work and called it a morning. Now when I venture out to the garden I'll picture all the soil microorganisms feeding on the plant material I put down and the beds being enriched by their efforts.
Somewhere along the line, while pushing the wheelbarrow filled with yet another load of dried grass and leaves, I thought about how I'd like my life with God to be similar to the garden task I had undertaken. I wasn't caring for the garden on this winter day because it was in crisis or because there was some extraordinary need. It was just a task that should have been done, a rather routine task really, particularly if it had been accomplished at the proper time instead of waiting until after Christmas. I was just doing what was necessary to ensure the health and fertility of the soil so that next growing season the garden will be as productive as possible. I think of cultivating my spiritual life in the same way. It is in my unremarkable daily interactions with God that we build the relationship that sustains me and from which I draw when I find myself in need. Lately my prayer has been that God will increase the presence of His Spirit within me, causing me see the world and the people in it through His eyes. I imagine the process is going to take even longer than the time needed to build and enrich the soil in my garden but just as in soil building, I do not see myself as the one who does the work. In soil building I bring in the organic material but it is the soil microorganism who do the work of enrichment. In the same way, as I bring myself to God, it is He who does the work of transformation in my heart and spirit. That work isn't something that I could ever hope to accomplish myself.
As so often happens, there are analogies between the natural world and life with God almost everywhere I look. The trick is to stop and pay attention and then to listen to what they have to say.
So often people seem to feel the need to cut down their gardens when the growing season ends and they must believe that dried seed heads, foliage and stalks serve no purpose. I would disagree and am offering these recently taken pictures of my garden as part of my reasoning. To be sure, winter gardens can seem untidy and unkempt at times. This I will concede and have to admit that by March I am more than ready to cut mine down as well. But now, at this time of year, when the frost and snow blanket the architecture of the garden, the sight can be almost as stunning in a black-and-white sort of way, as the full color of high summer. And when the chickadees, downy woodpeckers, goldfinches and pine siskins come in to eat on the standing plants and the white-crowned sparrows and juncos find numerous seeds on the ground below, the satisfaction in providing such a smorgasbord is rich indeed.
