Life Instructions

The nest in the photograph is atop a young oak tree across the street, spread across branches that aren’t much more than twigs. What I am unable to show by camera, though, is how amazingly minuscule the nest is. I could hold two of them in the palm of one hand.

It’s not a new nest, and when I recall how many terrific winds have gusted through the neighborhood this year alone, the engineering of the bird home is all the more remarkable. Whose is it? Will they be returning to it, as so many birds do?

I’ll start monitoring it. As the oak begins to bud and leaf, I expect that’s when the home will be reinhabited. I’ll keep you posted.

Until then, I aim to follow these wise words from poet Mary Oliver, and I encourage you to do the same:

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
—from “Sometimes,” in Red Bird by Mary Oliver

What’s Blooming Near You?

“The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we shall have for destruction.”
—Rachel Carson

[Photo by N. J. Jackson.]

Eyes Wide Open

“We can’t enchant the world, which makes its own magic, but we can enchant ourselves by paying deep attention.”
—Diane Ackerman

The more I read, the more I realize that the world is constantly showing us its magic—which we either don’t recognize or simply fail to see.

Cat Urbigkit, author of Shepherds of Coyote Rocks, stays on high alert. Partially she’s always watching for potential trouble around her sheep. But mostly she’s in awe of Nature and documents the remarkable when it unfolds around her.

This fall, Urbigkit witnessed what some thought to be merely legend: a coyote and a badger hunting and hanging out together. Read her account (and see more of her photographs) on Querencia.

“It Has All Been Mush of a Mushness”

I toiled over a new recipe for baked Portobello mushrooms the other night, planned the entire dinner line-up around the special dish. But after one bite of the syrupy darkness it became on my plate, Katherine Mansfield’s journal entry bubbled to mind: “It Has All Been Mush of a Mushness.”

Well, maybe not all. Though the mushrooms were a soggy, inedible mess, I did enjoy the preparation of them—the cleaning and chopping and mixing, the fragrance of fresh herbs. I’ve come to the conclusion (again!) that everything is about the journey.

Whatever we do may end up a mush of a mushness, but more important is how we get there—and our mindfulness along the way.


[Art from McCall’s Magazine, via Vintage Gaze.]

Living with “Nature-Rapt Disorder”

After hearing the first bird break the night’s silence today, I rose before dawn. The bird hadn’t cast a song as much as a one-pitch, crescendoing rivet, followed by the sweet tune of a different bird. I intended to record the orchestral efforts of my backyard birds for you since I’d failed to do so in March. However, today’s range of sound was limited and identifiable even by a novice birder like me. That is to say, there wasn’t enough going on to share with you.

One afternoon last month, my husband and I were walking home from the post office and heard Blue Jays nearby. We stopped and looked up. What we saw locked us in that uncomfortable position for some time. Above us was a flock of Blue Jays—not a few or a family, but an entire colony of feathered sapphire flitting in and out of new leaves chattering about this and that, chasing and dancing and diving and twirling. I’d never seen such a thing. Again, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to document the event for you—snap a photo, record the soundtrack—but I was too engrossed in the moment to think ahead.

What is this affliction I struggle with? I want to share these nature-rapt moments with you but get lost in those moments somehow. Can one be “mindlessly mindful”?

[Art by Alexander Wilson.]

Nature-Struck in Illinois

A Lull reader sent me this pic of her recent unexpected encounter with Nature:

The duck couple visited her as she enjoyed her lunch on a Chipotle patio (proving that we’re never far from Nature—we’re just not always aware of it). After leaving her table for a moment, she returned to find one of the ducks missing.

Then her mind churned with worry, for in that brief span of time she’d spent watching the feathered pair, she had become connected to them. Responsible to them. She knew the ducks had to cross a busy road to return to their habitat and fretted over the missing duck’s safety. Was he car-savvy? Would drivers brake for the drake? Could he make it without injury?

Oh. The Lull reader’s thoughts expanded enough for her to realize ducks can fly when they choose to, making the busy roadway (and the reader’s fretting) a nonissue. She chided herself for her initial faulty thinking.

But I have news for her: She was right to worry.

Every few days here in the Bluegrass, I see a robin walking down a sidewalk or meandering across a street. No flying, not even a flutter to show they were thinking about it. And that day I left the library with way too many books, I had to stop my car for two geese to cross the road, although “cross” implies a directness that I believe was foreign to these birds. They sauntered side-by-side, then moved apart to continue in single file. Upon reaching my lane, the lead goose turned his head to the left and proceeded to follow the reach of his neck, ultimately walking in a tight circle while the partner goose caught up. After they made it across my lane, they continued their stroll down a different street.

Having wings is no indication birds will engage them. So, dear Lull reader, no need to chide yourself. Your concern was warranted. And I thank you for sharing your Nature awareness.

[Duck couple in bottom pic were taking a walk near the dog beach in Chicago.]

See Your World

Walking home one late afternoon last fall, my husband spied the creature pictured above on the sidewalk. The praying mantis would have been easy to miss, for s/he blended well with the surrounding detritus. My husband scooped her up in a nearby cup.

By the time they reached our living room, the mantis had consumed the beads of Coca-Cola that had clung to the cup’s interior. The mantis seemed cramped in the cup, so I encouraged a move to the backyard with our guest.

My husband sat on the ground and invited the mantis out of the cup. While my husband morphed into the mantis’s playlot—allowing her/him to explore his arms, his shoulders—I ran back into the apartment for some nourishment for the insect.

I sliced open a pawpaw and took it to our guest. Before I could deposit the fruit on a leaf, though, the mantis grabbed the knife I held. Forcibly pulled the knife toward him/her.

My heart stopped. I was sure the blade had injured him/her.

But s/he was fine.

Though the mantis didn’t eat much, s/he certainly savored it for a long while, licking every last little bit off her/his legs.

We continued watching our guest, likely to our guest’s annoyance. It was a delightful way to spend an evening—better than any other way we might have chosen to fritter away our time.

As the sun gave way to a night sky, we chose a tree the creature could seek sanctuary in and bid our praying mantis goodnight.

“The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.”
—Henry Miller

Stuck in an UN-Mindful State

For the past week I have fretted more than usual about my future, the future of those in war- and weather-torn countries, and all the other question marks that can overwhelm our lives from time to time. Living “mindfully” had become an alien ideology instead of a daily practice.

Then, last night, I read the first poem in Mary Oliver’s Thirst, and these lines scooted and squeezed me back into a better perspective of my place in the world:

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.

“Stand still. Be astonished.” Not a bad mantra, is it?