The Next Time

Perfection is out of the question for people like us, 
so why plug away at the same old self when the landscape 

has opened its arms and given us marvelous shrines 

to flock towards? The great motels to the west are waiting,

in somebody's yard a pristine dog is hoping that we'll drive by, 
and on the rubber surface of a lake people bobbing up and down 

will wave. The highway comes right to the door, so let's
take off before the world out there burns up. Life should be more 

than the body's weight working itself from room to room.
A turn through the forest will do us good, so will a spin

among the farms. Just think of the chickens strutting, 

the cows swinging their udders, and flicking their tails at flies.

And one can imagine prisms of summer light breaking against
the silent, haze-filled sleep of the farmer and his wife.

- The Next Time, by Mark Strand

This poem has been on my mind for the last couple weeks.  Years ago, my sister Susan owned a small book of Strand's poetry.  As frequently happens in our family of voracious readers, the book got passed around and ended up with me for a while.  That's where I first read this poem.  The imagery spoke to me.  Even now I love the feeling it evokes within me, the perfect balance of restlessness and sense of place.

Certain lines are stuck in my head, connected forever to specific places and times.

A turn through the forest will do us good, so will a spin among the farms. 

No matter how many years I've spent living in cities, there's always a part of me that craves nature.  I can only ignore the desire to be free of the buildings, the traffic, the crush of people, for so long.  Then I have to break away.  When I lived in Chicago, there were times when long walks on the lakefront were not consolation enough.  Only trips out of town - into Michigan for weekend camping in the woods, day trips up through the rolling pastures of southern Wisconsin - could hit my 'reset' button and allow me the inner calm to make it through another few weeks.

The highway comes right to the door, so let's take off before the world out there burns up.

In the summer of 2000, a friend and I determined that we would go to Burning Man over Labor Day weekend.  We committed to this idea entirely on impulse about a week beforehand.  Thursday evening we packed the Jeep with everything we thought we'd need, and off we went on a 4500-mile kamikaze road trip, Chicago to Nevada and back in four days.  Just because we couldn't think of a reason why we shouldn't.

The great motels to the west are waiting.

We drove nonstop through the night.  Iowa was a blur of road signs in the darkness; Nebraska was the smell of feedlots and manure.  At daybreak Friday morning, while filling the tank at some random truck stop, I called my boss and told him I was taking a sick day.  He told me to drive carefully and stay out of jail.  Across Wyoming and Utah we drove through monsoon winds and patches of rain followed by scattered rainbows.  Just before sunset we arrived in Winnemucca, Nevada and found a room in a cheap, old-school motor court off the main drag through town.  It was reasonably well kept and bordered on charming.  We took turns showering and fell into our beds, sleeping so soundly the fierce storm that crashed through that night didn't wake us.

Why plug away the the same old self when the landscape has opened its arms and given us marvelous shrines to flock towards?  

Burning Man 2000 marked the first time I was in a desert climate as an adult.  I'd never experienced a sky so wide and blue, air so clear, stars so brilliant, mountains so rocky and barren.  The landscape held a mysterious sacredness that grasped me firmly and would not, did not, let go.  I had to struggle to pay attention to the chaos of interactive art taking place around me on the surface of the playa.

Life should be more than the body's weight working itself from room to room.

On the return trip, the closer I got to what I had once considered my 'real life', the further away from my own true reality I felt.  It was as if I had emerged briefly from Plato's cave into the light, only to be sucked back in:  no longer was I content to merely drift along, letting the currents take me where they would.

Why Fidgety Pilgrim?

When the road ends, and the goal is gained, the pilgrim finds that he has traveled only from himself to himself.   - Sri Sathya Sai Baba

   When I finally decided to quit dallying and launch this blog, I gave careful consideration to what the blog would be about.  Then I scoured the dictionary and thesaurus for the right descriptive words.  Very deliberately, I chose 'Fidgety Pilgrim' from the list of finalists.

* * * * * * * *

   The separate, often disparate, elements that make me who I am are completely commingled.  They are woven together like the shadows of trees that splash across my favorite trail through the forest, or like the colorful threads that make up a Navajo rug.  When I try to isolate one strand - say, my need for travel, the 47 bits twined around it spring loose.  This often makes it difficult for me explain myself succinctly to others.

* * * * * * * *

I am fidgety because I am a pilgrim.  
To me, pilgrims are seekers, relentlessly questing after what is most meaningful to them.
Therefore, I stay in motion.  
Seeking.
I seek to assuage my curious nature.  
I seek answers to many, many questions.  
I seek adventure.  
I seek healing.  
I seek peace, the deep inner kind.  
I seek spiritual knowledge within and beyond the bounds of organized religions.

* * * * * * * *

   Throughout my life, my fidgety nature has strolled hand in hand with the desire to embrace this life, to search this beautiful world and find where I fit into it.  When I go anywhere, whether through cornfields, beside oceans, along river gorges, or over mountain passes, all that I see is sacred and amazing.  I move from place to place because I can't - won't - rest until I have seen it all, experienced it firsthand, and found the place that suits me best.

* * * * * * * *

   Until a few years ago, I equated contentment with boredom, and being rooted in one place with complacency.  Having never lived anywhere long enough to feel a true part of a community, the idea of living in a place where people knew me by name when I walked down the street made me twitch.  I was terrified that staying in one place would make me jaded, perhaps even cause me to lose my sense of wonder.
   Each time I plotted another move, I held in my head an image of the person I would become once the move was complete.  If I worked harder (or not as hard), made more money (or had better quality of life outside of work), exercised more, dressed better, had more friends, found that ideal relationship...then I'd be happy, and stay put for a while.
   ...And six months later there I'd be.  Restless again, repeating the same patterns, living the same life in different surroundings.  Still just as fidgety as ever.  Still waiting for that big spark of something - anything - to come along, to ignite my imagination and propel me toward the next great thing.

* * * * * * * *

   It's summer of 2004.  I have lived in Arizona for two years.  I've spent a great deal of my time here alternately second-guessing my decision to leave Chicago, and wondering whether I should go back to Chicago.  In other words, letting what I've chosen to leave behind put a damper on my enjoyment of what is right in front of me.
   I'm resuming my regularly scheduled life - and working a new job - after spending the spring in Illinois, helping my Mom care for my Dad.  
   Now it's the second or third week of August.  I am driving home from work.  The top is down on my Jeep.  It is hot out, in the high 90s, but there are brief pockets of delicious coolness whenever I pass into shade.  Monsoon season is winding down; an earlier shower has left a smattering of clouds hanging over the egdes of the Verde Valley.  The sun feels so fine against my skin.
   I crest a hill from which I can see for miles around.  At a glance I recognize the red rock formations of Sedona, Cocks Comb Butte, Doe Mesa, Bear Mountain, Casner Mountain, Black Mountain, House Mountain, Mingus...  
   For a moment I am quietly pleased.  It is the first time in my life I've lived in a place where I can name nearly every geographic feature I see.  
   On impulse, I pull off the highway and follow a primitive ranch road up through juniper and pinon trees to the top of a neighboring hill.  I stop the truck and cut the engine.  Climb up on the roll bar to get the full panoramic view.
   I sit there for a while, gazing at the natural spectacle surrounding me.  
   I reflect on the months that have passed since my Dad's death.  I think about how much I miss his smile, his perspective.  
   I think about my Mom, adjusting to life alone after nearly forty-three years of marriage.
   I think about how happy I am to be settling back into a routine with the boyfriend, the dogs, the cat.
   That's when it strikes me, with the full force of the desert sun:  In that moment, I am content.  
   The sensation is foreign, but I like it.  
   I like our weird little guest-house apartment, like our crazy landlady, like my job and the people I work with, like getting up before dawn to the sound of coyotes howling in the ravine, like driving under the brilliant stars to brew coffee for my customers - most of whom I like a lot, like driving home through the early afternoon heat, like napping with the pets or lounging by the pool till the boyfriend comes home from his job.   
   For a brief moment, it feels as if I've found everything I've been seeking.  


   Within a month, I am offered my old job in Chicago.  

House Mountain

Black Mountain

Sedona's Red Rock Wilderness.  Doe Mesa flat, low, and red on the left

Pilgrim

Pilgrim:  1.) A person who journeys, especially a long distance, to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion.
(Dictionary.com Unabridged.  Source location, the Random House Dictionary)

The year 2003 is drawing to a close.  I've traveled from Flagstaff to the Midwest for the holidays, to visit family.  Now it's New Year's Eve and I'm in Chicago to spend a few days at my best friend's house before flying west again.


I don't go in for big celebrations at the new year.  There are usually too many amateurs out, too many drunks, and - in the neighborhood where I used to live - too many guns being shot into the air when the clock strikes twelve.  


Betty and I are in her old white Chevy Caprice, driving north on Lake Shore Drive.  It's still relatively early.  We exit the Drive at Irving Park and go west for a mile or two, then circle a block to the south and start searching for parking.  Luckily, the Parking Gods are smiling on us this evening - we find a space a mere two blocks from our destination.


We walk through the brisk winter air to an unassuming brick building on a primarily residential street.  Snowflakes tickle the parts of my face that are not tucked into a coat or scarf.  Several people join us on the sidewalk.  We nod to them, open the heavy wood door with the glass panes, and enter the steamy warmth of the building.


Inside, we remove our shoes before proceeding into the main lobby.  Betty slides hers into the last open slot in the built-in cubby holes provided.  I add mine to the growing jumble of footwear on the floor.  Racks have been provided for coats, but I leave mine on.  Sometimes the room is on the drafty side.  Betty sees someone she knows and goes to say hello.  I drift into the small bookstore.


Soon Betty returns and we walk up the carpeted stairs.  We greet and take programs from the quiet man stationed at the top, then enter a small foyer.  It is crowded with chairs that spill out from the main sanctuary:  the overflow seating.  Passing into the larger room, Betty and I recall the first year we attended this New Year's event.  The room was unheated and half painted.  There were cushions on the floor for the thirty or forty participants who had braved the brutal cold to show up.


Now, nearly a decade later, the event is at capacity and the decor is more elaborate.  The walls are saffron, trimmed with an earthy shade of red at the columns.  The high ceiling is painted a vibrant blue.  Prayer flags and bright paper lanterns hang from the ceiling.  The statues on the altar gleam.  A priest wearing loose grey garments lights sticks of incense and places them in shiny bowls along the front edge of the altar.


As the air fills with the sweet scent of cinnamon and jasmine, we find seats about halfway up the aisle and settle in.  I read over the program.  In the eight or nine years we've been attending, very little has changed in the content of the ceremony we are here to take part in.  There will be meditation, recitations, chanting, a dharma talk by one of the sangha leaders.  Then each of us will set fire to the past year.


Betty and I are at the the Zen Buddhist Temple.  As the annual Kindling Light of Wisdom Mind ceremony begins, I pull a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket and worry it between my fingers.  For a brief moment I am impatient.  I want to get the preliminaries out of the way and get right to the good stuff.  Then I remember where I am.  I am only supposed to be here, now.  I slip the paper into my pocket.  Take a deep breath to quiet my mind.


This New Year's Eve ceremony is built around the idea of forgiveness and letting go, for the purpose of clearing space in your life for the coming year.  Each participant is given paper and pencil and asked to list people they feel have wronged them, or those they have wronged, since January first.


In the past I've waited till the ceremony was underway to write my list, and not had enough time to finish.  This year, I have been giving the list some consideration since Christmas Eve.  I wrote it earlier in the day during a moment of calm.  When the call comes for the congregants to make their lists I think of a few more additions.  I'm still scribbling as we line up around the edge of the sanctuary.  One by one we make our way to the altar, where the monks stand in front of brass bowls half full of water.


The sameness of this ritual from year to year comforts and grounds me in ways that few things can.  It is one of the best ways for me to chart my internal progress.  The first year Betty and I attended, I struggled during the meditation and chanting.  I lost my place frequently as my mind wandered in circles.  My list was made up mostly of people I felt had wronged me.  This year, I stay with the chants more easily and retain focus during meditation.  The list I cradle between my palms is largely comprised of those I feel I've wronged through my actions or words.


I bow to the monk and hand her my list.  She smiles and holds the paper to the flame.  I watch as the list is consumed by fire, then as the ashes are swallowed up by the water.  Pressing my empty hands together, I bow to her again before turning away.  I feel lighter as I walk down the aisle.  My pilgrimage for this year is complete.

Painted wood statue, Seattle Asian Art Museum

Fidgety

Fidget:  To move about restlessly, nervously or impatiently.  (Dictionary.com Unabridged.  Source location, Random House, Inc.)

When I lived in Chicago I went to Lincoln Park Zoo a couple times a year.  I'd wander past the gorillas, elephants and kangaroos, watching the animals watch the people watch them.  Usually I ended up in the big cat house, with the tigers, jaguars and lions.


The territories of Siberian tigers can be as large as 4000 square miles.  They have been known to travel as much as 650 miles over the course of just a few days.  Typical territory size for African lions is up to 300 square miles.  Cheetahs range an average territory of 120 square miles.  Depending on the area in which a jaguar lives, its territory can be from five square miles up to more than 100 miles.


Yet here were these cats, in glass-fronted lairs not much bigger than the living room at my house.  They had access to slightly larger outdoor accommodations, of course, but many times when I was there they were in the cages.  They looked placid, even bored.  But they paced.  Incessantly.  As if they knew the enclosures weren't really strong enough to hold them, and were mulling over various plans for dramatic escapes.


Anyone observing me would notice that my natural demeanor is one of calm.  I'm laid back.  Kind of quiet.  Maybe even a little bit aloof at times.  I am patient.  I can spend hours absorbed in tedious tasks that others would quickly abandon out of boredom and frustration.


Inside, I'm a lot like those big cats at the zoo.  Restless.  Calculating.  Plotting my escape, my next big more.


All during the 1990's, while I lived in Chicago, I spent every spare moment scouring the length and breadth of the city.  On foot, I meandered through the neighborhoods, soaking in the architecture and observing the people.  I walked for hours in every type up weather, stopping once in a while to window-shop or refresh myself at a cafe.


I drove, too, expanding my range in ever-widening circles.  In the old green Buick Skylark, the two-tone gray Blazer, and later the Jeep, I made countless trips up and down Lake Shore Drive; all around the Loop; out through the blighted, then gentrified West Side; north to Rogers Park, Evanston, and on up Route 41 into Wisconsin; south through Bronzeville, Kenwood, Hyde Park, South Shore and the Stony Island corridor; east into northwest Indiana or southwest Michigan.


And I moved.  I had dreamed about living in Chicago since I was in grade school.  Once I became an actual resident of the city, I was determined to sample life in as many neighborhoods as I could.  I started out in Rogers Park, near the Stack and Steaks at Clark and Devon.  Moved with a roommate to her mom's condo on Lake Shore Drive in Wrigleyville while her mom was between 'real' tenants.  Shared an apartment on Ainslie in Lincoln Square with one of the groomers who worked for me at the pet supply boutique I co-owned.  Lived in a tiny basement studio just off Dearborn in the Gold Coast, to be closer to the shop.  Found a bigger place a few blocks away, on the third floor of a Victorian rowhouse in Old Town.  From there I moved to East Rogers Park, so I could live across the street from Lake Michigan without having to pay an arm and a leg in rent.


I made those six moves, plus a few short hops, between January, 1991 and February of 1995.  In those days, all my possessions fit into the back seat and trunk of my Buick.  I didn't own anything I couldn't lift and/or carry up and down stairs by myself.


A year later, I moved in at my best friend's house on the South Side for what was supposed to be a couple months.  A couple months turned into six years.  My time there still holds the record for the longest I've spent at one address in my adult life.


I don't think I was aware at the time, but I used the moving was a way to shake things up, to keep things interesting when I felt too hemmed in by circumstances or city life.  Living in different places satisfied my curiosity about what life was like over there, and over there.  Moving my possessions from one place to another soothed my roving, gypsy soul in ways nothing else could at the time.


In the end, it wasn't enough.  The moving, the walking, the driving:  none of it was enough to keep me from feeling like those big cats at the zoo.  

A Total Stranger Made My Day

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened brother.
What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, 
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness...


...Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
     purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
     - Excerpts from 'Kindness', by Naomi Shihab Nye**


I'm driving a route I've driven a thousand times over the last couple decades.  A four-hour slog through monotonous acres of fields, broken only by the occasional water tower or grain elevator.  A 240-mile drive I can make in my sleep, and almost have on occasion.


I've traveled this stretch so many times I don't even see it any more.  My mind goes into auto-pilot and I just drive.


About halfway, I pull off at a truck stop to fill up with gas.  My mind is still elsewhere.  I'm cleaning the bugs off the passenger side windshield when I hear a loud car approach.  It's a tired black Camaro, a late-70's model.  There's a strong possibility the car's only held together by Bondo and baling wire.


The kid behind the wheel exits the car by climbing out the window.  Amused, I think, 'Dukes of Hazzard move'.  He's skinny, maybe twenty.  Worn jeans, medium-length blond hair, no shirt.  Blue bandana wrapped around his head.  I continue what I'm doing, taking in these details without thought or judgment.


 A girl comes out of the gas station.  She looks slightly older.  Long dark hair, faded jeans, white cotton peasant top.  She tells him she's talked to a guy at the car place and it sounds like the transmission will need to be replaced.


I'm not eavesdropping, I'm not really paying attention.  I'm only catching a few words here and there, and noticing their body language.  The kid's stance as the two of them confer near the back of the Camaro telegraphs how upset he is by this news.  He says he can't afford a whole new transmission.  I pick up on the tension between them.  


All this time, I'm still doing my thing.  The windshield clean, I snap the wiper back into place and return the squeegee to its holder.  Unlock the Jeep and climb in.  I give Tanner a pat on the head, realizing we've already been on the road for more than two hours and I've forgotten to give him water.  So I dig around in the back, find the bowl, pull out the water jug and splash some in.


In hot weather I wear a bandana when I drive to keep my long hair out of my face.  While Tanner's drinking his water, I'm tying the bandana around my head.  I glance up and see this kid again.  He's sitting in the passenger seat of his car.  He's grinning at me.  Or at Tanner, I can't tell.  So I smile back and look away.


I fuss with the bandana some more, and next thing I know this kid's standing next to my driver's side window.


He says, 'Hey, stranger,' in this friendly, warm voice.  I look up and say 'Hey'.


He says, 'I have something you can add to your dreamcatcher.'


He motions to my rearview mirror.  From it hangs a small dreamcatcher that consists of a piece of soft leather stretched over a round frame, with a couple of beaded feathers hanging from it.  Painted on one side of the leather circle is a Navajo bear paw symbol.  The dreamcatcher's only a couple inches in diameter.  From outside the Jeep you have to be looking pretty close to be able to tell what it is.


But this kid, he knows.  He reaches in the window and hands me a feather.  The feather's dark brown, no more than two inches long.  It's got these white polka dots on it.  I take it from him and smile and say, 'Wow, this is beautiful.  Thank you.  This is really awesome.'


He says, 'You're welcome', smiles, and goes back to his car.  When I look in his direction again he's trying unsuccessfully to explain to the girl what he was doing.  I see a dog in the back seat of his car.  I hadn't noticed it before.  It looks like a shiny black version of Tanner - big and square-headed, with a goofy grin and a big red tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.


For a minute I can only sit there, flabbergasted, looking at the feather and thinking, 'This is amazing.  Really amazing'.  Carefully I tuck the feather into a pocket of my backpack so it won't blow away.  Then I wave to him and leave.  


As I'm getting back on the interstate I'm thinking, 'That kid just made my day.  He totally just made my day'.

* * * * * * * * * * *

A few miles down the road, a humbling thought brought sudden tears to my eyes.  While I was wrapped up in my head, this kid could see in just a few seconds the commonalities he shared with a total stranger:  the dogs, the bandanas, the dreamcatcher.  Despite the things in his life that worried or frustrated him, in that moment he could go a step further, could present me with a gift as simple and perfect as a small, spotted feather.


His act of kindness felt like the answer to a question I didn't even know I'd asked.  It took me off auto-pilot and set me back in the present where I belonged.   


**Naomi Shihab Nye's entire, excellent poem can be found here:  www.wussu.com/poems/nsnkind.htm

Heartbreak and Purple Finches

I realized the other day that I wasn't telling the whole story of why I was so keen on having the house finches nest on my front door this spring.


In July of 2006 I transferred with my job from Chicago to San Francisco.  My boyfriend and I were originally supposed to move to the Bay Area together.  The relationship came to an abrupt halt before the move was complete.


So at the last minute, not knowing a soul and having only been through San Francisco once for a day (as an adult), I went ahead with the move.


I didn't have a place to live already lined up.  Mostly because of the timing of the breakup, but partly because it's typical for me to leap before I look.


Despite that minor detail, I was excited for the opportunity to live in the Bay Area.  After a couple weeks of motel rooms I found an apartment in San Rafael, across the Golden Gate Bridge to the north of the City.  The complex sat at the top of a hill.  My apartment was on the third floor, near the back of the complex.  Despite the potential for sweeping views, the windows in m apartment faced onto the parking lot.


I didn't care.  I was reeling from the sudden end of the relationship after four years, and the betrayal that led to the end of the relationship in the first place.  At the same time, I was enjoying having time and space that was my own again after four years.  My inner gypsy was delighted to have a new part of the country to live in and explore.


And so I began to settle into my new place and my new job.  It was great.  Every day, twice a day, I got to commute across a stunning, iconic miracle of architecture that is known around the world.  The five-dollar bridge toll inbound to work was steep, but most days I felt it was worth it just for the amazing views of the Marin Headlands, Angel and Alcatraz Island, the Presidio, San Francisco, and the Bay.


Only one thing was out of kilter.  I was plagued by insomnia.  The insomnia had been recurring off and on for two years, ever since I'd moved from Arizona to Illinois to help my Mom care for my Dad as he was dying of cancer.


After Dad's passing, it had taken my internal clock a long time to reset.  Now, whether from the new time zone, grief over the relationship's sudden end, or any number of other factors, the insomnia was back in all its wide-eyed glory.


At first I was frustrated.  I would get home from work, fix dinner, and find myself getting sleepy before nine o'clock.  I'd be in bed asleep by ten, but wide awake again between two and three with no chance of going back to sleep.  Other times I would not get sleepy at all, regardless of how tired I was.


I tried everything but drugs.  Tossed and turned.  Took hot showers.  Played solitaire on the computer.  Read so many books the plot lines blurred together.


Finally I quit fighting and gave in to the awakeness.  The tiny, odd-shaped dining area between the kitchen and living room had a large window.  I'd placed one of my cushy armchairs in the corner next to it.  When I woke up, regardless of the time, I'd make my way to the chair, cover myself with a soft afghan, and wait for dawn.  Sometimes I'd write in my journal.  Mostly I just stared out at the little portion of the world immediately in front of me.


The landscaping of the complex included many mature maple trees.  Two or three of them stood just outside my building.  Sitting at my window, I was at eye level with the midsections of those trees.  Their large starfish leaves created a screen between me and the parking lot.  It was easy to pretend, especially in those long hours before dawn, that I was in the tree.


The birds in the complex arose even earlier than I did.  Each morning when I took my place in the chair and pulled up the blinds, they were already chattering softly in the trees.  As the pre-dawn sky lightened, their activity and volume levels increased, peaking just after sunrise.  I began to notice and listen for the calls of the different birds.  To assist in identification, I picked up an Audubon Guide to West Coast species.


Soon I realized that there was a gang of small brown birds, some with brilliant red markings, regularly inhabiting the tree immediately outside my window.  My guide book informed me that they were purple finches.  Morning and evning I was treated to their burbling song and lively antics amongst the swaying leaves of the maple.


I began to look forward to spending time at the window observing these bright little fellows.  My cat, Oliver, would perch on the back of the chair and watch with me.


Gradually my heart lifted.  With the help of the finches, I emerged from my post-breakup funk.

Lovely Little Drama, Part II

For Part I, go here:  http://fidgetypilgrim.blogspot.com/2011/05/lovely-little-drama-part-i.html


Upon returning from my best friend's house, I made a beeline for the front door.  The young finches had doubled or trebled in size during the week I was gone; they were nearly half the size of the adults.  Their feathers had come in.  The had lost most of their downy fuzz, with the exception of white poufs over each eye that resembled eyebrows.  The five of them barely fit the nest.


At this point the adult finches were working around the clock to forage and bring food back to the nest.  Always, always, I would hear their high trilling song first, then see them alight in one of the trees near the front porch to do reconnaissance before approaching.  The young finches, who hardly moved and never made a peep when the parents were away, came to life at the first note of their parents' calls, flapping and fluttering and chirping their little heads off.


Around May first, I noticed a change taking place in the feeding routine.  Instead of regurgitating food for her young every time she came to the nest, Mama Finch began bringing whole leaves, roots and stems once in a while.  She would tuck them into the edge of the nest and fly away.  At first the babies were confused, maybe even indignant, about her refusal to place food directly in their mouths.  But they caught on in no time.  Though it was obvious that they preferred to be fed directly, they were soon nibbling at the selection provided.  


A pair of the young finches were becoming more active.  Intrepid, experimental, they perched at the edge of the wreath, stretching their wings and picking out the few pin feathers that remained.  They jostled each other for their turn at flight simulation.  Practicing, but not quite ready to make the leap.  I ventured a guess that they were the first two that hatched:  they were bigger, and two to four days ahead of the rest of the clutch in terms of development.  


The smaller ones stayed beneath for another day, content to sleep in feathery little balls while their older siblings messed about.


I was anticipating and dreading the day the baby finches would fledge from the nest, in roughly equal proportions.  'You're growing up too fast,' I would tell them as I watched their antics through the door.  'It seems like just yesterday you were mere eggs.'


On Thursday, May 5th, I came downstairs and made breakfast.  As I walked into the dining room I heard a familiar warble and caught a flicker of red in the tree outside the window. The adult male finch was checking in.  I set my plate on the table and reached for the camera, because a couple of the babies were up, flapping like mad at the edge of the nest.  


Before I could flip on the camera and get myself into position, the mama finch had flown down from a different tree and landed on one side of the wreath.  She bobbed her head at the two older fledglings and flew away again.  Quick as lightning, so quickly they probably surprised themselves, the two were away with her.


Within an hour, two more of the fledglings had left the nest in the same manner.  The adults perched on tree branches and sang encouragement, the fledglings' little wings kicked into gear, one of the adults swooped past the nest, and off they went.  Just like that.


The last little fledgling suddenly found himself alone in the nest.  He seemed a little at loose ends not to have his siblings surrounding him.  For the first couple hours he stayed low in the nest unless one of the adults came around.  Eventually he rose, stretched and started trying to figure out the whole flying business.  


He had a few false starts.  This made him become, from all appearances, despondent.  He huddled at the edge of the nest, all tucked into himself.  He didn't preen or flap.  He only roused himself when one of the adults came near.


I left at three that afternoon to run a few errands.  Two hours later when I returned, that last little fledgling had garnered his nerve and gone away like the rest.  None of them came back.  After a few days we removed and cleaned the wreath, and replaced it with another.


A second house finch pair was nesting on the drain spout of Friendly Neighbor's garage.  I was keeping an eye on it, too, but those babies fledged about two days ago.  


As I began writing this post on May 17th, I heard a familiar lilting song.  I looked up from the keyboard to see four house finches perched on the new front door wreath.  Two males and two females.  Their markings differed from both adult pairs that had so recently inhabited nests nearby.  


I couldn't tell whether any of these four were part of the clutch that left on May 5th.  The fledglings had not yet gained the distinctive markings that allow me to distinguish male from female.  But they did seem momentarily disoriented when they landed on the wreath.  It was as if they knew the location and shape was right, but couldn't figure out why everything else had changed.  


One of the pairs came back a couple more times that day.  The female picked a few choice twigs out from the side of the wreath.  I haven't seen them since.  I've been suffering from empty nest syndrome.


During the course of this lovely little drama, I did some research to ascertain that these were indeed house finches, and to discover what their mating and breeding habits were.  I found some great general information about tons of bird species here:  http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/house_finch/lifehistory.  From this page, I stumbled across this fantastic site, which is run by Cornell University's Ornithology program:  http://watch.birds.cornell.edu/nest/home/index.   I was pleased to be able to add my observations about the breeding pair and the development of the five babies to their research base.     

The cluster of baby finches before I left on 04/23...

...And when I returned on 05/02

The last little lonely guy, on May 5th.

Lovely Little Drama, Part I

This spring, a lovely little drama unfolded on the front porch of the house where I live.  The drama usurped my attention from the end of March to the first week of May, for once turning my thoughts away from travel.


A pair of house finches found the wreath on the front door.  They built a nest on it.


This in and of itself is not so dramatic, I realize.  Every season, when a new wreath goes up on the front door, the birds find it.  Most pull bits off to take away for their nests elsewhere.  Others attempt to build nests in the lower part of the wreath.


But it is the front door, after all.  We don't use it much, and frequent visitors know to use the back door; however, the mailbox is affixed just to the side.  Once a day, six days a week, the mail carrier crosses from Spaniel Lady's house to the west, clumps onto the porch, and deposits our mail in the box before working his way down the street to the east.


The front of the house is primarily windows.  Old windows, original to when the house was built close to one hundred years ago.  Hand-blown windows that are wavy and inconsistent, set into wooden panes.  The front door is similarly paned.  We hang the wreath on the outer, screened, storm door.  We don't use the two front rooms much, but on warm spring days we open the inside door to allow fresh air to flow through the house.  The pets congregate at the door when it's open, to sniff the air and watch life go by on the street outside.


Any combination of these conditions is normally enough to prevent birds from making a permanent home on the front door.  Previous attempts have ended with the birds abandoning the nests, sometimes even abandoning their eggs.


The finch pair discovered the wreath in mid-March.  They fluttered around it for a couple of days, chattering and warbling to each other in their musical voices.  The male liked to perch in a heroic stance on the top of the wreath.  The female, ever practical, scouted out the lower curve of the wreath's 'O' shape, which is concealed from human eye level by fake flowers and greenery.


After several visits and much discussion among the two, it was decided that the wreath was the best of all local options.  The female began pulling small twigs from the body of the wreath and bringing bits of straw and other materials from elsewhere to fashion her nest.  Within a week of completing the nest, she began laying.  By the end of March, five small pale blue-green eggs with tiny dark speckles on them were huddled at the bottom of the nest.


Once it became obvious that the pair would occupy their new-found home, I resolved that I would do what I could to give them a chance at success.  I did this for the sake of the finches, but also because I was thrilled to have a chance to watch the process of a life cycle, however small, take place in front of me.


I asked family and friends to leave the inside storm door shut and stay away from the door as much as possible.  We only went out for the mail when we noticed the female was already away from the nest.  I took advantage of those times to carefully peek in at the eggs and take a few photos.


From my makeshift desk at the dining room table, I could keep an eye on the goings-on at the nest without attracting notice from the adult finches.   


The mama bird sat on the nest continuously for close to two weeks, leaving only to chatter with her mate in a nearby tree, forage for food, and avoid the mail carrier.  The male was in the area much of the time, but he never inhabited the nest.


The weekend before Easter, I noticed the mama finch moving around more on the nest, dipping her head down occasionally.  It was obvious that she was moving something about.  I waited until she left the nest, then stepped cautiously to the door.  In the nest was a tiny bit of fuzz.  And four eggs.


My thirteen- and nine-year-old nephews were visiting when the baby birds began to hatch.  We watched Mama Finch, as I began to think of her, flit around as the babies broke free from their shells.  We watched Papa Finch bring food to the mama and feed her as if she herself was one of the babies.  By the time my nephews left on Sunday afternoon, only one egg remained to hatch.


When the last young finch hatched from its egg on the Monday before Easter, all I could see was a fuzzy pile at the bottom of the nest.  The baby finches hardly looked like they were birds at all.  From whichever vantage point I chose, I could not distinguish head from tail, or one baby finch from another.  For close to a week, the only time I could get a decent look at them was when the adults came around to feed them.  Then their wobbly little heads would pop up, beaks silently snapping open and shut.  The parents regurgitated food into their mouths neatly, as though bestowing special treats upon each of them.


Then I went away for a week, to pet-sit while my best friend was away on business.  Given the timing, I knew the young finches wouldn't fledge from the nest before I got back, but it would be close.

Papa Finch

Mama Finch

Site Selection

The completed nest

April 19th, after the last baby hatched

The Fate of The Tree

Another branch fell off The Tree late Friday night.  Neither of us in the house heard it.  

The weather was clear, with hardly a breeze.  Friendly Neighbor across the alley to the east told me he heard the crash about eleven thirty, as he was taking his dogs out for their last walk before bed.  He said it was so loud he wondered if maybe the whole Tree wasn't coming down.

This branch was only about five feet long and less than two feet around.  Some of the ivy limbs look to have struck the corner of the garage roof on the way down, but didn't do any damage.

I went out Sunday morning to cut up the fallen branch and drag the pieces to the alley, where they'll be taken away by the city workers.  I stared up into the void created by the two branches that are now gone.  The part of The Tree that remains has me concerned.  Now that the web of ivy holding it together has loosened further, it may be just a matter of time before the whole thing goes.

Two or three huge branches remain on the trunk.  Each of them is a great deal larger, in length and circumference, than the first one that fell.  The largest one looms to the south, over our back fence and Surly Neighbor's metal car port.  We'd really like to avoid an incident with Surly Neighbor if at all possible.  

The next largest, and next in sequence if the branches continue falling in the order they've been, could potentially take out a trio of power lines.  The lines run diagonally across our back yard, from the transformer at the corner of Surly Neighbor's property to the back of Spaniel Lady's house, just west of us.  Spaniel Lady is nice enough, but we'd rather not inconvenience the neighborhood, or put its residents at risk, by being the cause of downed electrical lines.

These thoughts occupied my mind during the fifteen minutes it took me to saw the ivy limbs off and stack them in the alley.  I turned my attention to the chunk of bark-encased sawdust and ivy roots that had once been a branch, still lying at the base of The Tree.  It was almost small enough to roll into the alley without having to cut it into sections.  Better to go ahead and chop it up, I decided.  Briefly I considered prevailing upon Friendly Neighbor for the use of his chain saw.  Ultimately, I used my little hand saw.  I was done disposing of the entire thing less than half an hour after I started.

Sunday evening, my mom and I discussed the fate of The Tree.  We agreed that removal of the large branches is now a priority.  We discussed the likelihood that the entire trunk will have to go as well.

We called a Tree Guy Monday afternoon.  He says he'll be able to swing by and take a look Friday afternoon.

I like that, after standing firmly in place for a minimum of a hundred years, The Tree is now going bit by bit.  As if it's reluctant to give up entirely.  I think of the hundreds of little lives - birds, wasps, beetles, butterflies, bees, and so many other creatures - that rely on The Tree for food and shelter.  Morning, afternoon, evening, night, I gaze up into the branches and entreat The Tree to hang in there, just a while longer.  For their sake, as much as my own.

The gap keeps getting bigger

Latest view.

Invisibility

I have the dubiously useful talent
of being able to make myself disappear.
In the midst of a group
I can make myself invisible,
fading in and out at will.
Invisibility used to bother me.
In this moment I seek it out,
create the barrier I need
to separate myself, gain the 
inner and outer space required to
draw a deep breath
amidst the chaos 
surrounding me.
05/29/10, written at
Folk Life Festival, Seattle, WA


I've been feeling invisible this past month.


The feeling has made it difficult to rectify the posting of blog entries.  A blog seems a way of shouting 'Look at me!' to the world at large, and I haven't felt in need, or deserving, of attention.  


I tell myself to suck it up.  I'm a writer, damn it, writers put their work out there whether they feel like it or not.  Putting my work out there was the whole point of starting the blog in the first place.


Still.


This is not the sort of selective invisibility I mention in the poem above.  I cultivate that purposely as the situation warrants, as a means of preserving my sanity.


It's also not the fun 'Invisible Man' kind that would allow me to mess with people, floating spoons across the kitchen before their disbelieving eyes.  Moving their things to confuse them ('I'm just sure I left that book on the table next to the couch, not on the floor underneath the piano bench!').


I would characterize this as ghost-invisible.  It's a sense of being only partially present in, and to, the world around me.


I leave bare hints of footprints in the grass, and the air almost ripples around me when I walk.  Others looking my way only glimpse the faintest outline of my shape, the dull, shimmering mirage of a human.


I move about as quietly as possible.  I take up the smallest amount of space I can.  I try to leave no traces of myself in my wake.


I find myself unwilling to look people directly in the eye.  I am surprised and momentarily flustered when a store clerk or passerby casts a pleasant remark in my direction; it takes me a minute to remember that they can see me.


I speak rarely.  I have opinions, of course, but rarely share them even when asked, because who cares what a ghost thinks?


So it goes.  I watch this ghost-version of me with curiosity.  I inhabit her gently and carefully, with none of my usual impatient restlessness.  


I am writing as a way to begin to backfill that which has vanished these past weeks.  Engaged in the work necessary to regain the corporeal, I bear in mind that part of pilgrimage is the shedding of the self in order to regain something more, something that lies much deeper than the flesh.