During the sermon she bends over her notepad, writing down unfamiliar words so she can look up their meanings later:
These are my oldest granddaughter’s notes while listening to my son preaching.
She is seven years old.
In a word: awe.
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
and to my daughter-in-law
for sharing the photo and the story behind it
And so it came to pass
that the little blue eggs
in the perfect wee nest
atop the grapevine wreath
hanging on my front door
while it is yet winter
hatched.
My early brood of house finch nestlings, a day or two old.
It’s possible some were hatching during Sunday’s snow.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
Winter mornings
in the half-light
I leave home for work
out on the lawn
a stirring of birds
so small
I can’t quite see
if they’re actually birds
maybe they’re
gray-cloaked fairies
performing secret rites
or the grass itself
sprouting feet for a night
and ethereal wings
for breaking away
at dawn of day
tiny tufts
of earth, unbound
with promise of
heavenward flight
For a couple of months I’ve tried to figure out what little birds are flitting in the tufts of grass each morning. Gray and ghostlike, they’re elusive as fairies. I finally got a good look at a few of them through the kitchen window. I am pretty sure they’re dark-eyed juncos, which my Merlin Bird ID app has picked up and identified by song. They are sparrows, “birds of the ground,” hopping around on lawns looking for seeds. They even nest in the ground.
To me, they give the illusion of the grass transforming into birds.
I researched them and learned that the junco is a symbol of impending winter weather, nicknamed “Snowbird”.
Merriam-Webster says the first known use of “dark-eyed junco” was in 1974—when I was a child. “Junco” itself seems to have originated from a word meaning “rush”… as in rushes, synonymous with grass.
It just so happens that grass is a personal symbol for my father. I’ve often written of sensing his presence in the scent of fresh cut grass; this is steeped in childhood memories of him mowing the lawn. He was meticulous about it. Daddy enjoyed CB radio when it became a fad born of fuel shortages in the 1970s. I can’t recall his handle, but I recall the one I made up for myself, having never heard it before:
Snowbird.
It seems to have come to me around the same time the name “dark-eyed junco” was first used...
out on the lawn
a stirring of birds
so small
I can’t quite see
if they’re actually birds
maybe they’re
gray-cloaked fairies
performing secret rites
—Maybe they are memory itself.
Dark-eyed Junco. Kurayba. CC BY-SA 2.0.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
Once upon a time,
there lived a miniature horse
named Man-Man.
Like Mary’s little lamb,
Man-Man went to school one day
to make the children laugh and play
(actually, they had to sit nicely and learn
about Man-Man, after which
they were allowed to pet him).
Oh, he is so soft! the children said.
Oh, we wish we could keep him!
We love you, Man-Man!
Man-Man took all this in stride
while he patiently eyed
all the fresh green grass
on the school grounds.
I wonder, thought Man-Man,
if I might stay awhile
and take my fill
of this delicious stuff?
Oh, Man-Man,
miniature horse,
of course
you can can.
Here’s looking at you, kids
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
and to Man-Man
a pantoum
Under the eaves
a porch
on the porch
a chosen door
a porch
sanctuary
a chosen door
from the other side, I hear
sanctuary:
father finch feeding nesting mother
from the other side, I hear
a song of love
father finch feeding nesting mother
on the porch
a song of love
under the eaves
Short clip of my house finches, which return every spring to nest in my door wreath (the finches don’t know that I purposely put out the twiggy grapevine wreaths they like best). Crank the volume to hear their beautiful voices. You might even catch a glimpse of wings as the father flies off to fetch more food for the mother. He will feed her until their little blue eggs hatch and then they’ll both feed their babies. In listening, it’s easy to understand how “charm” became the collective noun for finches and why they are said to symbolize joy.
House finches have an interesting history. From the Audubon Field Guide:
“Adaptable, colorful, and cheery-voiced, House Finches are common from coast to coast today, familiar visitors to backyard feeders. Native to the Southwest, they are recent arrivals in the East. New York pet shop owners, who had been selling the finches illegally, released their birds in 1940 to escape prosecution; the finches survived, and began to colonize the New York suburbs. By 50 years later they had advanced halfway across the continent, meeting their western kin on the Great Plains.”
also this, from the House Finch Overview, Cornell Lab of Ornithology:
“House Finches feed their nestlings exclusively plant foods, a fairly rare occurrence in the bird world.”
These are things I have learned. I continue to learn the lessons of the finches as they fill my home and heart to overflowing with a rare, almost-otherworldly joy.
House Finch mosaic. wolfpix. CC BY-ND 2.0.
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge
I could hardly wait to try the Cornell Lab Bird ID app during February’s Great Backyard Bird Count.
Especially the sound identification feature.
When you select it, ‘Merlin’ listens and tells you which birds it hears.
I already know the beautiful songs of house finches, cardinals, and Carolina wrens. The low, mournful coo of doves. I know birds of the night by sound: the haunting, onomatopoetic call of the whippoorwill in summer, the hair-raising screech and who? who? who? of owls. What other wonders are hidden in the woods surrounding my home?
And so it was one damp, drab morning that I stepped out on the back deck with my phone and opened up the bird wizard (the name Merlin is too good).
First bird heard:
CAW! CAW! CAW!
The words American crow popped up in the app.
Thanks, Merlin. That’s only the easiest bird sound in the world. I knew it as a little kid watching Kornfield Kounty in Hee Haw.
Globally speaking, however: Is there a bird more steeped in superstition, legend, and lore? Or with more conflicted symbolism?
Harbinger of death and sickness. Psychopomp, spiritual guide for the human soul. A sign of transformation, balance, wisdom, confidence, trickery… crows are even said to carry a person’s prayers to heaven.
They are scavengers but they cannot tear flesh open with their own beaks and have to wait for some other toothed predator to start the process; they’ve been known to lead wolves or other hunters to prey. Crows don’t dine exclusively on meat; they’ll eat “almost anything,” researchers say.
Scientists say that crows have big brains and are aware of their own thoughts. In Norse mythology, two crows (or ravens, depending on the source) whose names meant Thought and Memory rode the shoulders of Odin. Crows act with deliberation. They are keen observers. They use tools like sticks and shells when needed to get their food. They learn to recognize human faces and have been known to leave gifts such as pebbles or pretty shards of broken pottery as a thank you for humans who have fed them…
CAW! CAW! CAW!
Crows also prey on songbirds…
There’s Papa House Finch singing like Tevye on the roof of my house while Mama Finch is nestled on little blue eggs so perfectly hidden in the wreath on my front door…
Don’t even think about it, Crows. The finches are mine.
Yet.
In all my dreams about birds—for there’ve been many—I’ve not seen finches. Eagles, peacocks, owls, and whippoorwills (I think) have appeared.
And one bright-eyed crow, sitting in the gravel beside a car, with a bright green stone or ball, waiting to give it to me.
What does it mean?? That is the question…
CAW! CAW! CAW!
I feel pretty sure about this one thing: If a crow offers you a gift…take it.
AMERICAN CROW. cuatrok77. CC BY-SA 2.0.
One more bit of food for thought: The name Merlin has a controversial origin history itself… possibly derived from French merle, which means blackbird.
*******
with thanks to two fellow Slicers in the Two Writing Teachers community:
Kim Johnson, for pointing me to the Great Backyard Bird Count, and
Ms. Chiubooka (Cindy), for recently wondering what my take on crows would be.
We’re all in the daily Slice of Life Story Challenge together.
Writing life.
What shall I say of my goals, as the year comes to its close?
I had a few. Some I accomplished. Some I didn’t. A few were work-related. Most were not. These I never articulated; they were just on my heart every day, from my rising to my sleeping.
That’s the thing about goals: personal commitment-keeping. They’re desires of your own heart. Aspirations. No can set them for you. They come from within. They become your own bar to reach, for the stretching of your own wings, as far as you wish. The extent of your growth is up to you.
I learned much by watching birds this year. This was an unplanned goal. One hummingbird materializing by the pines in my backyard, hovering long enough for me to take note, led to the purchase of a hummingbird feeder (and another, as more hummers appeared) and an incessant thirst to know more about these endlessly fascinating creatures. Day by day, my sense of awe deepened.
Awe is a vital element for vibrant life in this world. I looked for it and it found me. Like that hummingbird. For two years running, awe has been my guiding idea-word and its payoff, beyond compare. I find it everywhere but not in everything. Not in material things, for they never fully satisfy and pursuit of them potentially enlarges the void. In my previous post I wrote about the universe being a dark place (check out the jellybean analogy from the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics). Yet there is light. I am awed by the stunning brightness of the planets each night; Jupiter, Mars, and Saturn have become like family. I’m always looking for their return. They inspire the same thirst in me as the hummingbirds: can I get closer to them, know more about them, learn from them?
In the end awe, for me, is about the divine design of things, the Creator’s reflection in the created. There are intrinsic, intricate, infinite lessons to learn and my time above the Earth’s crust grows shorter. There’s a sacred interconnectedness to it all… from a solitary hummingbird to the solar system to the scent of baking bread to the ability to love and be loved and my own DNA so evident in my baby granddaughter’s face… every particle a poem, a song, a ribbon of light.
My ultimate goal for every day is to keep myself open for awe and to be grateful.
I have done so. I am doing so.
I didn’t create an official list of resolutions or goals for 2022. I carried them in my heart and lived them, as I will for this new year on the cusp.
But I did write a few things… this is my 365th post of the year. Something I’ve never accomplished before.
Day by day, moment by moment, the story of life unfolds. Goals are attained the same way.
My wish for you: Believe. Let awe weave itself around you and through you.
And write.
See how you grow.
The unused goal page in my my planner…a bit of seed, if needed
to the astronomer
light bucket
means a telescope
with a wide aperture
and parabolic mirrors
that collect
and reflect
great quantities of light
from objects
in deep space
for the universe
is a dark place
to the starry-eyed poet
light bucket
is a means
of picking up bits
of divine spark
for keeping
the mind’s aperture wide
the soul and spirit aligned
humanity’s parabola
so intelligently designed
for collecting
for reflecting
great buckets of light
for the universe
is a dark place
But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, Though you are little among the thousands of Judah, Yet out of you shall come forth to Me The One to be Ruler in Israel, Whose goings forth are from of old, From everlasting. —Micah 5:2
Ancient wonder is born anew this night
merry
angels
sing
Glory
merry
star
shines
bright
merry
is this ancient night, wonder born anew
Micah, 14 months, Christmas Eve
As a follow-up to yesterday’s post, Exploring mysteries, here’s a list of questions that have magically appeared in my supposed-to-be-empty WordPress blog posts this month:
What is one thing that you would change about myself?
What are five things you’re good at?
Do you have a favorite place you’ve visited? Where is it?
What big events have taken place in your life over the last year?
What could you do less of?
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
Tell about your first day at something—school, work, as a parent, etc.
What skills or lessons have you learned recently?
Is your life today where you pictured it a year ago?
All you writer-friends out there know the power of a good prompt for overcoming writer’s block, for reaching far and deep, tapping into memory and emotion. Writing itself is a release. It is healing. Perhaps even preventive medicine. Writing is a unique means of expression, of thinking, of creativity, of craftsmanship. It is a singular key for unlocking many mysteries, the greatest of all being yourself.
When gifts are offered, take them…they’re meant for your benefit, enjoyment, edification. The WordPress elves at work behind the scenes here clearly know this. These prompts are likely meant to be answered one by one (I have written to two: one thing I would change about myself and what skills I’ve learned recently) but today I wonder if I could tie them all into one reflection. For better or worse, here goes…
It is said that change is constant. I am constantly changing, growing older, a little slower. I would not change this. It is the price of having been alive a while. I’m willing to pay it. What one thing would I change about myself? My answer now would be different than it would have been years ago. I might have chosen something superficial, having to do with my appearance. Now I am much more concerned with my spirit. How do I narrow what I’d change to just one thing? I should choose to be more gracious, patient, forgiving, even loving…but as I write, the word listen blankets everything else that comes to mind. I would listen to others more. Not with my ears. With my soul. To hear what lies behind their words, their actions. Words are a thing I’m good with, usually. Were I to comprise a list of five things I’m good at, words are linked to at least half of it: I’m good at reading, writing (so I’m told…I do love it and work at it), imagining, wondering, and drinking coffee. In a way these are the five pillars of my daily life, the things I enjoy most, next to time spent with my family. When my boys were small my grandmothers told me that I was a good mother. Their simple proclamation, a revelation of their great esteem for motherhood, felt like the bestowment of a royal title. My boys have the final say, however. Children know all their parents’ flaws, eventually. What matters is that they know how much they are loved and that they learn to love. It is the beginning of belonging. It is why, when asked if I have a favorite place, I’m always going to talk about my grandparents’ home deep in the countryside, along an old dirt road (it’s gravel now). I haven’t been since the house has been torn down and a new one built for a young family. While I dread going because of that, another part of me desperately longs to go…to walk the old road once more, to remember being a child, hearing my grandmother’s old, old stories and my grandfather’s raspy, warm I love you when he offered his clean-shaven cheek to me for a goodnight kiss… again, listen. I imagine sensing them near even if all I hear is the breeze rustling the Spanish moss which wasn’t there, hanging there from the treetops, when I was a child. Once upon a time, though, there were little bridges along the road, due to the many canals…I don’t know what became of those bridges. But the tiny church at the crossroads remains, where my grandparents are buried with generations of my ancestors. One day soon, I must go. I carry them all and their stories with me… I am their story, the continuation of it, as my granddaughters are mine. They are the greatest event of my life in the last three years, one coming into our family at age three and the other born just over a year ago. They are the big event of my every day. I can almost hear Grandma chuckling…now you understand. Listen, listen. Carve time away from the clamor of the world to be still…to minimize distractions, to be fully present when another human is speaking to me, especially my young ones, especially my quiet son with the musical gifts and beautiful singing voice. So many layers there. Listen. I need to be less concerned with work; it is my livelihood, not my life. The family is my life. My pastor-husband, my pastor-son and his girls, The Boy and his music and funeral ministry, all our dogs, the church, the faith, the Lord God, Giver of all good gifts, including life, are my life. How perfect are His ways. Long ago when I was performing in plays and traveling to audition for acting school in New York, I could not have dreamed it would lead me to where I am now, that at nineteen I’d meet the man I’d marry through community theater. The title of that play: Whose Life Is It Anyway? Not just mine. Ours. It was ordained. I had an inkling of it, that first day after we were married, when we stood in the crashing ocean waves and I held onto my new gold wedding band for dear life, for fear of losing it. I knew salt isn’t good for jewelry. I just couldn’t bring myself to remove the ring. New beginnings are so fragile at first. As are new ideas. All these years into our journey, we still look for the new even within the old: we are going to learn how to use that Dobsonian telescope I got us for Christmas. We shall soon be wandering among the stars, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, all extending their glittering invitation every cold, cold night. I just learned I wasn’t using the finderscope properly. How poetic. Metaphorical. That’s what writing is for me… a finderscope. Through it I see the memories, the gratitude, the loves of my life…the light from years past, still meeting me right where I am today; I would not change a thing about that.
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with thanks to WordPress for the magical prompts and to Two Writing Teachers for the story-sharing place.
Happy holidays to all.
lit bits and pieces 