"People who daily expect to encounter fabulous realities run smack into them again and again. They keep their minds open for their eyes." (Ken Macrorie)
Showing posts with label Julie Zickefoose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Julie Zickefoose. Show all posts
Yesterday, despairing at the pond's stillness, I stood a long time, watching buzzards wheel in a gray sky, their silhouettes wheeling on silver water, until some smaller movement caught my eye. A water strider, I thought, and looked more closely. To my surprise, I found a stink bug struggling with something else. The something else disappeared, and the stink bug struggled to right itself, circling and flailing in the water on its back. I couldn't do nothing, so I walked to the edge of the water, stuck out my walking stick, slid it under the bug, lifted it, and offered it a bush stem. The stink bug sort of shook and then proceeded to climb up and around the leaves till it settled in the little bit of sun there was.
People don't like stink bugs, and in many places they're reproducing at an alarming rate, even invading people's houses. But I didn't think about what the bug was; I only knew that I couldn't just stand by and watch it drown. When I got home and looked at the fuzzy pictures (shot as they were from some distance), I realized the aggressor had been a yellow jacket. How they landed in the water is beyond me, since neither is native to that element, especially at some five feet or so beyond the shore. But there they were, and there I just happened to be.
Sometimes -- like this time -- I believe myself odd. But then at others, I read about another odd person, as I did today in Julie Zickefoose's blog post, titled "The Squeaking Sphinx." How happy I am to know that there are kindred spirits out there in the world. Become a moth, caterpillar, and thank your lucky stars Zickefoose came along. Be a stinker, if you must, shield bug, and thank your lucky stars I came along. We're the ones who "fool around with wild things." We "try to help them[;] and how they delight" us!
I I started the day as I usually do: checked email; read the New York Times; reviewed my Feedly list of blog posts. One of those posts ran up a flag, and I did something I have rarely done before. I commented. Julie Zickefoose pondered "spirit lights," a term suggested by a reader. Unlike most of the other commenters, and perhaps Zickefoose herself, I don't believe in paranormal "anythings," but I do believe in spirit. II Abbo's Alley's snow-melt opened little pockets of green: an inch-worth of daffodil here, a twisted vining shoot there, and everywhere mosses and lichen preening in first sun.
One stump hosted a party of soft green things, dotted here and there with red caps and yellow tendrils and auburn sporophytes. III "What day is it?" asked Pooh. "It's today," squeaked Piglet. "My favorite day," said Pooh. IV This is why I walk every day: to let go of my anxieties, aches, memories, -- all the clutter that clogs the spirit of thought. This is why I blog every day: to put down some small, distilled inklings and send up little flags. V Maybe someone listens.
Late last week, I finished reading Julie Zickefoose's The Bluebird Effect: Uncommon Bonds with Common Birds. A collection of essays that reads like a loosely constructed memoir, the book offers lots of detailed information about various birds, much of it entirely new to me. It also offers stimulating reflection and moving revelation of a person with a special gift, a calling, even, to understand and celebrate the birds she studies, ministers, and paints.
Today, while I worked online, a male bluebird kept thumping my kitchen door. Every time I tried to take his picture, he'd fly out of view, to a tree or the roof of the birdhouse where I think he and the female will raise a brood. When rain poured and wind howled and thunder clapped, I hoped they'd find a safe spot deep under a bush or the deck to ride it out. But as soon as the storm let up even a bit, he'd reappear and sing and tap heartily. And so, for more than six hours, he and I (and occasionally she and I) played peek-a-boo, a game they won, hands and wings down.
Having read Zickefoose's book and entering my third year with the tapper and his Mrs. (I hope they're the same pair), I can easily understand the call of birds. Certainly, there are many less happy ways to spend one's days.
