Stark Shadowy Tonic

 

In late summer you are Yellow Crownbeard by name-
     a colony of green and gold.
In winter, Stickweed-
    dry remnants, swaying in the cold air, seed heads chattering.

Why do you stay?

What do you want to tell us?

Do you bring knowledge and understanding to those who appreciate you?

Do you hold a cure for our physical aches?

Are you a metaphor still standing for something unknown in the human world?

I don’t know you but I see you, and I see how you change.

Your once radiant beauty becomes a stark, shadowy tonic.

Disperse Their Seeds, Vigorously

Walking slowly but still 20 steps ahead of my young son, I led the way down the wide trail.  We wore two layers apiece and caps today as the cool winds of autumn circled around us.  He meandered from side to side as the undergrowth dictated.  A smooth, well-trod path was just as alluring as the patch of  waving grasses, jungle-like from his vantage point.
We share a curiosity that makes walking in the woods a slow, inquisitive jaunt.   Every leaf, pine cone, flower and fern is susceptible to our inspection and play.  Yes, we play.  The pine cones gets kicked, the sink holes gets plugged with sticks, the turkey feathers ends up in hat bands, and the acorns get tossed back at the trees from which they fell.

In this wonderful spirit of fun and discovery we happened upon a magical puffball colony.  Merely a gentle shoe-tap released wispy clouds of  spore dust like little puffing steam engines.  Imagine the mystery this brings to a two year old. And imagine the wealth of natural lessons these little wonders afford an instructive daddy. I kept it brief, this time, saying "these are little plants that puff out their baby seeds."  And then we commenced to helping them disperse their seeds, vigorously.  As language builds, so too will the length of the lessons.  Some day, I'll show how this very fungus can be cooked and eaten, if taken at the right time of its life.  Perhaps we'll talk about the mighty, distant volcanoes who similarly puff great plumes of smoke and ash.  But today we kept it simple and fun...as simple as a smoke-puffing little round "plant" can be to a two year old.

The Privilege We Shared

We spent a cool afternoon in the Virginia foothills. A visit to The Homeplace, a part of my wife's history;  now part of our family's history.  The rural county is our son's namesake. Grayson is a land of beautiful hills, valleys, and creeks.

We traveled with my sister and her boyfriend on a farewell roadtrip.  They will be living in another country soon.  We will wish them well and be comforted by the excitement we hold for their future.  But it isn't easy to say goodbye.

As we walked the quiet sites of past goodbyes, thinking of the changes we face, we found ourselves face to face with a living and breathing model of change.  The archetype of transformation.  Curled under the shelter of a fading milkweed leaf, hung the caterpillar in preparation for its trip to a new world.

We didn't discuss the symbolism.  We simply acknowledged the beauty and the privilege we shared as witnesses.

But With Cooler Evenings

I didn't catch the Cardinal Flower in all of its brilliance this year. But thankfully I noticed it the other day, as it stood scarlet over the drying creekbed.
I walked down to that corner of the low back yard this evening, after a gentle rain shower, to photograph this late summer beauty.
Late summer is here. As the ruby petals of Lobelia cardinalis continue to fall, and their hummingbird friends begin making plans for long southward flights, I take a deep breath of anticipated fresh air. September in the Piedmont of North Carolina is still very much summer, but with cooler evenings, when we can finally open the windows and fall asleep to the pleasant hum of the night creatures.

Limbs, Knocked Down

As I was cleaning up the many tree limbs, knocked down by the winds of Hurricane Irene, my thoughts swirled. I was a bit frustrated that I had to spend my weekend cleaning up the mess. Then I was thankful that it wasn't any worse. Then saddened for the folks who had lost friends and family. Then accepted it as part of life. Then acknowledged that nature cleans house every now and then, as it has forever past.
Then amused that I got my trees pruned for free as a result of some butterfly who stirred the air on the other side of the world (that's how it happens, right?).
Then really amused to think how the news media and associated sponsors owe a debt of gratitude to that quiet foreign butterfly. Then reminded how the citizens of whole cities, states, and countries are brought closer together by the shared misery, curiosity, sensationalism and fear, generated by natural disasters (and by those of us who write about them).

So as I picked up the pieces, I thought about the wind and rain swirling on to the next community-another reminder that we all breathe the same air, drink the same water, and live on the same borrowed land and borrowed time.

Blue Wiggle Sneak

We sat on the boulder pitching pebbles into the calm river. Actually, little Gray did all the pitching, while I did the retrieving. Upon returning from my third trip down to the water to re-supply, I saw a blue wiggle sneak up behind my son. Little Gray never saw a thing, he just kept making rings appear on the water. I began to realize that every time I got up to get more rocks, the tiny skink would scurry away down the side of the rock, and by the time I returned he was back, inching ever so close to my son's shadow. I laughed quietly and finally pointed out the curious critter. Gray pointed and smiled like he knew it was there the whole time; then he resumed his practice.

An Almost Biblical Plague

The 13 year cicadas (Brood XIII) emerged this summer in many parts of the US. We have them here in NC. As we've visited different parts of the state this spring and summer, we've noticed different concentrations of the bug eyed bugs. Sometimes they sounded like a cool sci-fi soundtrack in the distance, while other times the noise was akin to the more grating rhythmic clatter-buzz commonly associated with the cyclic wonders. There was one memorable day when we ventured to the Eno River in Durham for a splash. But the brood was so thick and loud, almost unbearably so, that we had to shorten our stay and head for home. The frequency was bad enough to make my teeth hurt. No cliche. On that day I could imagine an almost biblical plague of cicadas. What would I do if we had to endure a full summer of the mind-numbing distraction? We would adapt or go crazy (probably a combination of both).
I immediately slipped into naturalist mode to develop some coping mechanisms. So here is my non-scientific list of silver-linings should you find yourself deep in the heart of a cicada crisis:

1. More cicadas equals more food (for fish, birds, cats, and children who visit science museums)
2. The holes, from whence the cicadas emerged, serve a variety of purposes (aerate the soil, mitigate storm-water runoff, save the ants and worms some work and energy, provide one more opportunity for my little boy to stick his fingers into something)
3. The noise can compete with, sometimes even trump the loudspeaker music blaring from your neighbor's half-deaf teenage rebel son's window (car or bedroom).
4. Of course everyone knows the thrill a young sister gets when she discovers the spooky cicada exoskeleton you quietly perched on her shoulder.
5. The uneaten remains return to the soil to complete the circle of life (great opportunity to introduce this concept to children (or naive friends), thus convincing them that anything bad is actually good and essential to life!)

Well that list should get you started. For now, since the cicadas have not yet emerged within a 5 mile radius of my house, I'll enjoy the peace and quiet. If I need to experience any of the items on the list, I know where to find them.

Enrich The Story

Hello there. Hope you’re doing well. I’m OK. Thanks for asking. Just sitting here on the edge of your photo. You seemed to have focused on the cool guys there in the middle. No worries, I’m used to it by now. I’m just glad you didn’t step on me or crop me out. Yeah, I know I’m different, what with the 9 petals instead of 10. The cool guys in the middle each have 10… big whoop. I get by with 9. At least the pollinators still visit me often, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong, I would love to take center stage from time to time. When I was young I thought I had potential, I mean real superstar potential; the kind that can get you a cover shot in “Wildflower World.” But fate had other plans as petal # 10 wilted away one stormy, overcast day. You could say I lost my flower power in a midday shower. Sometimes I have to joke to make folks feel comfortable around me. But I’m no joke.

I belong here. I have a purpose. My roots hold the soil down just like everyone else. I can make friends with anyone if given a chance. One of my best friends was Miss Daisy. She was a looker and a real sweetie too. But looks can get you booked. Her life was cut short and she was laid to rest in a bright-eyed 4th grader’s flower press book. I guess if there’s an afterlife, that would be a good one. I sure miss her. Just before she was plucked away, she told me something I’ll never forget. She said “Keep your head up kid; you enrich the story of life.”

I’m beginning to understand what she meant. I suppose you could say I balance the composition. Thanks for noticing me.

Every Feather Clean

Stalking the brackish muck, keeping every feather clean and in order, he hides in the marsh grass. You can't get too close to the snowy egret. When you do, he leaps with awkward grace to become the prettiest one in the sky. From a distance you admire him. Up close you respect him.

And So Too the Roost

Edge of town. Edge of the woods. A big wild bird walks a known path, cautiously. The road I'm on crosses his travel route. I stop. He turns and struts awkwardly into the woods.

The first time I saw turkeys in this location, I counted twelve, pecking slowly in the short grass. Sometimes I see mom and chicks. Follow the leader. I only saw the one this evening. Big Tom. Dusk was near. And so too the roost, I assume. He disappeared into the timber.

Standing Dead in the Water

This morning I perched on a fallen timber at the edge of the beaver swamp, camera ready. The slow sun climbed above the distant tree line. As I waited for the swamp to awaken, a shiver came over me; reminded me to blow warm air into my gloved hands.

My seat was a long reclining tree trunk, likely felled in the past 5 years by the beaver whose job it was to make a wetland home. That home I now surveyed with quiet wonder as the vapors condensed in the cold air. A pileated woodpecker ratcheted a morning hello. Another replied. I saw the first chase the second towards the sun. I started thinking more about the trees in the wetland. Many were standing dead in the water. Others, like my seat, were lying dead. I developed a greater appreciation for dead trees this cold morning. The pileated woodpeckers depended on them for food and home. The wood ducks I sought to photograph also depended on them for shelter. Here in the swamp the arboreal sacrifices diversified the habitat, enriched the ecosystem. I found beauty in a tree strewn beaver pond.

There is a conflict to puzzle over. Why in one location is a dead tree a thing of beauty while in another, evidence of harm? As an admirer of trees, I tend towards angst when I find one ravaged at the base, tooth-marked and weeping sap. It isn't a pretty sight, especially in a hardwood forest along the banks of my beloved Eno River. But here in a shallow valley fed by a trickling stream, the result is wholesome and acceptable. I guess the juxtaposition supports the notion that every place has a purpose, as do the things within that place. Sometimes we lose our place and need some redirection.

Well this morning I was glad to be in that place. I hope I didn't intrude too much, leave a nasty mark for the beavers to loath. I didn't see the wood ducks today, maybe too early. I'll try again in a few weeks.

A Traveling Tale

Heading to work the other morning, I walked from the warm house to the cold car and heard the sound from the edge of the yard. A dying high pitched whistle, as a finger once around a crystal rim. In an instant I was on the rocky edge of the trail in Maine, four years back, with Katahdin, mysterious in the distance.

I now listened once more, hand inches from the cold door handle, eyes half closed, ear to the sky, between two places. The White Throated Sparrow was back for the winter. I smiled and drove to work, recalling time in the great north woods.

Funny how a little bird carried that memory to me on weary wings, from its mild summer home up north to its southern winter retreat in my yard. Before my trip to Maine in the summer of '06 I didn't know about the White Throat. But it was there, near tree line in a true wilderness, where the lonesome sound caught my attention, defined a place. The park ranger had confirmed it for me and told of its later departure for warmer winter climates. That winter back south, back home, I heard the sound again. It had new meaning.

I consider it my Maine bird, like a distant relative bringing tales of other lands home for the holidays. It hides in the thinning brush, scratches at the ground leaves, visits the window feeder. When the air is crisp and the sun is low, it sings out a traveling tale.

Creatures Teaming

The river otters were unexpected. But there they were, suddenly. I was startled for a moment, then excited. I had just flushed a family of wood ducks and my heart rate was settling as I stepped over the beaver logs, through the bent grass, to the edge of the backwater. The sparrows were in and out of the grasses, like hide and seek. It was a quiet spot save for the wild creatures teaming all around. I had to laugh, for a second, at the seeming providence leading me to the wilds.

A red tailed hawk screeched as it joined the scene atop one of the many sun-bleached deadwoods standing over the wet lowland. We both watched the otters.

Spore of Adventure

The Eno River Watershed, infinite diversity. The plan was to walk the quarry path and maybe sit in the spotlight of sun on the high bluff overlooking the river, if Grayson was up for it. He rode in the backpack carrier and promptly, but not surprisingly, fell asleep on the trail within the first 5 minutes.

About 40 minutes later he awoke just as I descended a wooded slope to a bubbling bend in the river. He immediately stretched out his finger and uttered a slightly tired, yet hopeful, coo towards the shimmering water. We had never stood at that spot before. We didn't know exactly where we were, but we were glad to be there.

While he had slept, I found myself on a blissful bushwhack. He didn't seem to mind at all. It wasn't the original plan. Some spore of adventure settled upon my will and quickly germinated. I departed the trail at a dense green carpet of locally rare ground cedar, which I considered a sign of unique geography worth exploring. Standing in the middle of the lush ground cover, I noticed a not too distant ridge of dappled light through the trees, signifying the edge of a bluff. Soon I was standing on the break, in an airy woods, surveying my options. My ear caught a faint gurgle of water below, and so I went with gravity, gradually down the gradient.

I feel that I know the Eno well, yet often and again I am stunned by its secrets. We stood at a simple, beautiful corner of river where angled light danced from the turning leaves to the emboldered stream. Deep shadows rolled off the backs of the smooth, large rocks. The water was clear today. Grayson pointed again. My camera's battery gauge blinked a red warning. I sighed, but it didn't really matter; I wouldn't have been able to capture that moment with a million button pushes.

We walked back a slightly different route (adding a couple more adventures), but still through the woods, up and over the ridge, through the cedar patch, and finally back along the familiar trail.

Prelude To Fall

We got a break from the heat this weekend! Blue skies prevailed. Clouds drifted by, light and feathery. It was the first time in a long while that people commented favorably on the weather.

I got the idea while sitting on the front steps with Grayson Saturday morning. I was just sitting there in blissful celebration of a cool morning. My son was between my knees exploring the brick steps with his tiny pink fingers. He discovered the stem of a dry leaf. He figured out how to lift and twirl it above his head. I found a similar one and, mimicking my son, ended with a gentle flourish that sent my leaf floating back to the ground. Well that did it. Grayson was hooked on the magic of leaves.

I decided we needed to retire to the front lawn to sit beneath the tuliptree from which those leaves had tumbled. It was there, for the next hour or so, that we laid in the shade on a cool cotton sheet littered with a local assortment of leaves,pine needles, and a twig or two. Grayson got his first hands-on experience with the prelude to fall. I got to recline and breath deeply as I spied the sky and tossed leaves up into the breeze. So here's a reminder for when the weather is just right: "Lie down and look up."

Swallowtail Summertime

For months now, in our part of North Carolina, a breath of fresh air has been rare as the heat and humidity snuffed it out. Midweek and midday finds me sweating through my office clothes as I go from car to building to car. The weekend arrives and pants become shorts, shoes become barefeet, and time spent in an office becomes time spent in the shade of a sycamore tree overhanging the Eno River.

Between the shady weekends, how is one to find relief?

This summer I have found inspiration by watching the butterflies. They whirl across an open sunny field in search of succulence. With awkward grace, they alight above the canopy, drying their delicate wings in the blaze of afternoon warmth. They are beautiful and full of life. But why do they spend so much time in this sun that we are trying to avoid? I'm sure science can convincingly explain the relationships between sun and butterfly. I'm sure we can guess many of those reasons correctly. But I'm going to offer a simple reason that I hope, rather than know, is true: Butterflies spend all this time in the sun because, as winged beings, time is short and they want a clear view of the world in which they live.

This summer I've seen more butterflies than times past. I don't know if it is me or them, but whatever the reason, I'm glad we've crossed paths so frequently. I'll admit I'm looking ahead to fall, but I'll fondly recall this swallowtail summertime, when stained glass heartbeats captured my attention, made my baby boy point and smile, and reminded me to embrace even the sun scorched moments.

Even While We Whisper

We had a view of the Chesapeake Bay for a whole weekend.
Sitting on the dock, you experience the weather moving over the Bay like you would feel the weather over an Oklahoma wheat field. Rain in the distance rolls in as an advancing fog. The wind pushes the water towards the land. Like horses running for the stables, the sailboats drop sail and briskly motor on home.

An expanse of water and land reward the keen eye with abounding treasures. A fluttering speck on the horizon, just at treeline, flies near to become a whistling Osprey carrying a fresh catch tight in his talons.
The still water bursts into a boil in the distance as a thrashing school of menhaden escape the current and swirl ahead of a gang of hungry striped bass. If you're paying attention, now is the time to cast your line and take advantage of the marine madness. The old slate heron watches from the shadows, slowly nodding approval.

The sun, moon, and sky preen in virtuous vanity above the reflective bay. We gather on the shore to admire their beauty. Even while we whisper our respects, our awe carries to the far shore. Our presence becomes part of the scene. May the Bay, in its benevolent way, forever stay.

While the Gulf Choked

i watched the suspect on camera,
i drove the getaway car,
i fumed at the news on the radio,
i felt guilty every day,
i cursed capitalism,
i hugged my son tight and feared for his future,
i sat in traffic,
i counted plastic,
i took out the trash,
i recycled,
i lived a life of luxury,
i searched for sacrifice,
i acknowledged my hypocrisies,
i remembered public school classes teaching that progress is good,
i envied the Amish,
i wasted energy while i saved my energy,
i wiped my eyes when i read the report of the kid who sent his lemonade-stand money to a Gulf Coast fisherman,
i remembered the Exxon Valdez,
i remembered Three Mile Island,
i remembered Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Iraq,
i convinced myself "these things happen",
i thanked the trees, the clouds, and the sun,
i mourned the loss of life,
i was lucky to continue my life.

Getting Your Feet Dirty

If you felt the earth gently shake a couple weeks ago, let me comfort you with an explanation.

Our boy Grayson officially shook hands..er...feet with Mother Nature in an unpublicized and informal ceremony in the foothills of Pennsylvania beneath the sheltering branches of the hemlock and ash, within the stone circle where Heather and I were married.
He hadn't had much use for his feet up until then.

With a guiding hand, we lowered him to the earth. He stood tall and dug his toes deep into the dirt and duff, and smiled serenely. It was a moist and cool afternoon. We simply asked him and the earth to respect each other and work towards a healthy, long term relationship.

It takes some work you know. Many adults still haven't figured out this relationship. When we focus on ourselves it is easy to overlook the ones we depend on.

Depend on the earth. Get to know her. Even if it means getting your feet dirty (it usually washes off).

Hold on to the Ephemeral

Last year around this time, I found a butterfly-shaped green leaf cluster on the ground alongside the backyard creek. And then I found another nearby. The more I searched, the more I found. As it was early Spring I waited and watched for days, hoping to see what kind of flower this new find would produce. Those leaves kept getting bigger, but no flowers emerged. One cluster held a tiny pod I was sure held the ingredients for perfect petals. But nothing happened. An Internet search showed a picture of a pristine little white flower unfurling, with a caption that read, "One of the Spring Ephemerals." A couple clicks later I learned the meaning of ephemeral: short-lived; lasting only a day or so. Ah, so I had somehow missed the blooming of that mysterious plant called the Bloodroot.

My son turned three months old last week. Every week I see something new and exciting when I look into his eyes. I wonder sometimes how I can hold on to the ephemeral beauty I see before me. He is in this stage now that if he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror he grins the most sincere grin I can imagine. I have been visiting the bathroom mirror a lot lately with him. I can't help it. I want to hold on to these moments, for I know they will pass. But of course some of them might return.

And so I returned to the creekside a little earlier this spring, before the green clustered leaves emerged. I watched for three weeks and finally last week I got my reward. The Bloodroots bloomed one cool morning and soaked up the afternoon sun. I was pleased to witness their day in the sun.