Tag Archives: blue

Night Heron

Posted on by Standard 10

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They surprised me. Two nesting black crowned, night herons. They lifted off together, circled around me and landed in a tree stand a few yards off. They make nests in thickets by rivers and streams and cattail beds in marshes. I was just turning the corner on the walk toward the marsh and they suddenly appeared in the air. I’d never seen this bird before and the trail took me right beneath them. I had my camera but took no photographs.

When I am so fortunate as to stumble upon wildlife, especially that which is rarely seen, I feel almost an intruder. Here they are at twilight building their nest and preparing for a night’s hunt for food and I stumble in, a party crasher in pink and lavender. No different than a juggler walking into my bedroom at midnight. So I left the camera in my pocket and just observed.

The breast of the male is a curious greenish yellow, but irridescent in the late afternoon sun. His mask has a slice of rich lapis blue. He peers at me as I walk past. I silently apologize for the intrusion. The female is deeper into the tree and is seen as just an eye peeking around the trunk. Once past, I turn and bow. Always be grateful for such moments. They are spirit taking hold of your heart.

On the Hours Go

Posted on by Standard 12

image
In the long hours, I pace
Magazines finished, reruns watched
And on the hours go

Windows peered at, mail opened
Cabinets closed, dishes stacked
And on the hours go

Apps clicked, messages checked
Empty food wrappers, pitched
And on the hours go

Closets cleaned, laundry folded
A second cup of tea, dirty in the sink
And on the hours go

Who am I in all this restlessness?
Who stands before the fridge, again?
And on the hours go.

Like the old widows of old
I wait at this house, for whom to come I do not know
And on the hours go

Periwinkle Night

Posted on by Standard 21
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Free Bing Photos

The sky is dense in periwinkle, as a handful of stars float in the early twilight. Objects appear sharp across the horizon as the earth falls to shadow and day’s light holds a bit longer to a vanishing mountain range.

I am alone.

There is a rhythm to these sojourns. A natural gate that draws the breath and heart rate down. I smell a mix of the swamp and fresh melted snow. The tall windows of a nearby house are completely awash in the night sky, giving the illusion that east is west. I see the ripple of ducks swimming silently in the dark.

I am not alone.

The earth is a conversation the Universe is having with me. It speaks of love and passion. Richness and possibility. Renewal and evolution. Its song seeps up from the soil through the soles of my feet. Every step a serenade. My breath a kiss with a wind that invigorates my life force, as only a lover can. The night has become a devotional played on cricket backs to me.

The light slips over mountain crests, as silent as a furry moth and rises again within my breast, lighting my vision for home.

Midday Trail

Posted on by Standard 15

There are few trees. Prairie mostly and stone. Coyote or fox scat litters the trail. Out here, probably coyote. Thank goodness rabbits are abundant as it is clear they are the main diet out here. As I move the occasional scurry in leaves is heard of a mole or vole. A titmouse follows me along the trail for some time before disappearing into the scrub.


Along the cliff faces I can see where swallows, falcons and kestrels are nesting. Bird droppings and mud houses aren’t hard to see from the trail. From a wildlife point of view this is like a high-rise in a busy urban area. They have the perfect vantage point of the prairie beyond. It’s surprisingly hot for a late winter’s day. I realize I should have left earlier. I rest upon a stone cluster for nuts and water.

Few travel the trails today, as it is midweek and I have taken the day off. This is how I like it best, but rarely find it on the weekends. Quiet, still, but for wildlife. The only discourse between the magpies and jays. The wind moves my hair as it moves the grasses. Seed pods land in my lap that have floated upon the air from a nearby stand of trees. I apologize for being such infertile soil and lay them upon the earth.

I try to remember things that have disturbed me of late, but out here in all of this expanse I struggle to pull anything to me. This is what draws me here again and again. The titmouse is back and I leave a few pumpkin seeds for her and head off down the trail. I become the wind as long as I keep walking.

Ode to the Magpie

Posted on by Standard 14
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Free Bing photos

Aerodynamically speaking, the magpie is about as mis-designed a bird as they come. A beautiful bird with a ridiculously long tail. Watching them fly can often feel like watching Irishmen stumbling out of a pub. They sing their strange song, a cross between a blue jay and a crow, as if they were mockingbirds. Curiously, they don’t seem bothered one wit about their odd characteristics, nor do they merely make do. They make a rich life along lakes and streams where they build the most spectacular nests. Almost fully woven hanging baskets.

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Free Bing Photos

As I hiked I watched a pair collecting sticks and chattering away with one another. They have such an unusual call it is a bit hard to tell if they are bickering or lovingly calling to one another. Same could be said for many couples I know. As I watch, the thicket flashes with their white and blue wing markings as they look for debris to build with. Often in the trees and shrub all you can see is this long black group of feathers bobbing up and down. They are a very curious bird, indeed.

I can’t completely explain it but whenever I watch them fly they give me hope. We can all do more than make do with what we were given. We can build nests of rich lives with what we already possess in this moment. Whatever perceived personal flaws we think we have, we likely don’t or it was even intended for our adventure. There really aren’t design flaws. Spiritually speaking, it’s impossible.

Sharon Tate was once quoted to say, “Everything that’s realistic has some sort of ugliness to it. Even a flower is ugly when it wilts, a bird when it seeks pray, and ocean when it becomes violent.” The trick is to penetrate deeply into what lies before you. To really look at a thing or a person or a situation with your inner vision, until the beauty of it becomes apparent. We aren’t changed or made better by witnessing beauty in these moments, but rather the effort causes us to see the beauty within ourselves reflected in what we see.

So here’s to the magpie. May they fly long and far.

Window

Posted on by Standard 6

Come closer
I offer more than a glimpse
I am fuller than light across the sill

Let me take your breath away with my vastness

I do not fear you looking in
Seeing my bent tree and cracked stone
On balance I am the grand view not the lone pebble.

Good Morning Moon

Posted on by Standard 12
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Free Bing photo

Good morning, Moon. You wondrous lover who awaits my rising blinds to greet me each morning. Some days you are as full as my good fortunes. Other days you are little more than a whisper at the top of grass, but there you are, all the same. We are companions you and I, rising and falling with the tides of our day. You have taught me so much, my friend, let me tell you. You have lit my way on many a darkened path and when you are but a sliver of existence, you have shown me how, even then, it is possible to cast your light for all to see.

Winter Queen

Posted on by Standard 8
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Free Bing photos

Oh that whore! She comes on like a beast. Whipping her snow and ice, demanding I heel. She blinds in her furious whiteness and pushes me hard against the door with her pounding wind. I slam it in her face and stumble to the stairs, breathless. I am Ahab and she Moby Dick.

“You shall not pass!” If I had Gandalf’s staff I’d have slammed it to the earth, but in truth, this statement is made rather weakly as she has, in fact, commanded me thoroughly all the way home. I have skated more than walked. Trudged bent, more than floated, regally. My fingers are stiff, my face wind burned and cold. I learned in karate, though, that if your opponent has greater skill, at least come out sounding ferocious. It may, in the end, be the only edge you’ll ever have. I head up stairs and unravel myself of gloves, coat and scarf. Snow pours off onto the floor and the cats scatter. My nose is soon running, but I am not put off. I stand before the dining room window and survey my winter kingdom and sniffle. I may be a snotty queen, but I am The Queen here.

Snow lifts off in waves from the roofs curling and swirling and slamming back hard toward the earth. Trees rock and sway in the gusting winds and the broken slot in one of my gutters whistles and moans. I startle at the sudden whipping of the screens against the windows, but regain my composure lest she think she has caught me off guard. She is impressive, I must give her that, but I am no puny human. I raise my arms up to command the winds, “Regale me with your winter taunts, you nefarious witch! Tear the shingles if you must, I will not be intimidated.” Admittedly, my cavalier stance comes from good homeowner’s insurance, but she knows nothing of this. She only sees my defiance and strength.

“I, not you,” I hiss, venomously with flashing eyes, “am the Winter Queen here!”

Happy Birthday

Posted on by Standard 45
Re-posted from Art For Ever Facebook page

Re-posted from Art For Ever Facebook page

Last night, on the eve of my birthday, I stood out on my deck. A storm front was rolling in and the air was cooler than the day’s had been, but still lovely to the skin. I focused for a good bit on that feeling of wind on my hair, face and arms. I let myself fall as deeply in love with that feeling as I have ever allowed myself to feel for anything. I asked myself if this moment was my last would this be enough? Was this moment all my life ever needed to be? Could I say it was the most satisfying life ever, if this was the pinnacle moment? I wept with how strong the yes came. For years, I have, like everyone else pondered what needs to be in my life to be happy. What needs to change or be different? What do I need to ‘do’ for my life’s mission to be attained. Honestly, it’s hard not to write, blah, blah, blah. We have it so backwards. It is never anything happening in our life or acquired or become. Those are all extensions of ourselves. Without self love there is nothing else. When you have self love you need nothing else. The simplest things become exquisite. Even now writing this that air still moves over my skin and I almost can’t contain the joy it gives me. I turn 52 today. I was born at 2:50pm and my mother used to say, to stretch out my birthday, that technically my birthday does not start till then and goes till the next day. I’d say it begins now and goes forever. What a lovely gift to give myself. Today, I give it to all of you. Happy Birthday to all of you. Today is the first day of your life. It is the best day. The only day. The most beautiful day. If you can focus on only one thing in your practice, make it self love. Love yourself with all the passion and power you have ever given anything in your whole life. Everything changes on that single decision. Absolutely everything.

Listening

Posted on by Standard 7
Lakeside: Photo by Noelle

Lakeside: Photo by Noelle

The bench is on the west side of the lake. The trail on this side is little more than mud in January’s warm up. The Eastern side has some stone trails that are well cleared and thus, more trafficked. I am alone, for the moment, and commit to listening and little more.

The wind rubs the winter grass stalks at my feet against each other, dry even in the mud. A warm sun would turn them green, but in these short days their rattle is little more than a reminder of summer snakes long asleep in their holes. Prairie dogs bark incessantly at me, at first. My stillness conquers. Eventually, they chatter amongst themselves no more than old women over a mahjong board. Even in the animal kingdom, neighborhoods have their gossips. The jet passes to the north heading up the spine of the Rockies. I think of travel and vacations both taken and imagined, but the real fly boys bring me back, as the geese come trumpeting off the icy lake heading for fields to dine. I marvel at the pattern. Squawking and honking begins until some unknown pitch is hit and then part of the flock suddenly rises and flies off. The length of this flock must be more than a city block. The group that rises comes from one end of the lake to the other. Some of the groups head east, while others to the south, as if they are aware where the group before them headed and know to seek pastures elsewhere.

I can hear the jogger coming for some time as her running shoes slap the surface of the mud. She is breathing hard and there is the faint tinny sound of music coming through earbuds. Another flock takes off and the wind pushes back my hood. Two women cut through the grassy hillside to beat the muddy trail and talk about teenagers with piercings. The longer I sit the more I’m aware I seem to have left the machine. The swaying cattails are riveting compared to nose rings. I wonder, briefly, where this disengagement with the fast moving world will take me, but even that thought seems more intense then this winter sun will allow. I rest back against the bench and listen.