Storm slams, surprises—
tall firs swoon into the gale,
branches embrace crows.

A stormy quilt from area webcams, click to enlarge

Wild winds whip waves white.
Giddy gulls glide gleefully.
We watch, wait, worry.

A knot of starlings bursts from the tallest fir tree and explodes like fireworks across the pale morning sky, fluttering back to ground like fallen black stars.

Warm autumn morning,
geese linger on the lagoon;
they’ll be leaving soon.

After a leisurely walk along upper Sequim Bay this morning, I stopped next to a harvested cornfield to watch hundreds of Canada Geese fatten up for their long journey ahead. They seemed in no hurry to leave, meandering slowly through the field against a drop-dead gorgeous backdrop of the Olympic Mountains. (Notice the first snow of the season.) I love geese, always have. Migration fascinates me, that ability to move twice a year and set up a new home each time. Some geese do return to the same spot year after year, but others will try something new each spring and fall. More and more, some Canada geese are choosing to remain year round in temperate places like this part of Washington state. Have they tired of so much travel, I wonder, or have they decided, like me, that this is a fabulous place to live all year long?

Why would you leave this? click to enlarge

geese heading south, glowing gold...click to enlarge

VIDEO

CONTEMPLATIONS

• How are you preparing for winter?
• What are you stockpiling?
• Are you stronger than you look in some special way?
• Can you find your way home?

No clouds overhead, slack tide, lavender and azure bay mirrors the sky; then a crow breaks the spell. Deer fold themselves into the meadow for a night under the stars, and a trail of quail scurry about on last-minute business before sleep. A ragged vee of nine geese fly low along the bay, heading for the lagoon. By the greeting they get, they’re in good company. It’s nearing dark, but still more geese return, and this chorus with their nasally, multi-pitched honking creates dissonant chords of modern music. A symphony of geese, gulls, quail and frogs sing up the still-big moon.

Meet other geese here:

Murmurs On The Land

A distant crow makes an announcement,
and tall grasses sway in the breeze
as sparrows chatter in the spruce along the ridgeline.
A sudden wind pushes through alders and maples,
and accents the drone of unseen insects.
Apples plop to the ground, not quite ripe,
and a bee goes about her work near the herbs.
The creek tumbles through the woods,
and I say a prayer for Gaia.
My own song rises to greet the new moon,
and our renewal blooms in my heart.

In my ongoing mission to name each of the new moons this year, this September lunation I will call Crow Molt Moon.

Throughout August and September each year my jolly band of crows gift me with their feathers. I have hundreds of them now and I’m waiting for inspiration to use some of them in some special artwork. But for now, many of them reside in a basket (above) that hangs on the wall of my living room, surrounded by other crow art.

Gathering the feathers causes me to be selective, since some of them are in really bad shape—ragged evidence of gales overcome, thunderstorms survived. Perhaps I should keep some of those, too, for inspiration during my own challenges. Is it wrong to want only the pretty feathers? Or just societal brainwashing?

Crows offer their feathers to me nearly every day. Blacker than a moonless night, they remind me of the heights just fallen from. It’s as if each feather can be read, can tell a tale of adventure, of sunsets seen from flyways, of treetops slept in, of moonlight flown through, of sonatas written to the rhythm of their steady wing beats.

I write about crows a lot, as I feel a special bond with them. It isn’t their color, as I’m not drawn to black—though in strong sunlight there is often a deep purplish sheen to their glossy bodies. One reason I love them is they make me laugh with their never ending antics. Bunches of them always seem to be up to something, and hardly an hour goes by without a chorus of comments echoing across the hillside.

I also admire their bravado in defending their homes and their young. Even a single crow will take on a marauding eagle and send him back to his aerie. I see this all the time where I live, next to an eagle’s nest.

crows living dangerously video

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Are there things in your world that have been cast off yet still retain beauty and meaning?
• Is there something you need to shed from your life?
• What do you ceaselessly protect?

Flap around with other comic crows here.

Waxwings get their name from the red waxy substance that coats the wing tips of mature birds, possibly as a mating signal. They are gorgeous birds, and I’m thrilled to finally see them here. Try planting native shrubs that produce berries, and you might just attract some, too.

And what a grand party they were enjoying—

yellow-bellied males, females and young fledglings all taking turns feasting on the bountiful supply of berries. The ones who were waiting for their turn at the buffet passed the time puffing out their feathers and sunning themselves on the tips of nearly every branch—

golden ornaments decorating a winter icon—
in June.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• How do you signal what you want?
• Are you subtle about it, or do you sport the metaphorical equivalent of red spots on your wings?
• What are you feasting on in your life now?
• How about declaring today a holiday of your own devising?

Spot other fascinating birds here.

To savor this blue-beautiful day, I decided to eat my lunch on a log at the beach. Joining me was one of our resident eagles, perched on the old rotting pier in the bay. S/he was already there when I arrived and still in the same spot when I left. The noonday sun felt good to both of us.

On the bluff behind us, her mate soared and shrieked fending off crows. Their nest isn’t far away, so I suppose this eagle was taking a break from parenting duties. Of course I can’t see into their nest, so I’m not sure if their eaglets have hatched. But we can all look into an aerie just across the Strait in British Columbia, where the fuzzy eaglets are putting on a delightful show. Visit the live eagle cam here (just during daylight hours, PDST).

With Earth Day still fresh in my mind—and of course EVERY day needs to be Earth Day—this quote from Helen Keller continues the caretaking theme:

“As the eagle was killed by the arrow winged with his own feather, so the hand of the world is wounded by its own skill.”

We have gotten too good at inventing things we don’t really need, all in the name of improvements and progress. I don’t begrudge anyone their high-speed Internet—we wouldn’t be having this conversation without it. But how many cars do you need? How many televisions? How many pairs of shoes? I let go of a lot of weight in the past year, and I have decided to recut and alter many of my clothes rather than buy new ones. I buy one or two pairs of sensible shoes a year as they wear out. Of course my office is a beach, so I don’t need to be stylish or look professional to anyone except eagles and herons and dolphins.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Have you taken a hard look lately at your consumption habits?
• What could you do differently?
• Can you commit to one item of change this month?
• You guessed it—and another one next month?
• Can you show more gratitude for what you already have and less desire for something you don’t?
• Can you spend more time enjoying simpler pleasures—say sunning yourself at lunchtime?

Fly with other eagles here.

They are flying high up on a strong current, their fluid vee undulating with each set of wing beats. Though I’ve heard small flocks of them arriving at the lagoon for weeks now, this is the first formation I’ve seen this year.

I want that sure knowing for myself, a confidence in my direction that requires no maps. I want that steady, elemental pull toward a goal that cannot be denied or deterred. Which of all my dreams is my true north? Which is magnetic? I have no established route over the vast expanse of saltwater, no embedded knowledge of freshwater ponds glistening on Canadian shores. But set out, I must, with or without an atlas, whether or not my destination can be found in any gazetteer.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Do you feel a pull toward some other place?
• How adventurous are you? Do you set out on trips without maps or destinations?
• Do you proceed toward goals navigating by intuition or by design?
• Does it matter to you to know (or think you know) where you’re headed?
• For you, is it about the journey, the destination, or both?

Meet more of my bird allies here.

Yet I cannot hear them sing. Even the bay is quiet—dead calm, flat waters, slack tide. Barely any bird sings. It’s as if the earth has inhaled and is holding her breath—all anticipation, receptive to the unfurling of spring and the reinvigorating of her body. It’s a pause in the flow of life, a moment to glance backward and forward.

Now the trio of ancient firs on the bluff glitters in the morning glow all lit up with sparkly life—goldfinches bouncing along the boughs. How can I draw from their delight in this new day? How can I duplicate their joy, store it in some bodily battery to fuel my long day ahead? How can I infuse my tired spirit with their enthusiastic flutterings? How can these tiny perfect birds lift my heavy heart?

They just did.

I want to be one of them, a tiny member of this golden flock…I land on a long branch dipping gently in the breeze as the slick needles tickle my feet. I smell sweet sap warming in the sun and find my breakfast hiding in the bark. The view from here is both spectacular and ordinary to me, because all I see is beauty from my point of view. In fact, we finches have no word for beauty—it just is our world.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What anticipation glimmers in your vision?
• What are your sources of personal energy?
• How will you employ your own renewed life force?
• What is the promise you make to yourself today and send forth on the wings of the goldfinch? That this is the season to culminate and consummate your dreams?

Do some more birdwatching here.

the Anna’s hummingbird is back.

The sun had punched through dense clouds and my fair-weather friend was airing her wings in the relative warmth. Every year the Annas returns to this spot—I’m glad I have ruby primroses out to greet her—and feed her. One of her favorite rest stops is a slender branch sticking out of the brush at the edge of the woods. From this vantage point she can survey the whole bluff down to the beach and the wide expanse of bay and Strait. This hummingbird sits there often, bobbing in a gentle breeze, just outside my office and right at my eye level. Her sweet, gleeful chirps add cheer to my days and lure me out to join her in savoring the spring sunshine. I am especially glad to see her, as I called her to me as my special ally for this entire year.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What are the signs of change in your life?
• Is there someone new in your life, or has an old friend returned?
• Or perhaps you’re ready to renew a friendship?
• What constancy is there in your life each spring?

Meet other bird allies here.

I fled city life years ago to live as far away from all things urban as I could. Yet here in my wild paradise lives a flock of pigeons.

Other common birds I do revere. I consider migrating geese old friends and welcome them back to the lagoon as they pass through each spring and fall. I’m devoted to the many crows who live here, and they’re certainly ubiquitous and not at all exotic. (Though a wise friend once reminded me that there are no ordinary crows.)

But pigeons reminded me too much of cities to inspire my admiration. I had classified them as a nuisance, right up there with mosquitoes and carpenter ants. However, today I listened to Bird Notes from Seattle Audubon (audio file is below) and I acquired a new respect for pigeons. And why not? Just because they adapt well to city life is no reason to shun them. Just because they’re common is no reason to ignore their subtle beauty. In fact, they’re amazing athletes, capable of flying hundred of miles per day at up to 70 miles per hour. Fanciers still train and race homing pigeons.

So I decided to make up a story about my local flock of 20 or so pigeons.

I imagine they began life in Seattle, then one day followed a gull down to the pier and hopped a ferry to Bainbridge Island. From there I bet they explored the amazing inland waterways and lush forests of this area. Finally, they landed here, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Enjoying some of the freshest air on the planet, which is cleansed by its long journey across the Pacific, my flock is adapting well to a wilder existence.

They always roost on the same, small red house on the beach—perhaps because it’s rarely occupied? Unlike their city cousins, these pigeons have no one to beg handouts from. I wonder if they miss bread crusts and french fries? They’ve learned to live off the land, and by the looks of them, they’re thriving.

If I can resettle here at the beach, who am I to resent wise pigeons for doing the same? They were already here when I arrived, and we all consider this magical place our home. As sure as I am that this is where I want to spend the rest of my life, I bet these pigeons feel the same. This is our home.

So when my dog and I went for our walk today, I made a point of appreciating these splendid birds and applauding their good taste in dwelling places. We have all found our way home.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• How about you—beyond the rooms where you reside, how do you define HOME?
• Do you love where you live?
• Do you fantasize about living somewhere else?
• Where is your true heart home?
• What are you willing to sacrifice to get there?

Many years ago, at a weekend meditation retreat, we were all chanting the classic: Om Namah Shivaya. We chanted this mantra very slowly for hours to a backdrop of Indian music. Well into the marathon, I had one of those “aha” experiences that can derive from such deep inner exploration.

Suddenly I heard myself singing HOME Namah Shivaya, and had an awareness of my true home being not some place on the planet, but within me. That my soul was my real home—and that like a turtle, I would have my home with me wherever I went. It was one of those personal insights that doesn’t mean as much to someone else, but was profound for me.

Home has always been a charged concept to me.

As an only child with no extended family nearby, my childhood homes were often empty and quiet. I can’t imagine living in a house bustling with lots of people—or even one other person. I am, however, a supreme nester, and always put enormous time, energy and resources into fluffing my nest every time I move.

Yet, as a hermit, I reject society and prefer to live alone with my familiar and my garden. My dog and I and my many plants flourish on our own, with only rare visits from the select few people I’ve allowed into my life. My home is not set up to entertain. There is only space for two people in my sitting room, and that other chair has been claimed by my dog. Instead, I fill my home with books and stones and crow feathers and bleached bones and horse chestnuts and orchids and shells and books, books, books.

If I drag away a 6-foot scented geranium, I can squeeze three people at my table, but that only happens about once a year. When I set my table for company, the dishes seldom match. I collect interesting plates from thrift shops, but I only buy one of a kind. I don’t need—or want—things in pairs.

The point of my rambling is to suggest that you, too, meditate on what HOME means to you. And the next time you see a pigeon, say hello and admire its adaptability. Oh, and here’s the real kicker to this story. I bet you admire the beautiful, iconic white doves of peace? Well guess what. Doves are just white pigeons—which shows the value of some good branding and P.R.

Meet more of my bird allies here.