Urban Nature Observations

“The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction” - William Blake

Today I tore a bunch of lilac flowers from my tree in the side yard. After I did it, I felt bad for the tree. How could I know how it felt when I did that? What a thoughtless person I can be, I surmised.

That’s the crux of being a sensitive person, things are thought through but impulses aren’t necessarily kept in check. Passion, or the tigers, retain a tight grip and unleash when teased.

As I thought about the Lilac tree I also thought about Julia Butterfly Hill, the woman who, back in 1997, lived in a 180-foot tall, 600-year-old tree for 738 days between December 10, 1997 to December 18, 1999. She lived in the tree, affectionately known as Luna, to prevent loggers of the Pacific Lumber Company from cutting it down.

She succeeded. What courage. What discipline. What anger.

What does it take to be such a disciplined person? Where can one find those traits? However, when I think about it, I am very disciplined. Every morning and evening I care for my birds in the same way I care for them every morning - clean food, water, clean grates, shower, attention. I’ve been doing this same thing most every day for the last 8 years. Some days I tire of it, but it’s really my charge, to be forever responsible for that which I have tamed. When I’m not caring for an animal I feel strange, like something is missing. Don’t get me wrong, I do things for myself; the occasional vacation, time with friends, exercise — but I’ve always put my responsibility above all else. I laugh at things that to me feel like a waste of time - obtaining goods, endless diatribes on the way things work, competition. I feel like there’s so much unnecessary information out there, so many people that are pushing around 1s and 0s that in the end just turn out to be 1s and 0s. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been walking, outside, behind someone, only to hear several birds above in beautiful song, and the people in front of me don’t even raise their heads. No presence, no connection to nature around them - no idea such beauty is just above them.

But then I get so angry with myself, like there’s another side of me that I haven’t explored. This person who wants to be free of marriage, free to explore, free to live in a tree. I wish for myself that I could also be more self-righteous and hold fast to my convictions. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to be a vegan, tried not to care about people who suck, or just try in general to make it through another day.

But the good news is that I’ve learned something about trying too hard. You shouldn’t. Grasping onto something outside of yourself is not a good idea. Blocking the flow, not letting it be, is counterproductive to things working out the way you want them to. I have found that when I just sit back and let things be things tend to go my way.

I guess that’s how it goes with the Lilac tree, too. It just does its thing and produces these wonderfully beautiful and fragrant flowers, without comparing itself to the Camellia bush just inside the fence or the rose bush to its left. It does not tear the leaves or petals from other trees in an effort to make itself or another more happy, it just gives its loveliness to the world by just being.

With 2007 coming to a close I am thinking about how life changes and how hard it can be. When times get really hard I think of the teachings of Pema Chodron, the Buddhist nun who resides in Nova Scotia at Gampo Abbey. One of my favorite quotes from her is “If death is certain, but the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing right now?”

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. Do you read my posts? If you do, let me know. You see, writers need readers. Though we should just move forward without any recognition, it’s the evidence that we make impact that compels us to continue to add value.

I’ve been thinking about responsibility of late. Do you take your responsibility seriously? I try to.

I recently signed up for a nature writing class. After a hiatus from the natural world and the wildlife rescue (long story about politics and animals - another post), I was asked by the instructor of my new class to choose a place that I can observe for 30 minutes several times a week and write about it. Simple enough. I chose a place near my new house in San Bruno, but I won’t be able to get to it until Tuesday.

So, in my post food/liquor/holiday exhaustion I decided to observe the sky from the couch in my living room. I was distracting my husband with conversation so he wouldn’t watch the TV, and as we chatted I watched the sky outside our sliding glass door. I watched the sky from 4 pm until about 5:30 pm and I was blessed. It started out blue, then turned orange, then gray, then gray and red, then orange and gray. It said to me, “look at me, here is pure nature in the clouds, where have you been?” And I said “thank you, I am grateful.” It was a small natural diversion, but I realized how wonderful my life could be if I could just take that time each day to watch the sky change. It’s so simple, why do I ignore it?

OK, but we were talking about responsibility. And my communion with the sky has something to do with this.

Responsibility is about gratefulness. Here I am - I’m a Silicon Valley slave, I’m married, and I have 7 charges:

• Gracie the parakeet
• Kiseki and Milagro the parakeets
• Buddy the cockatiel
• Willie the cockatiel
• Beetlejuice the cockatiel
• Eric the Betta

Yes, they are pets, but on many levels they are wild. And when I get stressed and I focus on unnatural things I’m reminded that they need me, that “You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.“ - Antoine de Saint-Exupery. So, when I begin to experience ego, or this clinging to self, I prefer to focus my love and devotion to the animals I have chosen to tame. They are not here for our entertainment, they are here to live out their lives in the context of ours. And the better we can understand their needs without our selfishness coming first will only make us better people.

I have seen my birds look out the window, longingly, and today I understood their longing. Their longing to sit in a tree, watch the sky and the clouds change, and be grateful.

I am so sorry for my absence. I hope you have missed me — I have missed you.

“Kind friends all gathered ’round
There’s something I would say
What brings us together here
Has blessed us all today
Love has made a circle that holds us all inside
Where strangers are as family…and loneliness can’t hide”

- Kate Wolf (1942-1986)

There are different kinds of loneliness. There’s the easily understandable kind, you know, the lost on a desert island kind, no human contact, or going for long stretches of time without seeing anyone because you are working on yourself.

Then there’s the not so obvious kind of loneliness. The kind where you see people every day, you socialize with your friends, but there’s no one there that really understands you, or knows what your needs are. That’s a sad feeling, a feeling that gives you that vacuous look, that longing stare.

Maybe we tend to anthropormophize animals because we are animals ourselves and they give us a peek into how we should really be acting. We are praised in this world on very non-animal things; so professional, so pretty, so “together.” We are never praised on cries well, loves well, feels pain and suffering deeply.

Last night, after a brief hiatus from Wildlife Rescue, I returned again. It’s squirrel season (lots of babies are born in August).

It tend to enjoy caring for the birds more than the squirrels. Not that squirrels aren’t wonderful creatures, I just have more of a connection to the birds.

What typically happens in September is that we get fewer baby birds and more squirrels, but we had a few baby hummingbirds last night, and I fed those first. One was hovering off his perch, saying “I’m ready to leave now, truly” and the other sat at the bottom of his basket, tired and confused, saying “I do not like it here but I do not feel well enough to go yet.” Maybe that’s the true sign of health, when the current situation no longer serves you and you are ready to move on. But sometimes we become stuck and have to stay in one place for a while in order to heal or learn something valuable.

My first squirrel of the night was a lonely little petunia of a black squirrel that had fallen face first out of a tree. He was obviously hurting. I tried to feed him his formula, and I put TAO (triple antibiotic ointment) with a steroid on his eye. As I fed him he wheezed alot, like he was having trouble breathing. I presumed he had some internal injuries and was in alot of pain. I also gave him some Clavamox and some aspirin to help him feel better.

After I gave him two and a half CCs of formula he reached for me, then curled up in the little towel I was holding him in and tried to sleep. I knew it wouldn’t be prudent to let him sleep overnight without some food in his tummy, but it seemed like that is what he needed most, just sleep and warmth. He seemed to say “just let me lie here, I need to rest.” He seemed lonely in his inability to communicate his needs. If only I understood squirrel silence. I woke him back up, and as I fed him slowly I stroked his head, and he closed his eyes a little again, probably thankful for some kindness. I think by holding him close to me and making him feel wanted and loved was probably the best thing I could have done. That’s what his mother would have wanted, too, as she wondered and wandered in the night.

“Love is born in fire; it’s planted like a seed.
Love can’t give you everything, but it gives you what you need.
Love comes when you are ready, love comes when you’re afraid;
It’ll be your greatest teacher, the best friend you have made”

So strange to emerge from my sleep, like a phoenix rising or the tunneling out of a Cicada after a long, luxurious, 17-year supper. What focus, what determination, to emerge and accomplish your goal, only to have to begin over and over again. It’s endless, why fight it? You can’t plan these things.

You see, it doesn’t matter what I write, as long as I write. Getting my thoughts out of my head onto virtual paper is a necessity, a diversion from the day-in/day-out of corporate nonsense.

It’s where we really live, really, in our own heads, not in this world. We are but burrowing insects, waiting for the right time to emerge, to strike, to get what we want. Yet most creative minds want to be out of step with the rest of the world. It pains us to be like everyone else, and there are so many like us. I am speaking in a non-linear fashion, but sometimes that is the only way to speak, in a tongue all your own. I have read much more obtuse prose, believe you me. I guess what I’m trying to say is that keeping out of step is more interesting, greater things happen between the lines.

The Cicadas have been on my mind, as their 17-year slumber party is over as they descend upon the midwest. Gone are the nights of sucking on sweet tree candy and dreaming of the sun. Now is the only chance in their little lives to make love and procreate. I think I would wake up for that too but that’s another story altogether that might blow the endoplasm of most single-celled organisms.

After the female Cicada is lured by the lilting song of the male, they mate, and she deposits her eggs in the slit of a twig. She deposits hundreds of eggs — and soon after she dies, as do the males. When the eggs hatch, the newborns drop to the ground, where they burrow and start another cycle. The Magicicada Cicada goes through a 13- or even a 17-year life cycle. These long cycles are so they can avoid predators such as the cicada killer wasp and the praying mantis. You see, these years are prime numbers, so while a Cicada with a 15-year life cycle could be preyed upon by a predator with a 3- or 5-year life cycle, the prime cycles allow them to stop the predators from falling into step. When did this begin? What year? How did they reset? What a wonderful story of survival of the fittest, what a creative way of staying ahead of the lemmings.

Once, in a land not too far away, there was a great prince named Mr. Charms.

For the first 25 years of his life, no one knew that his birth was great and that he was royalty.

After living for a long time in small quarters with very little good food to eat, his caretaker died, and he had to move to another part of the kingdom.

A gentle fairy named Michelle took him under her wing, where he lived for a time, eating well and receiving love and warmth and medicine to cure what ailed him. It was there that two people, Michael and Cordelia, became aware that Mr. Charms was living nearby. They had only heard myths about a prince named Mr. Charms who had magical powers, so when they heard that he was looking for his rightful home they came and got him as soon as they were able.

Mr. Charms moved into his family’s castle, and began to give the gift of joy to Michael and Cordelia. He entertained them with his beautiful singing, his comedy, and his quiet wisdom.

However, though he loved them both, he bonded most closely with Michael, and they became great friends.

Michael would play banjo and Mr. Charms would sing along. They would watch theatre together, and would sometimes spend hours telling each other important secrets. They settled into a nice routine of chats over breakfast, naps together, and the occasional duet.

This great friendship lasted a year, at which time Mr. Charms told Michael that his time was up. You see, Mr. Charms was not just a prince of this kingdom; he was a prince of the world. Mr. Charms explained that he had to move on and share his magic with everyone, not just us.

Mr. Charms turned into a lovely grey cockatiel with a yellow head and rosy cheeks. He and Michael and Cordelia said goodbye, and Mr. Charms flew away over the rainbow bridge.

Mr. Charms
1980-2007

I have a gift. I don’t know who or what gave it to me, but sometimes I use it to help myself or help others.

I have an acquaintance in my speech club, a wonderfully adorable man named Robbie. The other day Robbie gave me a present from his hometown of Montego Bay, Jamaica. He gave me a wooden statue of some birds. I don’t know what kind of birds they were. The “leg” on each bird was a single peg, and each leg fit into a hole in a little tree. I liked this gift very much.

Now, you see, I asked Robbie to bring me back a bird-like something from Jamaica when he went. I even offered to pay him, but he refused, which I thought was really sweet. In any case, it got me to thinking about gifts.

One of the saddest things I remembered about volunteering at the Wildlife Rescue is that I was often reminded that humans used to take gifts from animals that weren’t offered. Still do. In short, even though we can doesn’t mean we should.

For example, late in the 19th century the plumes of Snowy Egrets were used to adorn ladies hats. As a result, the birds were hunted until they were nearly extinct.

Anyway, I started thinking about the gifts that animals - human, avian, mammal, and so on - give without inflicting harm on another living being.
Just today, a friend of mine came by. We chatted for an hour, had a little tea, and then she left. It was lovely. I don’t get enough of that in my life, and I can’t tell you how beautiful that short visit was. This friend is so kind, so sweet, and I felt incredibly grateful that she took time out of her day to spend some time with me.

Other human gifts include, but are not limited to:

- strong, sincere hugs, noses touching and an intentional, sweet, glittering gaze

- sincere praise, even when one is too tired to muster a sound

- giggle, snort, need I say more

- making music, making love

Gifts from animals that are offered:

- a sweet song in the morning

- a sideways, inquisitive, meaningful gaze

- a sincere desire to live life on their own terms

- truly untold beauty, as in the delicate white feathers of a snowy egret

It’s been a day of assertions, confirmations, and things that make me sad.

You may think, if you read these posts at all, that I am a sad person. I am not. I just feel what people feel, and I feel it deeply. However, sometimes I don’t always understand how to process it. I guess you could say that I lack certain life skills.

Do you ever wonder where your mother or father was when you needed to learn certain life skills? Not the easy ones, like brushing your teeth, cleaning behind your ears, saying please, thank you, no thank you…I mean where were they when you needed to understand how to let go of someone you love, that acceptance isn’t always unconditional, that asserting your needs and desires is important because it shows that you love yourself, and yet it doesn’t feel as good as being loved by another. It’s an understandably lonely place.

As human animals, we can make choices using our hearts that can change when the mind tries to apply logic to the heart. Non-human animals, like birds, follow their hearts and do what comes naturally. They meet each other, they sing to one another, they fall in love, and they make a family. When their offspring are old enough they teach them life skills. How to find food, how to fly, how to say no (in bird of course), and how to say I love you by preening every little feather.

Yet birds are good at letting go, they understand that their children must learn to move on, so they give them the skills and the love they need to do that. Love is the foundation.

“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”

-Kahlil Gibran

All beings are life’s longing for itself. Know that you cannot own anything or anyone, you can only love with great feeling.

I didn’t make it to wildlife rescue last week. I came down with a stomach bug and I was also way tired. I missed it, but I needed the break.

Wow, I can’t believe it’s been almost three weeks since I’ve written. It comes in waves, all of a sudden I’ll have the urge and out it comes. Wish it was like this every day - but I cannot force it.

It’s baby crow season around the bay area. They are perching in the pines above my bank, looking inquisitively down at me while I eat lunch (they don’t take “bait” especially the croissant I was enjoying). I think my peers at work think I’m nuts - I’m always looking up and talking to the birds or chatting with the dragon flies in the duck pond. Oh well, it will give them something to talk about other than protocols.

Sigh. Well, I think I might be a little nuts sometimes, too. At least I felt a little weird at wildlife a few weeks back. First…dizzy. Then…curious. Finally…thoughtful.

Some of my buddies at wildlife don’t like to see a dead animal or watch one become euthanized. However, two weeks ago one of the animal care coordinators (Carrie) asked me if I wanted to “help with” a pigeon. I had seen it come in, saw the sideways glance and heard the dire prognosis. But you see, on earth when we euthanize an animal it’s about ending suffering and time is not wasted. I wish we could be quicker with humans, too. I mean, I wonder what are we waiting for with some of these lost souls hooked up to machines, dreaming of their next life. If I was in a terminal state and could talk I would say “let me go so I can see what lies ahead of me!” How exciting!

But I digress.

Jeannie and I held the pigeon’s wing out so that Carrie could administer the drug. She blew the vein, and it took a little longer for the pigeon to die. However, I don’t believe I saw it struggle or suffer - it was dying from severe malnutrition and weighed half what it should. She covered its face, and when it finally died and she saw me look at it longingly, and she covered the rest of its body. I don’t know if she thought I was weird or in shock - really I was just dizzy. When the pigeon’s soul finally left its body I physically felt it take a little of me with it. It was a feeling I had never had before. It was almost a relief, too, because I finally got to witness death.

Maybe that’s why Carrie was wondering about me, but I wanted to “hold on” to the feeling of loss. For the last 15 years or so all of the grieving I needed to do was kept from me in some way, either by myself or by others. But that’s another rumination altogether, and not about wildlife. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to write about the pigeon. But it’s not all about me, I remember. I hope that sweet bird got to see what lies ahead of it.