“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.

Until I moved to San Bruno, CA this last December, my interest in birds was purely a passing one. I was an apartment dweller in Sunnyvale, CA for the last 10 years, and for the most part only got to see the Anna’s Hummingbirds that visited our feeder, and the flirtatious Phoebe that on occasion would visit my windowsill. 

Since purchasing a home in San Bruno and becoming an Audubon Society member for the first time, I’m taking more of an interest in how the birds in my new backyard are making their way through winter. Of particular interest was a Western Scrub Jay who had lost one of his feet. I speculated that it was probably from a cat, or that he had got it caught in something, but he had a very clever way of eating seed from my feeder. You see, my feeder hangs from our gazebo and swings – and as you can imagine the Scrub Jay had trouble balancing on it given he only had one foot. So, he would balance briefly on the feeder and scoop all the seed he wanted onto the ground, and then he would fly down and eat it, keeping an eye out for predators. I thought this was very clever, and I’ve been making a point of keeping my feeder filled while he’s still around.

The Western Scrub Jay, (Aphelocoma californica⁾, also known as California Jay or Long-tailed Jay, is a species of scrub jay native to western North America, ranging from southern Washington to central Texas and central Mexico. Western Scrub Jays inhabit areas of low scrub, and are known for hoarding and burying brightly colored objects. They have also shown an ability to plan ahead in choosing food storage locations to maintain their future food volume.

In addition to learning the basic facts about Western Scrub Jays, I stumbled upon something that might tell me why my “lucky” bird had been so clever in acquiring his food source, in spite of his disability.

In a study done by the Department of Experimental Psychology, University of Cambridge, a group of Scrub Jays was “…given the opportunity to steal other birds’ hidden food caches; another group of Scrub Jays was not. The first group re-hid their own food caches if they were observed when first hiding the food. The second group, who had no experience stealing from hidden caches, did not exhibit the same behavior.”

According to the study, these findings were a major development in the field of animal cognition – that the Scrub Jays could demonstrate planning and have conscious thoughts that events might guide how they should behave in the future.

Thinking back to my footless friend, this made sense. His “event” was losing his foot, and his balancing act on my feeder was how he learned to secure food for himself. He had learned that he needed to adapt to survive.

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”

When I’m feeling spacious and anxious and weird I like to listen to a song called “De Usuahia a la Quiaca” by Gustavo Santaolalla. It’s a track from a movie called “The Motorcycle Diaries.” When I listen to it I imagine I am Che Guevara riding his bike through the desert, dirty and alone, on the verge of transformation.

I imagine that I am Frida Kahlo, a wild, beautiful girl with many lovers, male and female.

Mostly I imagine that I am free.

At wildlife rescue tonight I was offered a little piece of heaven, of freedom. In a mock aviary in the back of the rescue sits five cliff swallows, juveniles. Tonight they were flying around the aviary, landing on the little rope perches, begging for the mealworms I had for them. But the most amazing thing about them was the sound they made as they flew circles around me. The beating of their wings sounded like the flight of fairies entering your dreams at night (like the sound you make when you sigh and it has to pass through your teeth and lips before it leaves your body - only lighter). I had the feeling I was witnessing something magical. I felt as if they were not of this earth, these dark birds with their intense eyes — and they lifted my spirit into another realm. I felt as if I had entered another world when I entered that aviary, and was blessed by the swallow fairies that inhabited it.

When we care for the animals at the wildlife rescue we are temporarily locking up the essence of the earth while we tend to its wounded citizens. You can hear the essence in the beating of birds’ wings, you can smell it in the breath of a night heron who has just eaten smelt, you can feel it in the oil and dirt that passes from feather to finger.

And you wonder where your essence has gone, your wildness. You think back to the time when you smiled easily and the wind and dirt were your friends. These birds are this essence every day, even locked up in a little aviary.

Tonight I was shift supervisor. I had to make sure that all the birds and mammals got their feedings, got their meds, little bird foot casts, cream on a snake’s back. Dishes washed, lights turned out…alarm set. Now, when someone else has this role I think nothing of it. But when you are given this responsibility and you lock 20 wild animals into a small house at night the weight of the world sits on your shoulders. You are, for a night, a shepherd of the earth and its wounded citizens, and only your heart can guard them as you fall into bed.

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.

Nighttime falls around me. I hear the hum of life, quiet grinding of little birds, the sighing of air, a lazy passage to the stars among the haze. I take myself to a tiny, overrun garden somewhere, somewhere where I can lay on my back, hear and feel the critters around me. Phoebe, phoebe…the hoo-hoo of the dove, the chirp of a passing house finch. To smell the earth, not again but anew. Is that jasmine, geranium, the lilacs whose silky feel I’ve forgotten, do I remember their soft, fragrant blooms on my face. Just pass the garden is a dirt road, where pomegranate trees live guarded in a neighbor’s yard. A mile-long fence of blackberry bushes beckon me. Honeysuckles are suckled by purple fingers. Freckled cheeks, bleeding and dirty but happy knees, sun-bleached gaze.

I am everywhere and here. I emerge from a shallow forest and onto a white beach to see a sweet blue lake. The sun heals, and I feel myself sleeping and being absorbed into the sand. I anticipate the small breeze that sings over me, and then welcome the heat again. I meditate on the joyful sounds from the water, the wind through my ears, the hot sand burning the tips of my toes.

I fall into night and into the safety of tree limbs…good night.

Wildlife volunteering started up again last Thursday. They have a new system where the animals don’t have timers or sheets near their stations, their food and meds are coded onto a white board, and their feeding logs are much simpler now and live in binders, away from the birds and mammals. It’s an excellent new system, as we get out of there much earlier now, and this trend will probably continue into the season. In addition, we spend alot less time handling the animals, which is very stressful for them.

I learned an interesting fact about humans and wild animals the other day. When a predatory animal is killing its prey, it looks it in the eye. So, when we are feeding the animals, we have to try to look at them very little, because looking at them in the eye puts fear into their little hearts, and we are considered predators to them.

I helped a new volunteer feed the baby birds and squirrels that night, a kid named Adam. He’s a biology student at Foothill, transferring to SJSU in the fall. I decided I would take him under my wing and teach him how to properly feed the squirrels. He was so funny, looking lost but wanting to be helpful. My take on care is that if you can be shown the right away, you should begin right away. As he fed a few squirrels I kept telling him, “you’re doing great,” and he seemed to relax a bit. I just really wanted to encourage him to keep coming back. I guess it was my first foray into mentoring someone about how important this is. That we are the animals best chance for freedom. And, it’s important to start young. Adam is most likely 19 or 20 years old.

I recalled tonight a conversation I had with a coworker of mine some years back about animal rights and human responsibility. I was feeling very high-horsey about how cruel people can be and said to this person adamantly that I would always give my money to animal rights organizations. Then he said something that I will never forget. That we do need to support “human growth,” meaning if a person didn’t grow up learning the importance, fragility, and beauty of animals, all your time and effort into saving those animals is moot if you don’t put some of that time and effort into educating humans.

Let’s hope there are a lot more Adams out there.

The last few months have been hard for me and my little family here in California. But, throughout our little trials there has been some growth, some rebirth, some change. At least there was some forward motion, that’s always good.

We lost our little cockatiel, Mr. Charms, on Feb. 22nd. He was 27 years old and had an inoperable tumor on his esophagus. Putting him to sleep was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was crying so hard as we petted him and talked to him that I thought I was going to leave my head. Maybe I did a little. I didn’t like the way they put him to sleep before they euthanized him, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that. It’s how it’s done. Wild animals don’t always get the same caring, humane treatment when we euthanize them, but I believe that’s beginning to change, at least in the wild circles in which I socialize. They had to stick his tiny little head in a chamber where they administered the gas drug, and he went to sleep right away.

So much has gone through my head these last few months. I have many ruminations, all of which come and go as I’m walking out in the hills, pondering the tiny little moths, the way the wind moves the grass, the wildflowers that have no name to me; just that-neat-purple-one, that bush-of-yellow-ones, that white one up on the hill that is so full and beautiful but is too far away to get a close look. You can only look longingly or fleetingly, like at the mockingbird that sings to you from among the oak, or at the cicada (or was that a cricket?) camouflaged against a nameless tree.

I’ve mostly been a bit beaten down, and trying to get my head clear again. I’ve had two or three bouts of the flu/cold nonsense over the last 6 months, I almost wacked off the tip of my finger on a stainless steel trashcan (it’s almost healed), and then, to top it all off, I had a stint in the emergency room just a few days ago for what is probably peptic ulcers. I’m trying to have a sense of humor about all of this, I really am. But this is the glorious thing about it all…

I’ve learned to slow down. Did you know that it takes the same amount of time to get up, shower, eat breakfast, feed your critters, etc. at a slow pace as it does if you go about it in a harried, quite unfashionable way? I’m thinking I might even take up reading the Wall Street Journal, I have so much leisure time in the morning.

The other thing that I’ve enjoyed in my sick/healing time at home is observing what critters I can from my little apartment porch. There’s the resident Anna’s Hummingbird at my feeder, the occasional house finch and phoebe, and then there are the crows. I just happened to be lucky enough, on two occasions, to see two or three crows defending their nests and young. Now, I actually didn’t see their nests or their young from my vantage point, but I knew what was going on because of their <call>. It’s a frantic call, and fast flying comes soon after. One crow starts flying frantically to the west, CAW-CAW-CAW. Then, I see another one coming in from the south, CAW-CAW-CAW. Then I see it, actually I see them, a Hawk and a Raven, being dive-bombed by the crows. They looked to be more concerned about the Raven, each taking their turn flying straight up and then diving at the Raven. The Raven was obviously flying away, it had either been dissuaded by the murder of crows or had already got what it came for. What a glorious thing to see, a little glimpse of a small war close to home.

It’s been a not so silent spring. I think throughout this all I’ve emerged a bit of a victor. It’s like nature said, take time to look at me, where’s the fire? Nature healed me, and I hope it continues to be my personal shaman.