The Magic of a Spring Afternoon

THE MAGIC OF A SPRING AFTERNOON

It was a warm, sunny afternoon—the first that felt like spring.  Buds that had been fighting for survival were showing hope that the freeze-thaw temps were a thing of the past and they could begin to open up for real.  Birds were singing merrily, interrupted occasionally by the raucous voices of Sandhill cranes.  I stood at my window watching and listening.  It, however, was not a day to sit inside and watch, but a day to get out and join the celebration

Gathering a bag of sunflower seeds for the birds, my notebook and pen in case of a sudden inspiration, I drove the 10-minute drive to Kensington Metro Park.  The parking lot was crowded, and good fortune was with me as I drove into the one empty space.  It had just been vacated.   It was a joy to see so many people—parents and children—many chattering happily with bags of seed in hand.  There were adults and teens with binoculars, tripods, cameras—families, couples, and an occasional single.  All looked happy to be breathing in the fresh air of spring.  Most were heading toward the boardwalk.

I chose to begin on Wild Wing trail and poured a handful of seeds from my baggie into my open palm.  With my arm bent at the elbow, the seeds lay in the bowl of my upturned palm as I walked.  Soon I was daydreaming only to be startled by the soft sound of wings, the touch of a beak.  My hand jerked, some seeds scattered as others were saved in my closed fist.  I laughed as I reopened my palm, said a soft “I’m sorry.  I’m awake now and you’re welcome to feed.  I won’t hurt you.”  Soon the downy, who had been watching me from a nearby tree, was back to sit on my hand take a seed, then another, before flying back to his branch to eat.  Out from the field on my right strolled a Sandhill Crane.  He looked hungry and I had a dilemma.  Signs are posted “Do Not Feed the Cranes”.  I suspect that is for the safety of the people, as well as the cranes.  I closed my hand and we walked side by side until another crane called, came out on the path.  The two started a conversation and went on their way. 

I opened my hand again as I walked and soon had another downy, many chickadees, nuthatches, and several tufted titmice tickling my palm with their tiny feet, nipping at the seeds in my hand with their small beaks.  My heart was happy. I was aware of a big smile on my face.  The field turned marshy and a bridge crossed a small stream.

The bright yellow of Marsh marigolds brightened the dead brown of last year’s growth.  I chose a large fallen tree trunk as my resting place, laid the seeds at my side, and took out my notebook and pen.  Sitting quietly, watching and listening to the voi ces of nature as well as my own inner voice, I jotted a few notes.  I was aware of a beautiful red adult male cardinal on a nearby branch.  He seemed to be watching me intently.  Most likely he had his eye on the food at my side.  As I watched, he flew to the end of the log and slowly and cautiously made his way step by step closer and closer, as I sat perfectly still watching and waiting.  It wasn’t long before he was at my side.  I watched in awe as he grabbed each seed, picked it open with his beak, then ate the inside, shoved aside the shell and grabbed another.  I heard the sound of footsteps on the path and expected my red friend to fly, but the steps stopped and all was quiet.  The cardinal kept feeding, and I heard the voice on the path whisper, “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.  I can’t believe it.”  Neither could I.  After he had eaten his fill, it seemed he nodded and flew off into the woods.  I turned to the woman on the path and we chatted a bit about the enchanted moments we had shared.

I walked more quickly the rest of the way around the large pond, always with an open palm filled with seeds.  I discovered that chickadees and nuthatches are very friendly and much less afraid than other birds.  Red winged blackbirds come close, but wait for you to put the seed down on a log or the ground before they will come eat.  Tufted titmice are skittish, often swooping down almost touching my hand, before swooping up to a safe branch to observe the situation a bit longer.  Eventually they will come in for a landing to quickly snatch a seed and take it back to their bough before cracking it open to feed.  The downy was the first to come, but only two came to eatr.  I also learned the call of the tufted titmouse which sounded like the call of a chickadee, but more nasal and wheezing.  When I got home I looked up the tufted titmouse, to be sure I hadn’t mixed it up with a cedar waxwing, and was surprised to read, “Notes similar to a chickadee, but more drawling, nasal, wheezing, and complaining.” 

I was disappointed to see the osprey platforms are empty—not one nest.  I hope it is just too early for them. 

On a tiny pond at the south east end where the trail joins the boardwalk, I saw a somewhat untidy nest surrounded by water.  A crane sat quietly on her eggs as people watched, pointed, and taught their children what they knew about cranes.  And finally, from the boardwalk, looking west was a small island with a couple fairly large trees and a multitude of nests filled with immature Little Blue Herons (I counted 54, and know I missed some.)  Another lesson learned.  I thought they were egrets, but was told that this is the herons’ nesting spot and that the immatures are white. 

 I began the afternoon frustrated that I had forgotten my camera and wishing I had someone to walk with.  In fact, the day had been more perfect than I could have planned.  With no camera and no walking partner, I was gifted with silence and an absence of distractions that allowed the birds and I to join in a rare alliance of mutual respect and appreciation.  It was indeed a magical afternoon.

FINDING JOY WHEN TIMES ARE DIFFICULT

FINDING JOY WHEN TIMES ARE DIFFICULT

I will love the light for it shows me the way,

yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.”

Light and Joy:  My words to live by lately.  How does one experience joy when the world seems to be falling apart; when shootings and bombings are happening way too often; when deadly storms, floods, fires, ravage our land; when illness and death arrive up close and personal.  

Lying in my hospital bed tethered to tubes and  IVs, I listened to the beeps, pulsing of machines, quiet rustling of nurses and techs.  Steadily improving now, I had plenty of time to think about what had happened and about work I had left undone at home—one thing being this editorial for our church newsletter.  I had the topic—“Joy in Hard Times”—but little else.  

I thought about Joy vs Happiness:  Joy is not the same thing as happiness.  Happiness is temporary.  A friend invites you to lunch and a movie.  You’re happy and looking forward to the day until she tells you she has also invited someone who you’re not fond of.  The happiness dissipates quickly and jealousy may even sweep in to take its place. 

Joy sticks around despite the circumstances. 

            I remembered moments of fear, hushed voices”.  “Oh God…” was all I could pray.  A blanket of peace covered me as I let go and settled into a safe, calm place, feeling loved and cared for. 

I smiled as I thought of myself as a laboratory experiment for the topic.  I thought

about the laughs I’d shared with doctors, nurses, techs, my kids—The surprise and joy that settled deep when a nurse brought me calming lavender-scented cotton balls, then proceeded to massage my feet with lavender lotion.  Healing aromatherapy in the hospital.  The joy I felt when my grandsons, after loading Pandora on my reading tablet, discovered and downloaded “Calming Meditations”, which played through the sleepless night.  I thought about the joy I felt deep inside me despite the circumstances, and remembered a quote that comes to  my attention occasionally...”it isn’t what happens to you that matters, but how you respond to what happens.”

SHIFT YOUR PERSPECTIVE:  “The difference between stumbling blocks and stepping stones is how you use them. 

 I’ve been engaging in a regular spiritual practice for several years now.  It includes shifting of perspective from how I want life and others to behave to what I have to do to achieve the life I long for.  Instead of wanting others to change, I practice looking for changes I can make to achieve loving, joy-filled relationships and experiences.  In the hospital, I wanted health and freedom from anxiety and pain.  I shifted my perspective from focusing on fear, an unpleasant nurse or questioning whether the doctors made a mistake (as an acquaintance was suggesting) to a focus on the healing angels that surrounded me.  Adrian, Adam, and Marquis came to mind.  They and many others nursed me, cleaned me, soothed me, and made me laugh.  When I lost every speck of my modesty, they saved my dignity by their gentle touch, humor, and quiet words.  Other nurses and techs, even housekeepers gave me smiles and encouraging words to live by.  Nurse Adam was an encyclopedia of little known facts that brought chuckles to us all.

Doctors knelt by my bed, took my hand and looked into my eyes as they talked to me about next steps to healing and answered my many questions.  I noticed and gave silent thanks for the little things like the soothing ice chips, the first sip of water in days, and my first real meal—scrambled eggs.  Joy was the card my friend sent saying, in part, “Heal, kneel, wear teal,” which was followed just moments later by the nurse who helped me take my first shower and brought me—not dingy gray—but teal slipper socks.   She had not seen the card.  A joyful coincidence that made me laugh out loud   Friends and family listened when I needed to talk, sat silently when I needed quiet, and laughed with me. 

EXPERIENCING JOY IS A CHOICE AND TAKES PRACTICE:  There was plenty to make me anxious and scared.  I was thankful for my practice of seeking and finding joy, rather than focusing on the negatives.  Instead of focusing on mistakes made, I gave thanks that corrections were made quickly.  I used my music to block the ranting cries of the man across the hall, then prayed for us both and for our families, and the staff.  Instead of focusing on what disaster might still happen, I gave thanks for life-saving blood and the donors who gave it; then created stories about whose blood was running around inside me.  My favorite being the playful old woman who convinced me to dye my hair purple and pink.  So unlike me, but I smile when I look at myself in the mirror.joy I felt deep inside.  My family blessed me with their 24/7 presence, bringing with them serious, thoughtful moments as well as humor and smiles.  Others who visited also brought a quiet joy and healing energy with them. God does work in mysterious ways, I thought; and smiled. 

CHOOSE JOY THAT LASTS: 

The best thing about joy when compared to happiness is that joy doesn’t leave us.  It may sometimes seem to disappear, but Joy is a gift of the Spirit and lives within us.  Jesus promised, “I have told you (this) so that my Joy may be in you and that your Joy may be complete.”  We all know that hard times will come.  That is a part of life.  But God-given Joy is available to us all, if we seek and practice it.  It is the Joy that lasts forever. 

            Today a priest friend of mine sent his weekly e-mail poem and message.  The poem, by Dom Helder Camera, a priest who fought hard and gave his life for justice, is the perfect ending which is really a new beginning to this journey called Life. 

"It is possible to travel alone, but we know the journey is human life
and life needs company.
Companion is the one who eats the same bread.

The good traveler cares for weary companions, grieves when we lose heart,
takes us where she finds us, listens to us.
Intelligently, gently, above all lovingly, we encourage each other to go on
and recover our joy on the journey.”

May you find your Joy.  

Hansen/Benson family reunion 2014

I’ve been in a period of what I refer to as the dark night.  It happens gradually, and I don’t always realize its downward spiral immediately.  It’s something I’ve grown to expect in winter--a seasonal affective disorder plus.  My energy fades, my social skills diminish, I am irritated, angry and sad.  Colors dim.  Things that normally brighten my life appear dull and gray.  But Life always returns. 

This spring and summer did not bring the usual resurrection that I expect and summer has dragged on in shades of gray, though I recognize and welcome the sunshine, beautiful days, blue skies that I know objectively are there.  I’ve felt lifeless even among family and friends—and worse yet, I’ve felt grumpy, crabby, and just plain rude—talking and not listening—focused primarily on me.  I’ve not been able to meditate or read.  Little ability to concentrate.  God seemed distant and unavailable.     

            Being sick this last five weeks was the culmination for me.  At first I only had energy to sleep and sip water and tea.  I recovered enough to attend our family reunion in Cheboygan—something I’d been looking forward to for months.  I was a fairly passive participant, taking my crabbiness and anger out on my sister the first couple of days.  I’m not good at saying “I’m sorry”, but I saw clearly what I was doing and prayed to change my attitude and enjoy as much as I could and not ruin it for others. 

As the waters of Lake Huron, the laughter and joy of grandchildren (mine and my sisters’), short walks with my sister, Carol, family time around meals and bonfires, began to work their healing power, even as my night coughing kept me awake and exhausted.  I learned again that there are some things I can’t control (my cough and exhaustion), but with awareness and grace, I can control my attitude, not always perfectly, but once aware, I can change my focus to the Love and beauty that always surrounds me when I open my eyes and heart to it.  Surrounded by love of family and nature, my depression lifted.

Back at home, I continued a bit of a rollercoaster ride, as healing took a bump I now find humorous, but was no laughing matter at the time.  According to an article one of my doctors found on Google, I may be one of a very few people in North America to have ingested a fly egg which grew into a larvae which I coughed up.  (They documented the specimen and that seems to be the end of it).  I’m undergoing many tests, checking out all systems and so far everything has returned to normal and is in fine shape.  My cough, however, persists—a puzzle and an annoyance.  My energy is returning and I am walking long walks and bike riding again.  The sky is bluer, the colors brighter, with only momentary cloudy times, as when the clouds pass over the sun.  I’ve been able to meditate again and a friend suggested a new book on the Monks of Mt. Athos—a book about pilgrimage.

Today I experienced another miracle.  Following meditation, I was reading about pilgrimage, I read, there are “Some places in this world where eternity touched the earth…” By going there some people “are able to reestablish contact with the eternal element within themselves.”  Knowing that at 76 years of age, I will not be climbing mountains nor will I be going to a hermitage,  I asked myself, “Metaphorically, what is that place for me?”.    In asking the question, the sky became bluer, my spirit lifted, and I felt a joy I had not felt in months. 

On my computer a while later, I checked e-mails and Facebook—our family’s way of staying in touch that has been even more valuable to me since our reunion.  On FB, was a post of my nephew’s wife, Jill, singing in public for the first time since recovering from throat surgery.  Tears flowed and I smiled as the joy of her beautiful soprano voice flowed over me—“You’ve got to wade in the water…God’s gonna trouble the water.”   I laughed as I remembered that I last saw Jill three weeks ago.  We waded in the waters of Lake Huron, as we celebrated our extended family, our lives, and the beauty of God’s world.   Yes, “God’s gonna trouble the water” and invites us to wade in it.  I have my answer for today, and the sun is shining bright, both inside and out.   The water is waiting.

                        

                                 

                                   RESURRECTION:  The Greening of Spring

  

                                   Walking the trails at Kensington Park, I meet

                                    a crane.  Walking side-by-side for a      

bit, he eats bugs while  I take pictures of him

eating bugs.  Bidding him farewell, I

continue on to watch red winged blackbirds

chatter in the trees.  On Aspen Trail, I see

an old farmstead marked by a slab of

cement foundation.  Rusty wheels from an

old machine decay among golden brown grasses.

At the edge of the coming-to-life creek bed

skunk cabbage bursts into life.

Thoughts dart and flit in my head like

finches and chickadees darting

to eat seeds out of children’s hands.

If I live to be one hundred, I’ve lived

three/quarters of my life already.

There’s no more time to waste.

 I want to spend the rest of my days

LIVING my passion—my LIFE.

I love walking timeless in the woods

in spring, listening to my own rhythms,

listening to birdsong, listening

to wind in the trees.

 

Life seems clearer to me now. 
My voice merges with Ueland and others

Walk, listen, experience wonder,

creatively dream.  Take time.  LIVE

Take notes, take pictures,

be spontaneous in-the-moment—

see, hear, feel, taste, touch who and what

crosses your path

living or dead

past or present.

A word here,

a song there,

a strip of black earth where a fire raged,

a wagon wheel,

words,

a poem,

the crack of a bat,

her boy is on second.

Yes!

Yes to baseball.

Yes to spring.

Yes to poetry.

Yes to green in the woods and garden.

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS OF LIVING: 

Drifting Through Life

Where am I when I am not conscious? 

I sometimes notice, especially now that I am meditating regularly, that there are many times when I am not present consciously.  I take a deep breath, focus on my breathing, and watch my thoughts come and go.  Suddenly I awaken to a sense of wonder—sometimes frustration—as I realize time has passed and I have no idea what I’ve been thinking about or doing in those moments.  I’m not aware of the silent peaceful place I hoped to find.  I may feel heaviness, anxiety, or have a smile on my face, but I have no sense of what was happening when I was gone.

Once when I was traveling from Cheboygan to Farmington Hills to visit my family, I “woke up” and found my surroundings familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time.  I was confused until I saw the freeway sign announcing Orchard Lake Road one mile.  I went from mild confusion to shock and awe.  My last memory was backing out of my driveway in Cordwood Point outside of Cheboygan to begin my five-hour drive. Where was I while my physical body was driving the car, stopping for gas and lunch, now soon to arrive at my destination?  Who was doing the driving?  No dents on the car, no ticket—just receipts for gas and the food that I had no memory of eating.  I’ve talked to others who experience similar times.  I believe most of us, if we were more fully conscious more of the time, would realize we also have times when our body is acting so-called normally while our mind is someplace else.  I believe we often are not even aware this is happening—until the embarrassing question of an acquaintance calls us back to the now. 

It definitely happens in conversation.  Have you ever experienced “awakening” to hear the person you’ve been engaged in conversation with asking, “What do you think?”  You realize you have no idea what has been said or even what the topic is, so you smile and say something general—maybe “I agree” or “That’s sounds good” or just “uh huh”—and leave it at that. 

Or maybe, you’ve been the one talking, sharing some exiting detail about your recent trip.  Five or ten minutes later, your friend says, “Tell me about your trip.  Did you have a good time?”  Where were they when their body was standing in front of you?  And who are we?  Our minds or our bodies?

Or maybe you’ve been doing something around the house--cleaning, building a bookcase—while your favorite CD is playing background music.  Suddenly you hear the silence, but do not remember anything but the first song—not even the whole song.  Yet the entire CD has played, your job is nearly finished, but were you actually conscious of doing the work or hearing the music? 

How much of our lives is spent living consciously?  How much of real living do we miss, because we are so often unaware?

I remember friends and family coming to visit me in my home on Lake Huron.  How often someone would sit at my table, staring out the window at the birdfeeder, the large pine and oak trees, and Lake Huron just 60 feet away, and comment, “Wow!  I couldn’t live here.  I’d never get anything done.  I’d just sit and stare out the window.  It’s so beautiful!”  That and similar comments would give me a sharp nudge as I suddenly wondered, when was the last time I really saw out the window?  When did I last hear the waves brush the shore? Or the song of the warbler?  When did I consciously feel the warm sun kiss my cheek or the wind in my hair?  How often was I—am I—going through the motions of living without truly living my life’s story?

I doubt I’ll ever know the answer to my question.  Like Rainer Maria Rilke, I prefer to “Have patience with everything unresolved in (my) heart, and try to love the questions themselves.”  I also trust that I will “someday live into the answer.”  To do that I must learn to live more consciously, live more aware of life’s little moments as well as the grand ones.  

 

 

 

I love writing—poetry, stories of my past/memoirs, essays on observations of the world around me.  With the increase in self-publishing opportunities it is reasonably easy and inexpensive to get one’s words into print.  My first book, Letters and Stories from an Up North Grandma, published in 2009 cost me a bundle and I am still sitting with a stash of unsold books.  

             In 2011, I published a book of poetry and photographs, Nature’s Voices.  Again it was an expensive proposition, but I was pleased with the result and my ego loved seeing my work in print.  This book could be printed on demand, so I don’t have box of unsold books. 

In the eyes of the world I have not been a successful author.  What is important to me is the joy I get from writing, taking the photographs and seeing the books in print.  It is a bonus to hear from those who enjoy a specific poem or picture and then tell me how it speaks to them.  I love hearing their stories and discovering the sometimes surprising connections between us.

I just published my third book, Things That Go Bump in the Night, a book based on historical facts and legends of the Straits of Mackinac that separate the Upper and Lower Pennisulas in Michigan.  Beginning with some of the legends that abound in the area, I have created stories from my own experience and imagination.  If you are interested, check it out and join me as we travel in and out of this world and the strange world just beyond.  This book can be purchased through Amazon and is available on Kindle and in paperback. 

 

LIFE ON A WIRE

 

            Dangling by fingertips from invisible wire strung between two buildings in Downtown Grand Rapids—holding tight to a sliver of hope while life passes by beneath and around. 

          Old age can feel like that. 

For me it was a sudden unexpected event (illness) and I fell from life as I knew it, grasping in a fragile finger-hold the life I had left—from living life fully to watching it go by around me. 

Even now, even when I’m participating, I find it is hard to focus on the now.  My mind strays to thoughts and worries about blood pressure and cholesterol, clots in my heart, arrhythmias and mind farts or holes in my mind.  My hips and knees don’t bend.

The enjoyable day with family at ArtPrize became embarrassing when I couldn’t maneuver climbing down and back up a three-foot wall without the help of my two teen-aged grandsons lifting me, and I lagged further behind as the day went on despite the yoga, daily walks and occasional swims I do to keep up my strength and agility. 

          “If that old lady can do it, you certainly can.”  Do I imagine the impatience in my daughter-in-law’s voice?  I want to believe she is paying me a compliment; that she and my family do not see the real me fading slowly, becoming slower physically and mentally—less able to do it all myself.  Is it my own impatience I’m witnessing?  My own chastising voice pushing me to keep moving, don’t slow down; telling me age is only a number.  Sometimes it is a number.  Sometimes also a fact of life.  Can I be honest with myself, paying attention to what I still can do and also what I can no longer do as quickly and as well?  Can I be honest without being dramatic?  Can I continue to meet changes with humor and compassion? 

          We allow trees to age gracefully and we see beauty and strength in gnarled old trees.  In old people we so often see only weakness and loss of value.  Can we, can I not see beauty in my wrinkled hands with prominent veins? In my gray hair? When did beauty spots turn to age spots, to imperfections, and meet with such derision? 

          I’m torn between appreciating Tim’s help on stairs and his hanging back with me when I slowed, and frustration that I’m the “little old lady” who needs that help.  Selfishly I want the world to slow with me, to “stop and smell the roses.” 

          Yet I remember me as a teen and young—even middle aged adult—racing ahead of my mother (and even my six-foot husband,) proud of my speed walk, impatient with those who walked too slowly for me. 

          Growing old has forced me to slow and in the process has shown me things I would have missed…an afternoon watching butterflies gather on a butterfly bush, a morning of watching wrens take turns feeding their newborn young whose faces and large beaks crowd the entrance to their nest.  One day I sat still as I felt, then watched a chipmunk take the shortcut over my shoulder, down my arm, onto my lap, down my leg, on his way from a bowl of sunflower seeds I’d left on my deck.  His mouth was crammed full when he went down a hole just beyond my foot and empty when he poked his head back up.  I sat quietly while he made the same roundtrip several times. 

          Yesterday art and people swirled around me—happy faces, happy voices, bright colors, warm sunshine and light breezes.  Interactive art and people.  Art recycled from rejected objects, recreated.  Hopeful art of love bridging the river—fragile yet sturdy—and the sculpture of a man hanging by his fingertips.  All rushing by me or me by it.  Unable to take in foreground because of the rushing forward of background.  A piece of art I focused my camera on would disappear, replaced by people walking between us.  The people became the foreground. 

          Seldom really in moment.  Seldom in the experience.  Pushed by life, by others, I long to slow down, live life fully at my own pace.  Time keeps racing by.  I grasp what I can, enjoy the moment, then let it go.