Hope, Revisited

 

 

"Despair turns us inward, hope sends us into the arms of others".                                                                           Desmond Tutu 

It's been difficult for me to focus on anything for months. Writing is one of many pleasures that has languished.  The national election devoured my time, energy, and emotional bandwidth.  I am grateful that it is over. It is time to regroup, and reflect, and see what that might be worth sharing.  

The arms of others, remembered

Hope. Hope is in the news, with the success of recently completed vaccine trials. Hope is frequently on my mind as well.  Hope versus optimism.  Hope versus despair.  What do we hope for?  A vaccine (soon), societal sanity, peace everywhere,  the health, safety and survival of ourselves and our loved ones, enough food, toilet paper, a job, a return to "normal' life.  Dancing again. Traveling again.  To really talk with someone again, with eye contact and the curve of their mouth, unmasked, (other than our spouse, our roommate, our teenager).  To feel the warm life next to our breast of another living being (other than our dog or cat).

For me, yes, all of the above (well not a job -  I am fortunate to have had one for many years, I am now happily retired).  And toilet paper is so yesterday.  Most of all I hope that I remember, when this is all over.  Remember how when the shutdown started on the threshold of spring, life sharpened into crystalline  focus. When slowing down all the  "doing" allowed me to notice so much more:  the slowly growing morning light; the first buds on the willow; the first bloom on the crocus; the hatch of painted lady butterflies; emerging broods of geese; the bushtits bathing in my sprinkler, spreading excited joy.  

Painted Ladies on the apple blossoms

I hope to remember the simple pleasure of human interaction that actually grew in the early days of shutdown -- getting to know neighbors and their children and dogs, who suddenly had the time to walk and talk and play together. 

To remember how peaceful it was when the morning traffic slowed down.

I hope that all of us remember how much our gardens, the birds, and our neighbors nourished us when we took the time to pay attention.  Billy Collins, one our esteemed American Poet Laureates, said in an interview that "attention is a form of gratitude".   I hope this reminds us to pay attention, to cherish the  earth and all that she provides for us, every day.  The beauty will still be there, even when life speeds up again.

And when it is possible to do so again, I hope to remember how much I longed to hug someone, to look into their unmasked face, to tell them I love them.  And do it. 

x

Lazuli bunting a special visitor to our yard

Noticing.....

A pair of Mississippi Kites graced the neighborhood

INTERLUDE

Interlude Overlook

Now over four months into the pandemic, life has become for my husband and I, the "new normal".   We've settled into our much more constricted routines - gardening, walking the dog, working on our respective hobbies or volunteer efforts, exercising at home, shopping once a week, favorite tv shows, and, of course ZOOM everything.  It is now routine to put on a mask any time we leave the house, and scrub like surgeons when we return. For variety and relief from the routine, we occasionally have a socially distanced face to face with close friends on a patio, each with their own food from home or takeout. If not a fully satisfying "like it used to be", it is always a nourishing blessing to connect with others.  We've also taken several camping excursions --these have been soul-restoring.  

We have watched the virus curve flatten in New Mexico, thanks to our proactive governor, and then balloon like a malevolent pregnancy, as people relaxed their guard over the summer holidays.  Now the hospitals are stretched to capacity, even as New Mexico has continued to accept patients from overwhelmed not-so proactive neighboring states. We have come to accept that this is likely the cycle in which we'll be entangled until there is a vaccine.  It may get better for a while, then it will get worse. Schools will begin soon, at whatever level is finally decided, and we'll see what that brings.  What we know is that outdoors is safer than indoors for virtually any activity, and that our window for enjoying the freedom of socializing or camping will narrow as the weather gets colder. So, we assess the current risks, and get out as much as we feel is safe to do now.

With that in mind, we planned and implemented a  short, non-camping getaway for a special anniversary date. Our direction was north to escape the current heat wave. We found lovely small bed and breakfast in Taos, with lots of privacy from other guests.  It was a spectacular choice -- rooms with separate entrances and patios, and plenty of open space to wander outside.  Even some dog-friendly rooms, but we opted to leave Pilgrim at home and enjoy the most private space available -- a second floor perch with an expansive view of the grounds from a lovely deck.

Breakfast Served!

It was delicious to be in different environment, and luxurious to have     breakfast served to us outside by our very accommodating host.  Ed nicknamed him "Jeeves" for his habit of bringing a tray of coffee up before 7 am and leaving it on our deck.  We shared the second story with a bevy of beautiful birds, and we had a hawk's eye view of the small prairie dog town below.

Morning Magpies Across from our Deck

Our brief foray into the little town of Taos was...a bit surreal.  Taos is taking the virus seriously, and mask wearing was strictly enforced and observed (for which we were grateful)!   But to see the normally crowded- to -overflowing streets, if not empty, certainly sparse, was unsettling.  Tourism seemed largely to be families with their appropriately masked children finding their way to experience a brief outing before the school year.   Hiking was the most popular activity, and well-known trails were much too crowded for our taste.

To that end, we found a very steep but shady trail named the "Bull of the Woods". 

After a couple of hours of steady climb to about 11,000 feet, the trail opened up to a wet meadow that was nothing short of magical.  Wildflowers and butterflies -- oh my!  There must have been a dozen or more species of butterflies savoring the nector.   We savored our own lunch of homemade bread sandwiches and watched the show, transfixed.   We also got to share our meal with a flock of well-educated gray jays, (nicknamed "camp robbers" for their habit of begging, or stealing, from campers and hikers).   This group was no exception, willing even to come and perch on an outstretched hand for a grape. I know, I know, I shouldn't feed the wildlife - but hey -- right now one takes great pleasure from these small things, which in this case I believe was pretty harmless.   Wouldn't do this with a squirrel, or a bear!

What's the point of this particular, somewhat wandering and aimless, blog post?   It feels a little like a description of my mood and life right now. But, if there is a point, or a lesson, it's that what is nourishing for me is Nature -- ummasked nature.  The effort to climb a thousand feet or more may not be for everyone -- but everyone can look out their window and see Nature in some way, unmasked, unworried, going about her life.  A lesson I hope to  remember, when our lives return to what is "normal".  

Lincoln's Sparrow Unmasked!

 

Owlspotting

Some of you might remember the movie "Trainspotting".  This acclaimed, very dark comedy features the grim lives of a couple of Scottish heroin addicts. The title rather cryptically refers to the hobby of trainspotting, in which participants collect meticulous information about passing trains - not something these addicts are doing.  The Oxford Dictionary indicates the term "trainspotter" is often derogatory, referring to any "person who obsessively studies the minutiae of any minority interest or specialized hobby".

This latter definition can certainly be applied to many birders, and in this case, to our recent fascination with observing the procreative cycle of a pair of great horned owls that took up residence on our acequia.  We heard them hooting outside our bedroom at dawn and dusk back in January, when life outside was mostly dormant.  We began seeing a pair of owls in February, often calling to each other from a short distance apart.  One of our fellow dog walkers mentioned that he had seen them exploring a couple of the nests built by a pair of Cooper's hawks that we have watched for many years. Horned owls, by the way, do not typically build a nest, rather preferring to appropriate the labor of other birds. 

This single, casually shared observation from a passerby focused our attention and resulted in a cascade of neighborhood experiences - study,  detection, photography, conversation, and delight. The female owl helpfully chose the nest easiest to observe from the path along the acequia.  We first observed her sitting on it February 11, long before the cottonwood leaves began to appear.  She remained,  brooding stoically through cold, wind, snow, and occasional bombing runs by the much-aggrieved Cooper's hawk pair.  We observed, Ed photographed, I made obsessive notes (I am a wildlife biologist, after all), and as we encountered more and more neighbors walking, word began spreading about the blessed event likely to come.

With slowly warming temperatures and the shelter in place order by our Governor, foot and bicycle traffic on the acequia path grew dramatically.  And like a benign virus, word and interest in the owls also advanced. Approximately a month after we first saw the female sitting, she appeared on the edge of the nest, indicating the eggs had hatched.  It was nearly another month before we saw the first downy head peering over the edge of the nest. After that, neighborhood excitement truly went viral, and everyone was watching.  But more importantly, everyone was talking to each other (from a safe distance of course).

We met neighbors whose homes we had walked past for years without knowing the occupants' names. We met folks from other neighborhoods who were doing more walking or riding in the neighborhood because their schools and offices were closed, or because they had learned about the owls from some other local source.  We helped children learn to use binoculars.  We talked. We shared our observations and our delight in this gift from the owls, and we delighted in getting to know each other.

As the young owls have grown from comical big-eyed mounds of white cotton in the nest, to the quasi-adult flyers they now are, they have become harder to spot. But they are nearby, with the adults keeping watch and homeschooling their kids in the ways of owls.  As the stores and restaurants have slowly opened to partial business, human traffic on the owl path has declined. The many tragedies and injustices of the larger world continue unabated. Some have recently been horrifically thrust in our faces, beckoning us to act. But the gifts of nature and neighbors are also always there to restore us. The gift of this virus is learning to notice. Learning to notice the gifts of what, and whom, is always around us, if we take the time.   

Masked Owlspotters

Mother and Child

I've got this, Mom!

A little more independence from Mom

You home wreckers!

Pay no attention, I'm a branch!

Watching you watching us!

Who Me????

Hope is the thing with flowers...

May 12.  With apologies to Emily Dickenson. As previously mentioned, we are lucky to live close to a couple hundred acres of Open Space, managed by the City of Albuquerque for the benefit of her residents, both human and other animal. Most people don't know that we have the iconic naturalist Aldo Leopold to thank for the concept of within-city open space. Leopold, who is revered for the gorgeous and prescient writings from his Wisconsin farm (Sand County Almanac, and others), is also credited for creating the first wilderness area in the United States (the Gila, here in New Mexico). But lesser-known is that he also lived in Albuquerque for a time, where he sat on the City Council, seeding and cultivating the idea that city residents need the outdoors too. We now have some 29,000 acres of open space in and around the city to enjoy https://www.cabq.gov/parksandrecreation/open-space.

Knowing about the source or not, Albuquerque residents have fully integrated Leopold's concept into their daily lives. In our nearby acres, any season, any day, and nearly any time, one can find birders, dog walkers, gardeners, joggers, lovers, and families partaking of the opportunity to commune with nature. Hawks, songbirds, and waterfowl find summer nesting and winter sustenance throughout the area. Coyotes roam and howl at night. Toads sing for a mate in spring.  In late fall and winter, the fields are deliciously filled with the sandhill cranes so loved by Leopold (and me!).  But throughout the year, one creature can always be found.

She never moves, never changes her steadfast gaze from the precise spot where the sun, or the full moon, will rise over the Sandia Mountains. Her stance is proud and self-contained. She is, of course not a living being, but a wonderful metal sculpture that some insightful human placed at the corner where nearly everyone passes. I feel compelled, as I'm sure others do, to simply stop and watch the mountains with her for a while, often with my hand on her back.  I sometimes find a bit of alfalfa, in her slightly open mouth - an offering from another passerby.  And, she is seasonally decorated with ribbons or flowers woven into her mane and tail -- daisies in spring, red white and blue in July, sunflowers in fall, holly in winter.  But the sight of her current regalia went straight to my heart.  

Pink Moonwalk in Open Space

April 8, 2020.   So, I get up most days well before sunrise.  These days, that’s between 430 and 5 am. As a young biologist working on cranes, I had to be out on the (often frozen) crane roosts before dawn to collect data.   Ever since that time, I start feeling anxious, like I’m late for work or something (really!) if I see even a hint of dawn and I’m still in bed.  

Anyhow, last night was the Pink Super-moon — the closest the moon will be to earth this year.  I have no idea why they call it pink (it isn’t) but it was sure bright and absolutely stunning. I feel that it is compassionate of the moon to come so close to us at this dark time in our world.  Ed and I walked on our acequia last night (it’s a ditch, in New Mexican dialect — used for the irrigation that still nourishes farmland in the Rio Grande Valley).  Anyhow,  we are gifted with an acequia right out our back gate, and it provides us with so much happiness:  car-free dog walking, views of the neighbor's back yards, fruit tees, cottonwoods, busy ants, bird chorale, coyotes, nesting horned owls.  The last is what Ed we ventured out to check on last night.   We have a nearby pair who MUST have young ones by now, but so far, we see only the female, quietly vigilant on the nest, and occasionally the male, perched on his hunting perch nearby.  

But oh yeah — this morning!   Up before 5, the moonlight flooding the house. I decided to change up the morning routine of yoga/meditation upstairs and go for a moonwalk in the nearby Open Space, the perfectly-named 200-plus acres of irrigated farmland owned by the City of Albuquerque. It is maintained for birds, gardening, walking, cycling, horseback riding and a community garden.

Our dog, Pilgrim was shocked but delighted  (if a bit sleepy ) to be suited up for his walk so early.   We ventured out, feeling our feet, smelling the damp earth, the sweet fragrances from wisteria and apple blossoms, and who-knows-what-else in Pilgrim’s nose.  Moon shadows strolled along beside us.  Just the two of us and the trees — bare limbs sillouetted against the moonglow.  So quiet.  Light changing ever so slowly.  As we head south, we begin to see cars crossing the Montano Bridge — lucky (or not ) souls still going to work.  As we pass the shuttered  church at the corner, a city garbage truck roars out of the shadows. Rumbling and snorting, like some ancient mastodon come to life, it lifts the giant bin overhead, as if it were a tree that needed uprooting. Pilgrim, ever bold and curious, rarely afraid — was impressed into momentary stillness. I caught a glimpse of the single man operating the machinery inside the cab, and gave silent thanks for his service in this unsettling time.  

We round the corner and head back to the north, the moon behind us now.   Dawn light lavenders the sky ahead.  We hear water moving,  and see the moonlight reflected on a flooded alfalfa field ahead.   We stop, watch a few mallards starkly inked against the sky, coming in for a delightfully wet picnic. We see our first humans walking towards us.  We head home.  

Risk Analysis - A Moment in the Sun

Monday, April 13.  Today I woke, again, at 3:30 — and after an hour or so of almost, but not quite, drifting off, I got up to the sound of gentle rain. Rain is always a blessing in New Mexico.  But now, I’m reminded of an image taken a week ago from my studio perch above the acequia.  

A cottontail rabbit stretched, then settled, into what, for a bunny, was a relaxed posture, and began to soak up the sunshine.  She was clearly visible on the path that borders the acequia (irrigation ditch in New Mexico) with cover nearby, but not surrounding her.  I was struck by her willingness to take this risk, to expose herself in this way for no apparent reason other than enjoying the soothing warmth of the morning sun.  A rabbit lives in a state of constant vigilance, or a rabbit does not live long.  Coyotes, hawks, owls, raccoons, dogs, cats — none will miss an opportunity to enjoy bunny for breakfast.

Clearly, she hadn’t done this without assessing the risks. I know from my daily walks along that path that there is a bunny-sized depression under the fence behind her, allowing a swift escape to the nearby farm shed.  This shed is favored by rabbits throughout the year; with lots of giant farm machinery to serve as cover, and tunnels under the building to provide shelter from all kinds of weather and pursuing predators.  Although she was visible to me, with my hawk’s eye view from above — she also had a 360 degree view of the world around her, and her enormous ears could swivel like radar to glean the sound of even the lightest approaching footsteps. 

I was taken by this moment, and I took the opportunity to document it with my camera.  It caused me to consider the parallels with our human lives during the Coronavirus.  We are so much more vigilant — as we must be, if we want to stay healthy. If we are fortunate enough to have a home, we consider the risks of every action we take outside that shelter. Do we go to work, if we have a job that requires us to do so?  Or do we stay home, to protect ourselves and our families and risk the inability to pay our bills. If we have a job that puts us at high risk of exposure, do we isolate ourselves from our loved ones when we return home to protect them?  Perhaps in the garage, or if we can afford it, another abode, however lonely?  Do we venture out for food and other necessities?  Yes, probably, but we don’t do so without considering the risk.  How many people will we encounter?  Will they be wearing masks and gloves to protect us?  Must we sanitize the box of cereal we bought?  Do we engage in a social distancing hike with our partner, or a socially distanced happy hour with a few beloved friends or family?  Or might some accidental cough, or sneeze, or touching of a surface infect one of us?

Like the bunny, we have little choice about venturing out for true necessities to sustain our bodies; therefore, we take the risks to do so, and protect ourselves and others as best we can. But the actions that sustain our souls — walking or cycling outdoors, connecting with a friend or family member at a “safe” distance, or continuing to care for the grandchildren whose parent may be a serious risk of exposure due to her work  — these things require a deeper and much more searing analysis of the potential risks versus rewards.  Such human connections are our moment in the sun — and they sustain us too.  But at what potential cost? No one has these answers.  All we can do is remain vigilant and yet as relaxed as possible while we make our own decisions.   

About These Reflections

The entire planet has been forever changed by the Coronavirus outbreak in 2020.  Our individual and collective experiences are constantly broadcast electronically, in print, and unavoidably in the atmosphere of angst that envelops us. Why am I compelled to add my voice to the cacophony?

Like everyone else, I seek to make sense of what is happening. Writing forces me to think deeply about the experience inside and outside me, and find a way to shape it into something meaningful.  The river of my life has slowed and eddied over the last several weeks. In New Mexico, our Governor issued a shelter-in-place order in mid-March. Like nearly everyone I know, I find this a surreal, and sometimes frightening experience. But the experience also has a quiet beauty. It has provided me with time and space, to reflect, not only about life in this crisis, but also on all the miraculous teachings of the natural world I can view around my home near the Rio Grande. My purpose in writing is to mold my reflections into a form that can be shared with others. Perhaps you might find a resonance in them, whether familiar and comforting, or fresh and provocative.

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