Nature at the Gate — ART, FOOD, BOOKS, WELLBEING, CHILDHOOD

Last fall, before Cloistered Time (aka the pandemic lockdown), I began work on a handmade book with the familiar Rumi passage, “Let the beauty we love be what we do”. I had become dis-heartened; each day, our world felt more fragmented, our environment more imperiled. The Rumi line held an important reminder for me, a call from his 16th century writing, to attend to the present and to that which is – still – present, alive, simple and beautiful.

But Rumi’s preceding lines gave me pause: “Today, like everyday, we wake up empty and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.” Reading and a generous library have always been reliable and sustaining allies in my life. In an earlier post, Books Breathing, I wrote about my deep involvement with reading, a reading community and books themselves. (An early handmade book on the subject, Book Time, was referred to in that post.) Further, I resisted owning “empty and frightened” as my morning state.

*The newspapers are the ones that were stacking up. The painter’s palette and beloved ceramic cup invite another focus. The cup folds out toward the reader.*

Still, the process of tacking ideas, images, words and pages on the studio wall to get started on this project was begun. I felt a need to honor the whole quote, with its emptiness and fear as well as its beauty. I had taken several photographs of newspapers stacked high at the front door and realized that my own “empty and frightened” times were associated with an increasingly urgent reading of newspapers, news journals and digital media, a burgeoning case of “You can never get enough of what you don’t need.”

Rumi’s admonition to open the day with music and beauty renewed a resolve to begin our days with nature, early light, a quiet coffee in a turquoise cup, readings on art and nature and returning to the rich, contemplative offerings of Marv and Nancy Hiles’ An Almanac for the Soul, a gift from dear friends Barbara and Charlie. The reading of excellent (and, yes, alarming) books continues, but is more intentionally placed within the day – and balanced by lyrical and steadfast company.

Labyrinths have been of interest and significance to us for a long time; we love sharing the path with others.

The title page of This Day presents the photograph Threshold, a frog on the brass handle of our front door. The close presence of creatures and plant life in Florida are a gift, an education and a responsibility. The frogs on the front door are delicate, sweet reminders that here and now, we dwell in nature. After the baby owls fledged in the early months of the pandemic, two orphaned fawns took up residence nearby, grazing in the neighborhood at all hours. (Wildlife Care has shared advice and wisdom, as they did with the owls.) We have had the happiness of watching this pair grow, consider being adopted by a shy, young doe, confront massive Sandhill Cranes and investigate a preoccupied opossum. And, there has been the inimitable joy of sharing them with the children.

So, This Day begins with opening a blue door, being encircled by great oaks and graced with visitors.

Has it been an entire month since the little owl fell from the nest? How to gauge a day, a week, a month in this time of pandemic. In a single breath, we sigh: “The days go so fast “ and “It feels like forever”. We had been watching a pair of baby owls with a daily gathering of neighbors, when one disappeared on April 21. A lone owlet gazed back at us that Tuesday, and we were uneasy. Underneath the joy of leaving the isolation of our homes to gather and witness the owl family, we had known something could go wrong.

Days before, we passed our neighbor peering up into a great oak in her front yard. An expert friend of birds, she pointed to a pair of tiny owls solemnly looking down, fuzzy heads, big dark eyes and little beaks just visible. Over the next few days, – with a growing group of people – we watched them with delight and relief. (Ok, everything’s ok. Another day of isolating; another day of baby owls safe in the nest, their parents nearby, protective, delivering carryout.) Then, that Tuesday, one was missing, leaving the sadness of many losses in its place.

Incredibly, another neighbor, a photographer and bird whisperer, discovered the fallen sibling in brush below the oak, cradling it for two hours while someone from Wildlife Care arrived. The word was that it would be returned on Saturday, if all went well. For the rest of that week, the gathering grew, morning and evening, breath held and hopes pinned on the remaining owlet, now trying out some fancy teetering on the edges of the nest. (Dude, stay safe, be well, take care. Consider wearing a tiny mask as you venture out. Just saying.) It was heartening to be in a group, albeit a socially distancing one, all gazing in wonder at a nest thirty feet above us, in the branches of a tree that was alive during the pandemic a century ago. Walking in the mornings with our dog, Willa, and biking in the evenings, we looked forward to seeing who was there, owls above and humans below.

On Saturday, as promised, an intrepid Wildlife Care team arrived, with the fallen owlet nestled in a cobalt blue plastic bucket. A member roped up and delivered the little one back to its nest and family. Against some odds, it worked! (See, stuff can work out! We can reconnect after being apart. All will be well.)

Over the next days, friends and families, children and grandchildren came on foot and on bikes, carrying phones, binoculars, serious cameras with long lenses – and the odd cocktail. One father often brought his girls because, he said, “I’m forty years old, and I’ve never even seen baby owls before. They will always remember this.” I’m glad baby owls will be one of their memories of this unique time. And nightly bike rides with the whole family. And friendly people, captivated by nature, looking up, together. We are grateful, too.

I heard our neighbor ask children if they had names for the owls, and I wondered if she had named her visitors. In response, she told the story of once naming an elegant koi and the extra measure of sadness around its demise. We shared our experience of naming wildlife, a tale that concludes with a local gator hunter telling me, “Well…I wouldn’t be naming those ducks.”

So we didn’t own up to our silly names for the owlets, Big Boy and Fuzzy Bunny. (“Big Boy” is provisional, as someone from Wildlife Care said that only genetic testing reveals an owl’s gender with certainty.) Though Fuzzy Bunny had packed on the grams in its time away, Big Boy was twice the size of his sibling. He led the way in Wallenda walking up the oak and out onto swaying branches, tentatively stretching his new barred wings.

Within a short week, they had both fledged and rapidly expanded their territory even as we retreated back towards ours. We carry with us images of little ones growing strong in tenuous times, their times – and one hopeful celebration of community convened by nature.