THERE YOU ARE! – Making Eye Contact With Nature

Last week, I started writing a post about the wonders of making eye contact with Nature. Specifically, about a remarkable interaction I’d had with two beavers while I was canoeing a backwater of the beautiful St. Croix River. I’d been struck by their sustained gaze as they swam, as if on a 30-foot tether, in a perfect arc around me.

This evening, while still working on that piece, I took a break and went out to sit on our deck with our sweet little mini-schnauzer, Sylvia…and a margarita. And over the next twenty minutes, a little drama played out that convinced me those beavers could no longer be my lead. 

             It’s hard to discern emotion in 
             eyes half the size of apple seeds.

PHOTO: Wikimedia Commons

GOT NECTAR?
This whole summer, Sally and I have seen very little of our ruby-throated hummingbirds. In fact, we’d thought there was just one—a female. But then, just a few weeks ago, a tiny newcomer shows up at the feeder. (We still haven’t seen Papa.) And, sadly, whenever either Sally or I have been out there on the deck both mom and baby have made themselves scarce.

As the inevitable day of their migration south approaches, we’re treasuring every sighting of these precious little beings, albeit through the window.

So, here I am, sitting on the deck. I’ve cranked open our big red umbrella, Sylvie’s lying in my lap, and a little chill music is playing. We’re right behind the curtain of purple petunias and white bacopa trailing from our railing boxes. Just on the other side, where I can’t see it, is our hummingbird feeder—filled with nectar I refreshed just this morning.

All of a sudden I catch that inimitable flitting-then-hovering hummer motion out of the corner of my eye. One must have landed at the feeder. 

Then, suddenly, just between the balusters of the deck railing, no more than three feet from us, here’s the mama, hovering, looking right at us. She’s so close I can hear her hum.

PHOTO: alandrapal / The Lens Flare

First, she suspends in front of Sylvie’s nose for a few seconds; then she flits up to my level and stares right into my eyes. Then, as if that weren’t enchanting enough, the baby appears and, while mom backs off, does the same.

It’s hard to discern intent or emotion in eyes half the size of apple seeds, but I believe it’s there. Maybe it’s gratitude—like “Hey, thanks for the yummy sugar water”—but you know, I’ll settle for curiosity just slightly eclipsing caution. In any case, I’m absolutely smitten.

       I’m locked eye-to-eye with a 40-ton whale!

A FLUKE OF NATURE?
Moving from one end of the critter-size spectrum to the other, I’ve had this very same transcendent experience with a whale. (An adult female gray whale weighs roughly 12,000,000 times more than that hummingbird that locked eyes with me on the deck.)

Sally and I had sailed from San Diego down the Pacific coast toward Cabo San Lucas and the Sea of Cortez aboard the 95-foot natural history cruise boat, the Searcher. Along the way, we stopped to spend a couple of days in Laguna San Ignacio, where scores of Pacific gray whale cows tend and teach their calves for a while each spring. 

There, in the wild, of their own accord—and for no tangible reward—50-foot Pacific gray whale cows swim under their 15- to 20-foot calves, gently lifting and nudging them toward our little ten-person rowboats and our outstretched hands. The babies seem to love the attention, gently bumping the boat and even opening their mouths so we can scratch their baleen (the keratin filters they use to strain krill and other food from the water).

After presenting her calf to me, one mama whale backs off a few yards where she raises her head out of the water and watches me warily. That’s right, I’m locked eye-to-eye with a 40-ton whale!

I remember so vividly the enormity, the depth…the magic of that experience. And hoping that whatever that whale saw in my eyes reciprocated the respect and trust I was reading in hers.

           Do wild animals immediately spot 
           these two tiny blue orbs in my face?

SEEING GENEROUSLY

Between those two extremes of animal size, I’ve had numerous other close encounters with the eyes of wild creatures: eagles, deer, coyotes, muskrats, herons, and even fish. Just this week, it was those beavers circling my canoe, their eyes fixed on mine.

What’s going through animals’ heads as they lock stares with me? Do they recognize me as another animal? And how do they know? Is it the eyes? Do wild animals immediately spot these two tiny blue orbs in my face? Can they read other creatures’ eyes anywhere near as well as domestic dogs have learned to read ours? 

I wonder if these and other critters might exemplify a concept I’ve often written about in these pages: seeing generously. The beneficence would be my eyes conveying peace, understanding, perhaps some form of love. Then, if that vibe somehow allows an animal to experience those same sensibilities, that means the gift’s been received. 

Might this explain why these creatures I commune with don’t see me as a threat?

ILLUSTRATION: Thomas Wolter, Pixabay

IS IT SPIRITUAL?
Our eyes—human eyes—have been celebrated in literature and film as windows to our souls. Perhaps wild animals, too, know how to look into that window. After all, we know they possess sensory faculties we humans—at least those of us no longer living in the wild—have long ago lost to evolution.

Whatever that reading, do you think it’s based on merely an exchange of information, or might there be more to the transaction? Might my connection with these, my fellow creatures, exceed the reach of the conventional senses and border on the spiritual? 

I think it does, and it’s rare indeed. 

It’s only when both the critter and the human decide—or, perhaps more accurately, allow themselves—to see the other’s aura that the magical connection is made. Today that happened for me with those little hummingbirds.

What they see in my eyes—I hope—most certainly is a kind of love.

OR IS IT LOVE?
One of the high points of any day for me is sustained eye contact with our dog. Sweet little Sylvia nestles in the furrow between my left thigh and the arm of my Lazy Boy. Once in a while she’ll turn her head up toward me and just stare into my eyes. It’s magical. 

Of course, I can’t tell you exactly what Sylvie sees in my eyes, but I know what I see in hers. She shows me a range of emotions: fear, excitement, shame. But the expression that touches my heart most profoundly is hard to describe. I guess it’s just pure, sweet love. 

With my inter-species encounters in Nature, I can’t say I read such love in the eyes of wild animals. That's as it should be, I suppose. I do see caution, naturally. And curiosity. Occasionally playfulness. But what they see in my eyes—at least I hope—most certainly is a kind of love. 

SEEING THE BEING
I’ve experienced the enchantment of eye contact with many creatures. In fact, I occasionally offer the same gift of seeing generously to other, inanimate faces of Nature, like trees…or even still-more-inscrutable ones like rocks and clouds. 

It’s not that I pretend these faces have eyes, but I do believe they have being. And the fact that we share that condition makes us kin. Makes them, I believe, worthy of my seeing.

How do you experience the wonder of eye contact with Nature? Is there one animal, one occasion in which you've felt the most profound connection? Do you see even inanimate elements of Nature with that same generosity of spirit? We’d love to hear about it in the comments!

MIDSUMMER'S PLIGHT – Hues of My Early-August Blues

It’s early August and, at least meteorologically, summer’s half over.

Along with that rather imprecise milestone comes a trickle of melancholy, one I know will swell, and by late September overflow my emotional sandbags.

      Spring defies gravity; late summer obeys.

Never have I been more aware of the truth of the previous and subsequent seasons’ names: spring and fall. Spring defies gravity; late summer obeys—as do my spirits. Anticipation slides into memory; hope, into gratitude—and perhaps a regret or two.

In spring, Nature’s on the offensive, everything rising, spreading, reaching for the sun. By late July, though, things are sagging. Now it’s about adapting, hanging on and, eventually, letting go.

PHOTO: Garden Style San Antonio

As seasonal transitions go, this one, from early summer to late, is seldom acknowledged. But it’s full of wistful wonder which, if I pay attention, touches all my senses. I encourage you to contemplate it too.

LISTEN
Already, a few leaves are dropping, drifting silently to the ground. Acorns fall with more authority…and bounce. Their caps’ satisfying crunch underfoot has always been, for me, an early harbinger of fall.

Speaking of later-summer sounds, it’s now one notices bird song modulating from the urgent airs of spring into a more business-like chatter, from the eager tone of expectant parents to the more subdued chirping of empty-nesters. 

At night, it’s the overture of cricket music, seldom heard here before mid-July. From the shrill, strumming ensemble my favorite instrument stands out: the synchronous pulsing of snowy tree crickets (whose cadence uncannily measures the temperature*).
       After-dinner daylight is losing its charge.

LOOK
Late summer brings different shades of green. The still-unfurling, citrusy hues of spring green have turned darker, dusty. The leaves’ once innocent faces are now sullied by half a summer’s elements, many scarred, too, by bugs and fungus. 

The season squeezes new colors onto forest and meadow palettes: tawny grasses, wilted wildflowers, the occasional upstart leaf blurting its gold or crimson.

Flowers also affirm the transition. Many have come and gone. Those splendid hybrid lilies I’ve been photographing since mid-June are giving way to the day kind. Now we’re seeing asters and mums, phlox, hydrangea and sunflowers

It's time for the yellow jackets to take off. Just tonight, at our neighborhood picnic, they were out in force. For me, one with a history of painful confrontations with these combative marauders, they're among the least pleasant of midsummer's little insults.

The shadows grow longer earlier. With sunset well on its way to clawing back its grim 4:30 time slot, after-dinner daylight is losing its charge.

SMELL
Be aware, these days, of subtle changes in the air. The fresh lilt of spring breezes ripens with earthy notes of decay and fungus. It's like moving from a young Beaujolais Nouveau to a nice, well-rounded French Pinot Noir. 

And taste, let’s not forget this most essential sense. Midsummer bids a fond farewell to the freshest citrus fruits and those sublime Mexican Ataulfo mangoes, and welcome to home-grown tomatoes and sweet corn—without equal in any supermarket. Soon those, in turn, will give way to apples and squash.

       Soon it will be out with the dock, 
       in with the canning and patio furniture.

FEEL 
The effect on one’s sense of touch by this midsummer passage is a bit harder to pin down. But there are signs. 

Tinged with dust and mold and new strains of pollen, the air feels different in the nose, on the skin. I sneeze more—just a prelude, I guess, to mid-August when the ragweed detonates.

We now see occasional days of slightly cooler, drier air, days when folks start saying, “Feels like fall.” 

I don’t know if it’s a real thing or not, but there are subtle changes in one’s motivation each day, from spring and early summer’s spirit of openings and plantings and cleanings…to late summer’s closings, reapings and stowings. Soon it will be out with the dock, in with the canning and patio furniture, and other rites that leave me, if I let them, a little blue.

How about you?

PHOTO: Wikipedia

CHALLENGE: How do you experience this under-appreciated transition from early summer to late summer? Is it something you enjoy or dread? Or maybe you find it, as I do, bittersweet. Any tips on how to ease the melancholy? We’d love to hear from you…
                                           ~       •        ~       •        ~              
* The calculation is (for Fahrenheit): count the number of trill pulses in 14 seconds and add 40. (I’ve done this many times over the years—as recently as tonight—and have always come within a degree either way of the actual temperature.)

THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE – Hearing Nature In the City

Only once before in the 15 years we’ve lived here in Minneapolis’s Prospect Park had I experienced such quiet. It was late May, 2020, right after George Floyd was killed, and they closed the freeways as a security measure while protests surged.

This time, it’s because they’ve closed I-94 in both directions this weekend for construction.

Sally and I knew, when we bought our townhouse right next to the interstate, that we’d live with the constant hiss of tire treads on pavement. We made light of it, pretending it was the surf—just like in our favorite Mexican Pacific beach town.

In the city one gets used to things like that. But I, as one committed to noticing and celebrating life’s small wonders, have been acutely aware of what I couldn’t hear through all that traffic noise: the sweet, subtle sounds of Nature.

SOFT-SPOKEN BIRDS 
Usually, Nature’s soundscape around our house is like splashes of translucent watercolor thrown on drab, grey paper, the hues all but swallowed by the dim background. But back in May, 2020, and again today, the paper is once again pure white; the colors, vivid. 

IMAGE: Vecteezy

PHOTO: Nat'l Audubon Society

Most days it takes the raucous scolding of the blue jays to penetrate the veil, but today I’m catching the subtler notes of sparrows and 
house finches. In fact, I hear dozens of bird voices from all over our block. 

Today, pleasant summery music wafts to my 
ear from someone’s patio over on East River Terrace. Today I hear the cadence of my own footsteps.

       The deafening hush was rent by the eerie 
       wailing of wolves just across the bay.

A SILENT ROAR 
Silence is, indeed, a rare and precious gift. But is what we believe to be silence really silent? I’ve found that it isn’t. Nearly always there’s at least a murmur of sound—an airplane high overhead, a whisper of wind through pines, the indistinct hum every city produces from vehicles, air conditioners, people…whatever—to sort of anchor your hearing. 

And if you’ve ever experienced true silence, the kind that might envelop you in the wilderness, it can be unnerving. It is, as they say, deafening. 

PHOTO: Save the Boundary Waters

I experienced that kind of stillness at night on a solo canoe trip in northern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. My brain had a hard time processing that profound absence of sound, manifesting a kind of roaring sensation as if in protest of the depravation. (One early morning, that deafening hush was rent by the haunting wail of wolves just across the bay.)

         It may take a bit more focus sifting out 
         those subtler notes.

HEAVY METAL BANNED
Silence—at least occasionally—is good for us. Not just us introverts, but everyone. A 2021 article in Healthline details eight distinct physical and mental health benefits. Many other studies agree.

So I urge you, if you can, to get out of town for a while to a place where the voices of Nature can land as bright brush strokes on that pure white paper of silence.  

PHOTO: Wikimedia Commons

And even when we’re in the city, let’s make a special effort to discern the natural sounds hiding in plain hearing all around us. It may take a bit more focus sifting out those subtler notes from the “heavy metal” of urban noise, but its proven health benefits—not to mention the equally-well-proven spiritual lift—make it well worthwhile.

Have any tips or tricks for better hearing and appreciating Nature’s sounds? We’d love to hear them! Just jot a comment using the “comments” link below.

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY! – They Can't Take Away Wonder!

These long summer holiday weekends, it's easy to lose sight of what the occasion's really all about. Sure, the Fourth is about fun. After all, it's a celebration, a cherished opportunity to spend a few of these long, languid days just being outdoors, having fun with people we love, and eating our way into a long nap in a hammock.

But the fourth is also a time for gratitude—an appreciation of living in this great, fiercely independent nation whose liberty was hard won two-and-a-half centuries ago. I try never to lose sight of this, even though that liberty is awfully easy to take for granted, since it's only rarely been challenged since—and even more rarely on our own soil.*

The Fourth of July also has come to represent a passage into summer, especially for those of us living in northern climes. (I think we can be fairly sure it won't snow now!) So let's be aware of all those little wonders that make this season such a blessing.

Here are just a few of the small wonders I plan to notice and appreciate as if I were experiencing them for the very first time:

• The way kernels of fresh sweet corn pop as my teeth plow through them
• The pulsing sizzle of a hot meadow teeming with life
• How my skin smells toasted in sunny, sultry air

 

• The pink crystalline coolness of watermelon chilled in the creek
• The misty echo up and down the river valley of a big aerial bomb's boom

• Water – that amazing clear, cool, flowing substance that both sustains and entertains

• A bluegill's arresting colors and texture and spiny dorsal fin
• The magical, winking syncopation of firefly glow with cricket chirp
• The sweet, evocative smell of freshly mown grass
• The faces of my grandchildren as they too experience wonder
  
  

 

What little wonders will you be 
ready to embrace this Fourth of 
July weekend?


 

* It saddens me to note the deeply troubling undercurrent to this year's otherwise joyous celebration of Independence Day. Never in my long life have I been as deeply concerned about the state of my country. 
    We've elected—for the second time—a shallow, narcissistic, vengeful, willfully ignorant reality-show host as president. His yes-men appointees, as well as his sycophantic loyalists in both houses of Congress seem hell-bent on turning the nation's back on our responsibilities—not just to the rest of the world, but to the poorest, most vulnerable of our own countrymen. We are the laughing stock of the world.
    Instead of America's trademark optimism, drive and inspired leadership, we've retreated into a cowardly shell of fear, enabling shameless opportunism by a visionless, doom-and-gloom ruling oligarchy. 
    It is nothing less than an assault on our country's founding principles and on much of the hard-won cultural evolution we've achieved during my lifetime. 

HEAVEN OF A HUNDRED GREENS

Each spring serves up to these aging eyes, this rejuvenating soul, an eagerly awaited feast of color. Here in Minnesota, winter’s barren, monochrome landscape has starved us of such nourishment for five long months. 

        We must continually make room for 
        wonder in this panoply of presumption.

It’s easy to lavish gratitude on the first green shoots of Siberian squill and then crocus, daffodil and hyacinth. Later, grass starts its miraculous reinfusing of green, followed closely by the unfurling of tree leaves. And finally the usual succession of perennials bursting forth with every possible shape, hue and texture of greenery.

Having witnessed the display every spring since we opened our infant eyes, naturally we’ve come to take it for granted, haven’t we? The same way we do with blue skies, breathing, and other automatic functions of Nature.

But, to continue evolving as human beings, as stewards of the celestial body that sustains us, we must continually make room for wonder in this panoply of pre-
sumption. For the ability to see at least some of Nature’s gifts—including green—as if for the first time.

     A square of black muslin paled next to, of all 
     things, a swatch of black plastic garbage bag.

IT ISN’T WHAT IT IS
One of my first college studio art assignments was to create an 8-inch by 8-inch paper collage, each of whose 64 one-by-one squares was black. The squares were to be taken from any sheet source—paper, fabric, plastic or any other material—as long as each one appeared pure black. 

I used all of these materials, including many samples clipped from magazine photos of black objects: a car, a dress, a night sky, a piano. In their respective contexts, each square was definitely black.

With my grid lightly penciled in and my little squares neatly stacked, I started gluing them all down to the cardboard base. 

What took shape was not a solid sheet of "black." Far from it. It was an elegant mosaic of deep, rich colors, each brought out only by its contrast with its neighbors. What might have seemed common black in its original, unchallenged environment now shone in distinct, dark hues: eggplant, mahogany, claret, midnight blue; deep woods green, ebony.

And it wasn't just the hues; a range of textures came into play too. Even the blackest value rendered on newsprint now looked dull and flat next to a sample printed on glossy magazine stock. A square of black muslin paled next to, of all things, a swatch of black plastic garbage bag. 

(The second part of the "Black & White" assignment was to do exactly the same thing with "whites." Suffice it to say the results were every bit as surprising and beautiful as those realized with the "blacks."
 
   My soul awaits those first April shoots so bravely 
   borne from twig and stem and umber soil.

GREEN, SEEN
So that brings us to these greens I'm enjoying during today’s walk around the neighborhood. Greens no one’s ever asked us to categorize or compare. It dawns on me that this could be another challenge—to an art school student, yes, but also to anyone looking to deepen their appreciation of this awesome, underappreciated color.

So I take a quick photo of the melange of green I'm about to walk through. Then I do the whole mosaic thing again, this time digitally. 

No surprise, the result is as beautiful as that black-on-black checkerboard I created a half century ago. Here, in these thirty-plus verdant shades, is the reason my soul awaits so keenly not just spring flowers, but those first April shoots so bravely borne from twig and stem and umber soil.

THE SACRED CENTER – Happy Places, Real and Imagined

Some years back, I was due to undergo major back surgery down at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. To prepare myself emotionally—and, some sources claimed, physically—I looked into hypnosis. As luck would have it, my next-door office neighbor at the time was one of the preeminent experts in the world on what’s called alert hypnosis—also called self-hypnosis.

He coached me a bit and then steered me to a former colleague’s video series developed specifically for patients facing surgery.*

One of the techniques taught in the program is, after a pretty standard meditation prep, to create a special place in one’s own mind, one of peace and contentment. Then the therapist describes how to attach a sort of “switch” to instantly call up that virtual escape, bypassing all the prelims. (My switch was simply to tap together the tips of my right index finger and thumb.)

        My happy place affected, as the surgeon 
        was soon to exclaim, a remarkably quick 
        and thorough recovery. 

INCISIONS, DECISIONS
So, as they wheel me to the operating room, I trigger my escape using that cue…and there I am in the little utopia I’d created, a beautiful, isolated northwoods lakeside cabin. 

So, at least till the anesthesia sets in, there I am, moving through my structure, experiencing each space and each view, examining every detail. Some features I still love; others, I move around or swap out for different styles or colors.  

I’m convinced that my self-hypnotically-induced happy place not only helped me remain calm, but also affected, as the surgeon was soon to exclaim, a remarkably quick and thorough recovery. 

I’LL HAVE THE SHRIMP
Another fantasy escape that takes me occasionally away from the clamor of real life finds Sally and me one night on a nearly deserted Brazilian beach. (I employ this one to cheat when they take my blood pressure.) 

The Milky Way is strewn across the pitch black sky. Delicious sea breezes stir the flames of a small bonfire I’ve built. Somehow we’ve managed to bring all that wood, a blanket, some food and, of course, a jug of caipirinhas** to sip on. 

Just down the beach a hundred yards away there’s a party going on. They have their own fire and some really nice live music. The small acoustic combo performs a mellow playlist inspired by samba icons Jobim and Gilberto. 

And they’re grilling shrimp, whose inimitable garlicky aroma just happens to be wafting our way. We soak it all in, appreciating each delicious sensation as a gift.

WHERE THE HEART IS
Like those Mayo Clinic and doctor’s office diversions, some happy places are imaginary. But I have a few that are real too. 

There are the exotic ones, like some of Sally’s and my travel destinations. Like a few little towns I've visited in Latin America. And places closer to home, but which still require a bit of effort to reach. Like my beloved St. Croix River and its backwaters, where I canoe and commune with Nature.

And then there are others that require no effort at all. Places most people would consider mundane, like our own living room where we simply sit, with our sweet little mini-Schnauzer, Sylvia, listen to music and talk.

         Near or far, solitary or with someone 
         else, they’re all really the same place. 

DO NOT DISTURB
I’m sure people's happy places vary greatly, depending on our personalities and tastes. Far away or close to home; out in Nature or indoors; summoning all the senses or just vision. 

The more I ponder the idea of happy places, the clearer it becomes that, whether near or far, solitary or with someone else, they’re all really the same place. And that’s a quiet little corner of our own minds and hearts, which, with a bit of self-discipline and a little imagination, we’ve cordoned off and marked: Busy taking care of myself. Do not disturb.

How about you? I'd love to hear about the places, real or imagined, in which you escape pain and stress. Won’t you please share them in the comments below?

                                               ~      •      ~      •      ~    

* The program—on CDs—is Smooth Surgery, Rapid Recovery: A Systematic Approach, by Dr. Carol Ginandes, a health psychologist affiliated with Boston’s McLean Hospital and Harvard University.

** The caipirinha is kind of the national cocktail of Brazil. It’s simply cachaça (a white rum), fresh lime juice and sugar.

LIVING SHADOWS

                                 Winter's shadows: numb,
                                 Frozen stiff as cadavers.

                                 Summer’s are alive.