Downy Woodpecker
Junco
Mockingbird
Black-Capped Chickadee
Carolina Wren
Oregon Pink-Sided Junco (? possibly)
Red-Breasted Nuthatch
Purple Finch
Dove
Cardinal
Tufted Titmouse
...and most of these came in multiples! Now that the semester's over, I could guiltlessly watch the birds in my backyard this morning instead of rush to revise essays the moment I got out of bed. It was fabulous. I only wish the doves had been turtle-doves because there were two of them. :-)
Updates on the backyards and blue jays: They both had a wonderful summer. I wondered why I didn't blog about them during the summer, and I concluded that they're so obviously beautiful when all is green and verdant and lively that it seems like overkill to call attention to what's already so apparent on its own. But this time of year, when the snow and ice are coating the backyard, and blue skies (like this morning) are rare, when the birds depend on our birdfeeders and the heated birdbath, I like to mention the brave birds who stick around even during the cold, dark Pennsylvania winter.
Some notes:
The mockingbird disappeared all summer, much to my great disappointment. A few months ago (Oct 5, actually), the mockingbird came back, perched on top of the black walnut tree, and sang for about a half-hour to announce his return. (Okay, I don't know it's the same one, but I like to think so.) I think I even heard a seagull in his new repertoire. Where were you all summer, dear bird?
About a month ago, I was outside at 1:00 a.m. trying to see the Leonids, but it was too cloudy. As I was stepping back into the nice, warm house, I heard an owl! It wasn't in my yard, but a few yards down, in a thicket of pine trees I believe. Judging by its hoot, I think it was a Great Horned Owl. I've been listening for it in the meantime, but I'm afraid he was just passing through. Sad. We've certainly got enough chipmunks around to last him the winter.
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Final Reflection
For those of you without a syllabus to refer to, next Saturday I will email my final assignments to my course instructors and pray for good grades to complete my first semester of grad school. Our final blog prompt for the semester asks us to reflect on our experiences and what we’ve learned, but it’s such a fitting close that I imagine I might have taken a stab at it without the assignment. (That is, if I would have let myself take the time away from other assignments to do so.)
My three courses have intertwined themselves like the English ivy on the walnut trees, so that I’m not sure what one class has taught me outside of the others. I do know that, of all times in my life to be forced by school to go outside and simply be, this season in my life was the when I needed it the most.
Nature is cruel. Nature keeps winter from disappearing from my region when I just want sunlight. Nature left a pile of feathers behind the garden shed after a hawk caught her dinner. Nature tears shingles from rooftops, floods creekbeds, and brings on cancer and heart attacks and grief.
But nature is kind, too. It’s connected; we’re all in this boat together. I’m not the only person to lose her father suddenly and unexpectedly and on the eve of the most family-oriented holiday of the year, and that knowledge, while not making the loss any less sad, still helps me keep some perspective. Nature is cyclical. Seasons change. Transitions happen. Sometimes, like a democracy, the change in season happens peacefully, without you even noticing. Other times, the passing season refuses to let go its hold. But it still can’t stop the change. Even when there are remnants of cold, the warmth shows itself in little ways.
My life is a series of settings. I track myself based on where I am, not necessarily on who I am or who I’m with or what I’m doing there. What I’ve read this semester and observed in my backyard has reminded me that setting, so strong a character in my life, should be as strong in my writing. As the seasons change, I’ll learn the trick of establishing place.
This backyard won’t be in my family forever, but my family will be in it. It has my dad and my mom and my brother and me stamped in every inch of its soil. Our pets have been buried here, fresh veggies have been harvested, firewood has been stacked and wine has been sipped in the flickering light of mosquito candles and the shining summer moon.
I’ve always loved my yard. I took photos of the yard with me to Germany, and I bragged about my yard when I missed having space to breathe in Baltimore. But after a semester of simultaneous stress and grief and healing, I love this yard like I would love a doctor who cured me of a disease. Still, a big part of healing is getting past the healing and back to a normal life.
This morning, I watched a pair of hawks soaring on the wind.
My three courses have intertwined themselves like the English ivy on the walnut trees, so that I’m not sure what one class has taught me outside of the others. I do know that, of all times in my life to be forced by school to go outside and simply be, this season in my life was the when I needed it the most.
Nature is cruel. Nature keeps winter from disappearing from my region when I just want sunlight. Nature left a pile of feathers behind the garden shed after a hawk caught her dinner. Nature tears shingles from rooftops, floods creekbeds, and brings on cancer and heart attacks and grief.
But nature is kind, too. It’s connected; we’re all in this boat together. I’m not the only person to lose her father suddenly and unexpectedly and on the eve of the most family-oriented holiday of the year, and that knowledge, while not making the loss any less sad, still helps me keep some perspective. Nature is cyclical. Seasons change. Transitions happen. Sometimes, like a democracy, the change in season happens peacefully, without you even noticing. Other times, the passing season refuses to let go its hold. But it still can’t stop the change. Even when there are remnants of cold, the warmth shows itself in little ways.
My life is a series of settings. I track myself based on where I am, not necessarily on who I am or who I’m with or what I’m doing there. What I’ve read this semester and observed in my backyard has reminded me that setting, so strong a character in my life, should be as strong in my writing. As the seasons change, I’ll learn the trick of establishing place.
This backyard won’t be in my family forever, but my family will be in it. It has my dad and my mom and my brother and me stamped in every inch of its soil. Our pets have been buried here, fresh veggies have been harvested, firewood has been stacked and wine has been sipped in the flickering light of mosquito candles and the shining summer moon.
I’ve always loved my yard. I took photos of the yard with me to Germany, and I bragged about my yard when I missed having space to breathe in Baltimore. But after a semester of simultaneous stress and grief and healing, I love this yard like I would love a doctor who cured me of a disease. Still, a big part of healing is getting past the healing and back to a normal life.
This morning, I watched a pair of hawks soaring on the wind.
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