enroute365

Sharing a bath (revisited)

As I noted Sunday, I'm taking a blogging break to focus on work demands. So, this week, I am re-publishing some archived posts. This one, "Sharing a bath" was written a year ago and the story within it proved to me that nature has many stories to tell and many lessons to share ... if I will only pay attention!

Only days ago I was trying to make peace with the interruptions that take me away from planned activities. Trying to schedule time for spontaneity (impossible) and friends (essential). Then, as it often does, I found my dilemma parodied in nature, just outside my back door.

I was hard at work in my home-office when I heard a minor ruckus at the birdbath. I looked out the window and saw a plump robin enthusiastically cleaning himself. I grabbed my camera and headed for a better view.

Seemingly oblivious to all around him, the bird dunked his head in the water, then rose up, feathers puffed out and wings fluttering eradically. Water spattered about as he shook himself dry, only to submerge himself and flap about again and again.

This robin was committed to his cleanliness and even as I chuckled at the sight of his water-logged noggin, (click on photo at left to enlarge), I marveled at his dedication to the task at hand.

Suddenly, without warning, a sparrow flew down, entering the scene. For a few seconds all grew quiet as each bird seemed to size-up the other. I could imagine the robin's reaction. “Who are you to intrude on my bath? Can't you see I'm busy here? You'll have to wait your turn.” But, after a few brief moments, he hopped to the side of the basin, making room for the smaller bird.

I pulled my face away from the camera and watched as two sets of flapping wings sent water spraying. Like synchronized swimmers, their feathers flew in water, then air, water, air. The robin's movements were less vigorous than before, perhaps in deference to his little companion.

Within the space of a minute, the show was over and the birds flew off in different directions. I walked away convinced that we all must make room for connections. Such is the nature of life. I can move to the side and flutter at a slower pace in order to share a small courtesy. Or, maybe, make a new friend.

If you liked this story (or just like birds!) check out my other bird-related posts:

• "The Eagle had Landed"
• "Dirty Bird"

Butterfly wisdom

What words come to mind when you see a butterfly?

Renewal? Tranquility? Freedom?

Before taking this picture (click to enlarge), I marveled at the false eyes in the design of this butterfly's wings. The word "wonder" came to mind as I considered how these small markings served to protect the creature. Then, watching the insect flutter about in leisurely fashion, I came to feel a peace in its presence. I was experiencing "tranquility."

The butterfly has become a metaphor for a wide range of concepts and feelings ... metaphors expressed throughout time and regardless of place. And that is why I'd like to share with you some of favorite butterfly quotations from around the world:

Happiness --

Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. -- Nathaniel Hawthorne, American short-story writer and novelist

When a small child, I thought that success spelled happiness. I was wrong, happiness is like a butterfly which appears and delights us for one brief moment, but soon flits away. -- Anna Pavlova, Russian ballerina

Living in the moment --

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. --Rabindranath Tagore, Indian poet, playwright and essayist

Reality --

Once I dreamed I was a butterfly, and now I no longer know whether I am Chuang Tzu, who dreamed I was a butterfly, or whether I am a butterfly dreaming that I am Chuang Tzu. -- Chuang Tzu, Chinese philosopher

Hope/potential --

Do ye not comprehend that we are worms born to bring forth the angelic butterfly that flieth unto judgment without screen? --Dante Alighieri, Italian author and poet

Here's wishing you a day filled with butterflies ... however you choose to see them!

How to weather a storm

I had hoped I was done writing flooding posts, but news coverage now informs me that, counter to expectations, levees are being breached in downtown Des Moines as swollen rivers channel through the city. So, before my spouse and I head out the door to lend a hand, I've decided to reach back into the archives to this wonderful legacy from my maternal grandmother ... one that reminds me I know how to weather a storm ...

I was five. My father had just called my siblings and me in from the lake which our backyard abutted.  I struggled to bring in an air mattress twice my size. Impatient, Dad barked, “Leave it. Come now!”  This wasn’t the usual advice from my parents when it came to my playthings, but I could tell from the tone of his voice that Dad wasn’t kidding. Something was wrong.

As I ran toward my father, I became aware of the wind tugging my cargo from my grip. My air mattress! I turned to see it bounding over what were now waves on the lake. “Forget it! Come now,” my father demanded.

My sisters and I were quickly routed through the back door and into the basement. We huddled inside against a cinder block wall as the storm broke loose outside. The light from the casement window dimmed and my parents spoke in hushed voices as my older sister tried to explain what a tornado was.

Grandma called to us. Over in the corner she had set up a card table and candle and was now busily setting out our crayons. “Here, girls,” she beckoned.

My parents remained by the window as my older sister Lynette and I began drawing. The rain stopped. At first I thought the storm was over. Then, our ears began to pop. My mother gasped as a thin stream of light appeared through a crack all along the top of the basement wall. “Get back in the corner,” mother ordered.

Grandma quickly parceled out gum and gently pulled my hand back to the paper. “Why don’t you draw the sun,” she suggested. “And, keep chewing your gum.”

At first I wasn’t sure how to draw a sun. But Grandma guided me. “First draw a circle,” she said. “Then, draw lines. Like this,” she advised, using a small corner of the paper. My drawing was no sooner complete than Lynette held it in comparison to her own. “You draw like a baby,” my older sister teased. My grandmother thought my sun was just fine. But I could see the difference: Lynette’s sun rays did not touch the orb of the sun. I drew several more in practice ... with Grandma guarding my crayons.

My parents soon said the storm was over. I could feel their relief. Dad went outside first. My raft was long gone and my favorite tree littered the yard.

Later I heard how the storm, a tornado, passed directly over the lake. How our home was pulled askew on its foundation. And how fortunate we had been. But what I really learned on this day was how to weather a storm. How when you create your own sunshine, fears are forgotten. And how wonderful it is to have Grandmother in your corner.

So, now it's time to go and see if I can create sunshine -- or at least bring a ray of light -- for someone else as, together, we weather this storm, this flood.

Causes of catastrophy

My mind is on the devastation I see around the world and, now, in my own community. And thus a multitude of thoughts roll through my brain ...

Why do we suffer hardships, catastrophes? Are there reasons for the massive earthquake in China? The Myanmar cyclone?  The flooding in the midwestern United States?

When I was growing up, I was taught there was a reason. We didn't call it karma. We were told it was the result of sin, godlessness.

At the time, I was not convinced. How could someone's personal beliefs (or lack thereof) cause famine?  If my own family believed in the wrong god for centuries, would a decade come where my crops would burn up year after year?  How could a people's moral decline spawn hurricane force winds? Or was their true “sin” their lack of foresight in choosing where to live or how to build?

When it came to sin, I could not make the connection. Still can't, even though I'm older and ... well, I'm older.

My friend Jan's mother was recently injured in a tornado in Parkersburg, Iowa. She lost her home but, amazingly, kept her life. Still it's not easy for me to see the photos of this 80-year-old grandmother with a bandaged head and two shiners. This is neither a godless woman nor an immoral one. And as the tornado weaved through some neighborhoods while sparing others, it seemingly did not seek out pockets of depravity ... it moved indiscriminately.

What I do believe in is natural consequences. It's how our physical world works. I've seen for myself that if we abuse or neglect what we are given, there will be repercussions, ones that are largely predictable. If I don't change the oil in my car regularly, it won't last five years or 30,000 miles, whichever comes first. If I smoke (and I used to), I weaken my body and invite disease. If our societies blindly spew pollutants into the air, there is bound to an environmental backlash. And today we're beginning to realize that those results may lie in the effects of global warming.

“So, then, global warming is our punishment?” you might ask. But then we'd be back to playing the blame game and I've never seen winners ever emerge from that kind of word play. Can we look at this differently? When calamity besets us, can we view this as an opportunity to do what humans do best? We adapt. Even better, we help each other adapt. And, as a result, we become better people; we build stronger societies. We survive and, in some ways, we evolve. 

How do YOU view catastrophy or natural disaster? Do we bring these events on ourselves? Are they bound to occur? Feel free to disagree with me! All comments that are submitted in the spirit of open sharing (ie., no attacks or verbal abuse) will be published.

Des Moines prepares to flood

Just a visual update to my earlier post, "Awaiting the Flood," juxtaposing the water levels of the Des Moines River (north of my home in the city of Des Moines, Iowa) from 2002 against that of 2008.

Awaiting the flood

I'm waiting. Waiting for the flood water to inundate my town. The last time this happened in Des Moines was 15 years ago.

At the time I was weeks into a relationship with the man who would become my husband. Back then, Frank knew how to show a girl a good time: five days after the flood had closed down the city's water system, Frank drove me to the home of relatives outside of town so I could enjoy a shower. Being clean had never felt so good! And I told myself that I'd never take water for granted again.

The flood of '93 had come unannounced. But this time it's different. Now the flooding is inevitable and experts are busy making predictions. Some say that the water will overflow the reservoir dam yet today. Others predict tomorrow. Other than the simplest of precautions, however -- like closing low-lying roads and bridges -- life and work proceed as normal.  Living high on a hillside, I have the luxury of not becoming too worried ... and the staff where I'm officing remains unconcerned despite having flooded in the past. How perplexing! How complacent! How surreal!

I recall the gorge which the floodwaters carved into the rock beneath the spillway in 1993. What power lies unseen in still water! How marvelous yet fearful is this element that daily I've discounted as a commodity of nature!

Water has quenched my thirst, cleansed my body and cooled my brow. Its delicate raindrops bring my hillside home to life each spring and its frozen flakes blanket the evergreens every winter. In jets of pressure, water has soothed my aching muscles. And gurgling in creek beds it has refreshed my very spirit. But today I await water's destructive side.

I am humbled. Humankind has yet to master to such a basic element as water. Oh, we've come a long way in harnessing its value for our own good, but we cannot match the power of its unique strength: fluidity. With no will to guide it, water will aways seek out new paths from the smallest fissures and lowest elevations. It will do so in droplets, streams and in torrents for it cannot be contained for long.

By the week's end I will have fully regained my respect for nature's power ... and for water in particular. I won't be the only one. Still, I hope it will be gentle with us: the collective memory is so fleeting.

A second glance at bears in Iowa

Don't tell the Immigration authorities, but Postville, Iowa -- the site of a recent raid by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement -- may be hosting a few other undocumented visitors. There is reason to believe that black bears may be in the area ... and they “have no legal status in Iowa" according to the state's Department of Natural Resources (DNR). I assume this is because the governor’s office is hesitant to grant them the full rights of citizenship. After all, they have indicated a reluctance to learn English, the official state language.

According to one news report, Iowa Bear Sightings Begin to Add Up, “There have been 11 reported sightings of a bear along Mudd Creek on the southern edge of North Liberty over the past two days.”

Another account, from the Iowa City Press-Citizen, tells of a single sighting and includes observations from DNR spokesman Joe Wilkinson about it. “If it was wild,” the article noted, “Wilkinson said the bear was likely a black bear, which once were native to Iowa. He said the bear could have wandered down from Wisconsin or Minnesota, adding bears have been spotted in Allamakee, Postville and near Dubuque.”

Bears in Iowa! Could it be true? Iowa ... the state noted more for endless fields of corn and soybeans than it's wilderness areas? But then again, Allamakee County, home to Postville, does boast of it's natural setting. And bears have been here before!

According to a 2007 DNR report, “Most present-day Iowans probably associate black bears with some of our large national parks and do not realize that they once occurred in Iowa.”

How true! Who knew that my dream of sighting a real live bear was so close!

The report continues, “When the settlers reached Iowa, they found [bears] widespread throughout the state ... Bears were killed because they would damage crops, harass and kill livestock, and because they were valuable both as food and for their hides.

“Currently, the nearest established wild populations of black bears are in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and southern Missouri. These populations are expanding their range towards Iowa from both the north and south.”

Hmmm! It seems that yesterday's skepticism was ill-founded. How is it that I so easily dismiss the possibilities in my own backyard while casting my gaze into the distance? Why do I overlook history when accepting status quo? Certainly reality is transitory. So don't let me tell you that I'm a realist: I still see what I expect to see! And now I expect to see bears ... in Iowa!

My need to weed (2008)

[This post was first published on Enroute365 in April 2007, but after a weekend of yard work -- my way of reconnecting to Mother Earth -- I've decided to republish a slightly modified version at this time.]

A number of years ago, my husband and I bought a house surrounded with sumptuous landscaping. Out of necessity, I took-up weeding. Oh, we could have hired a service, but Frank and I are chronic do-it-yourselfers, the types that would rather spend hundreds of dollars on lawn and garden equipment than ask for help.

And this is a good thing. Because it gave me the chance to rediscover dirt.

As a child, I’d always been fond of dirt and digging and mud-pie making. But over time I’d forgotten. Forgotten how good the earth smelled after a rain and how it easily could be moved and shaped. So now reminded of this pleasure as an adult, it wasn't long before I'd abandoned my garden gloves, preferring to work with my bare hands.

To Frank’s amazement, I soon announced that I’d take over the weeding; I wanted the excuse to play in the dirt. But there was more to it than that. As much as I enjoyed the feel of connecting to the ground itself, I grew to love working with plants, plucking out the undesired encroachers and adding in those we saw as beautiful: hen and chicks, vinca, hostas, phlox.

As my confidence grew, I started creating new, blooming spaces where none existed before. A late-riser by habit, I began to rise early in the morning eager to begin my work outdoors. Neighbors would warn me, “it’s too hot today,” and I’d promise to finish early. “That’s quite an ambitious project,” they’d say. And I’d agree, but it was too late. I was already halfway done.

As time wore on, I came to realize that it wasn’t the dirt that drew me to yard work. Not even the plants. Rather it was -- and is -- my way of making an inner connection. I came to understand that in the wee hours, I can still see the traces of my dreams. In the morning's stillness, I can hear the messages of my soul. And with my hands busy in labor, my mind is free to explore the thoughts that reveal themselves to me.

I began weeding to keep the yard neat, tame. But I continue weeding to discover myself, my hidden voice unrestrained.

Do you have moments or activities in which you can hear your still small voice?  How do you experience this personal phenomenon?  What has it taught you about yourself?

A number of years ago, my husband and I bought a house surrounded with sumptuous landscaping. Out of necessity, I took-up weeding. Oh, we could have hired a service, but Frank and I are chronic do-it-yourselfers, the types that would rather spend hundreds of dollars on lawn and garden equipment than ask for help.

And this is a good thing. Because it gave me the chance to rediscover dirt.

As a child, I’d always been fond of dirt and digging and mud-pie making. But over time I’d forgotten. Forgotten how good the earth smelled after a rain and how it easily could be moved and shaped. So now reminded of this pleasure as an adult, it wasn't long before I'd abandoned my garden gloves, preferring to work with my bare hands.

To Frank’s amazement, I soon announced that I’d take over the weeding; I wanted the excuse to play in the dirt. But there was more to it than that. As much as I enjoyed the feel of connecting to the ground itself, I grew to love working with plants, plucking out the undesired encroachers and adding in those we saw as beautiful: hen and chicks, vinca, hostas, phlox.

As my confidence grew, I started creating new, blooming spaces where none existed before. A late-riser by habit, I began to rise early in the morning eager to begin my work outdoors. Neighbors would warn me, “it’s too hot today,” and I’d promise to finish early. “That’s quite an ambitious project,” they’d say. And I’d agree, but it was too late. I was already halfway done.

As time wore on, I came to realize that it wasn’t the dirt that drew me to yard work. Not even the plants. Rather it was -- and is -- my way of making an inner connection. I came to understand that in the wee hours, I can still see the traces of my dreams. In the morning's stillness, I can hear the messages of my soul. And with my hands busy in labor, my mind is free to explore the thoughts that reveal themselves to me.

I began weeding to keep the yard neat, tame. But I continue weeding to discover myself, my hidden voice unrestrained.

Do you have moments or activities in which you can hear your still small voice?  How do you experience this personal phenomenon?  What has it taught you about yourself?

Inspiration: remembering the miracle

I've been thinking about inspiration lately ... probably because I need a dose! So this week, I'm going to focus on this unique need within the human spirit.

Long ago I realized that color energizes me (see my earlier post, "The nature of color"). Quotes and personal stories can also lift up my spirits. And nature ... but not today. My mind has already turned to spring and the monochromatic hues of winter seem lifeless by comparison.

I see the deer traversing through my backyard and wonder if the season has become as dreary for them as it has for me. Do animals see beauty? Can they marvel in the elaborate patterns seen nature? Like the intricate designs on a butterfly's wing --functional as well as beautiful. Or the delicate petals of the smallest blossom. I wonder. Perhaps they are so involved with day-to-day survival that aesthetic indulgence is a luxury they cannot afford. But I'll never know.

What I do know is this: ultimately I decide what, for me, is inspirational and what is drudgery. Sometimes it is only a matter of taking a closer look at what is before me that makes all the difference as I implied in the post  "Small wonder." Other times, I need to take wider look to take in the big picture. As Dr. Paul G. Ellis has noted,  "Any place can be inspirational when you recognise that our Earth is itself a 'heaven' of sorts ..."

That having been said, I'd like to repost his thought-provoking YouTube video (originally featured in  July 2007). On this gray day, I need the reminder that I'm living within a miracle. And maybe that reminder is all that inspiration really is. [length 1:34]

Nature bears close inspection ...