Pileated

After a rain, through the kaleidoscope of greens lit by solar beams, a flash of red and gray caused me to pick up the binoculars.  They are shy birds but seated in the screened in porch, I was allowed to be an observer.
Whack!   Whack!  Slowly, I tracked the sound, and focused the lens. 

Ah, there he was. 

Wood chip by wood chip, a gray bill sporting a red mustache chiseled out an impressive, oval opening in a decayed tree trunk.  In between each strike, the Woodpecker drew back his neck then pulled forward with his feet.  That action produced a powerful thunk. 

He followed the tunnels made by carpenter ants and larvae:  Whack! 

 “He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah …” I hummed that dark consolation to the devoured beetle larvae. The bird continued to hammer into the heartwood hurling large shards of wood that gathered at the base of the tree in a pile. His drumming against the hollow shaft declared his territory and also, attracted the attention of a nearby female.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

She laughed: Dah, Dah Dah!  Nasal yelps followed. Unlike the flame crested male, her scarlet crown was set back and although minus the red mustache, the female was as grand as he.

In flight, the sun caught the glinting white edge of her wings.  The spectacular vision kept me in a musical mood:  “Come on Baby, light my fire.” Crown feathers raised and her wings remained spread. Together, both birds clung to the tree and flamboyantly performed a rhythmic bobbing courtship.  The door was open.  So, she examined the future nest, climbed inside, and continued the work from within. 

For five weeks they worked together. And, after the extensive foraging and drilling, a home for the season was created.  Next spring, after the miracle of four white eggs, the couple will do it all again leaving this nest for squatters, birds or small mammals unable to do such excavation.

The female incubated the eggs by day and the red mustached male at night for about 16 days, awaiting the little beaks that would greedily demand regurgitated insects … most often carpenter ants. 

I set the binoculars down after a morning of observation.  Perhaps, luck and timing would give me a gift.  Hidden behind the screen of the little cabin in the woods,  I had a vision of witnessing first flight. 

A week after I heard high pitched screeches from the nest, I woke to a crack.   

Taking no time for shoes, I flew out the door.  But, the hunter was gone as death always is.

The scream stuck in my chest as a pajama clad me, knelt on damp moss next to the sticky, bloodied wings.  Above in the nest, not ready to fly, fledglings encasing arrhythmic frantic beats, squeaked.  Squeak, squeak.

His mate was loud.  She fussed and made whinny calls from a tree nearby.  I backed away from the scene. 

The sky darkened to a purple/ blue paper mache.  She was going to stick with him forever; I

understood that … and now, dust to dust; that's Biblical, am I correct?  Dust to dust and that is that.

Slip Slidin' Away (Simon and Garfunkel)

I’ve spent two hours cleaning off the trampoline.  A ridiculous amount of time to exhaust on such a project but I deemed doing the work necessary when I looked out the window this morning and observed a sagging mat.  After tromping through a foot and a half of snow, I discovered that under the accumulated white stuff on the jumping mat there was a layer of frozen ice.  This had to be removed especially with the prediction of six more inches by evening.

Ever try to stand on an icy trampoline and broom it off?  The title to a Simon and Garfunkel song came to mind: “Slip Slidin’ Away”.  When taking a break from this slippery job, I lay on my back observing and feeling the snow feather down from an opaque gray sky. 

  

(Interruption for a grammar lesson:  In present tense I lie on the trampoline but in the past tense lie becomes lay – no wonder folks get confused and Bob Dylan did not get it right - But in his defense Lie Lady Lie just doesn't sound right.)  

The flurry reminded me of ashes from a past bonfire, debris of different sizes lifting to the sky only to scatter down all over me.  On the trampoline in the cold daylight, the flakes were large, some small; all steadily landing on my eyelashes, nose and tongue.  Soon these gentle ice flakes turned to minuscule icy spears.  I felt like Gulliver being lanced by the inhabitants of Lilliput.  I remembered the illustration of Gulliver, the prisoner, with his hair and appendages tied to the ground.  The continuous barrage of stinging frozen javelins lasted about five minutes before turning into a consistent downpour of large, white flakes.

 If I remembered correctly, Jonathan Swift presented the main character as gullible.  Contemplating that thought while whiteness gathered in the folds of my coat, I had to admit that I have been that character in life.  Sometimes losing the “I” in the “we” and I am often not sure who the “I” (that is me) is.  Will I know when I am she? 

Later, I continued to reflect while cracking the icy layer into chunks before sliding slabs over to the opening in the net and tossing them to the ground.  The remaining snow was shoved off the mat with a push broom while I hummed Paul Simon’s tune, Slip Slidin’ Away.  I want to know I am wiser; I’m not sure nature cares.  And if Swift is right, I’ve been born corrupt and I too will slip slid away.

What Makes Sense?

Recently I listened to a heated discussion.  One person retorted: That does not make sense!  I had to smile, not with disrespect for the other point of view but instead for the calamity of different experiences that allow people to emphatically believe that they are right.  I weary of those who pontificate without offering open thought and a listening ear to what may be another set of facts.

After listening to this persons diatribe, I calmly asked:  Did you choose your parents?  Who amongst us has picked the culture that we were born in to?  There is so much that we are unable to evaluate because we do not know.  We have not had the other experience.

I am finally finishing the book Catherine The Great by Robert K. Massie.  A fact that is poignant for me during this reading is that if a human was born a serf, you had no control over life.  Notta.  For example, if  born in late 1700's to a person who worked the mines then you belonged to the mining operation and were sold and traded as if you were a shovel.  That was it.

Yesterday, I enjoyed the movie Philomena and again realized the luck of birth.  Much of what happens is the luck or bad luck of time and place that a person is born into.  This is a movie, so I am not making a case for the storyline, I freely admit that I do not know the historical facts, but I am saying that often people are in situations that are a reality of birth.   In this movie a young Irish girl (1950's) was sent to a convent because she was pregnant out of wedlock. Her father dumped her there and never looked back.  After giving birth, she worked in servitude for four years to pay back her debt to the convent for housing her and her babe who was, according to the movie, taken from her and sold to an adopting American couple.

There was a line in the movie, although arrogant, that made me laugh.  The BBC journalist who was helping the elder Irish woman find her adult child remarked about the woman he was helping: “I’ve finally seen firsthand what a lifetime’s diet of Reader’s Digest, the Daily Mail and romantic fiction can do to a person’s brain.”  An insult.  I am ashamed to admit that I feel this way when someone is screaming their point to get it across to me as if I am dim witted because I cannot agree with them.  Do folks really think that raising the volume of their discourse makes their point clear?  Do they not realize that there ARE experts who argue on either side of most issues.  Why scream your point?

When I am trying to make sense, I frequently use the word "sense" as a noun indicating a personal awareness at a single moment in time.  I cannot make a claim that judges nor offers wise or reasonable advice to the understanding of another person.  More often in my writing, I may have a feeling that something is the case.  From that feeling,  I evaluate from my perspective. That's it ... a perspective.

 I have difficulty with people who state their opinion as if they are Moses (from the Biblical story) carving the Ten Commandments in stone.  In my recent political discussion, I could not help but ask: Have you considered that there are brilliant minds on both sides of this issue? And, there were no scholars present during this argumentative discussion.   I wonder why the other people taking part in this band wagon conversation could not appreciate that none of us know what we do not know.  There are negative reactions to forcing an edict on a group and that, quite frankly,  does not make sense.

New Year

I experience an emotional slump upon the end of work that I enjoyed and found mentally challenging.  A shadow darkens my existence and demands a respectful acknowledgement from me on what has been lost.  Lost in the sense of ended – effort completed.  I’ve been told that I should rejoice because “it” happened.  The cause of past joy, although gone, was worthy.  

Boo hiss.  

For me, disorder and chaos are always a part of finishing a life chapter.  Yes, of course, I am sensitive that history is integral to propel me forward as necessary as the prevailing conditions.  This does not make me feel better.  When I have enthusiastically offered full attention to a project that has stopped, the words:  j’ai fini (as the French would say) evoke a vacant dip in my psyche.  This let down is mild in comparison to the loss of a relationship, not even close, but is noteworthy to me because I have learned that I must encounter the  dull sensation of missing an activity that I enjoyed before I can move on to create.

When I was younger, and naive, I thought it was possible to organize life like colorful packages complete with a bow on top. I have found that I do not believe in closure.  Instead, at each ending, there is a sadness that aggravates me enough to push me to learn something new.  The past boxes are not neatly stacked but ruptured, spilling into the next moment, week and year. Nothing is pure.  All fresh endeavors become a complicated weave of rough, smooth and innovative textures making loss a prerequisite to joy and both emotions are important before having the energy to face what becomes new.

2014

Outside today in Michigan a light snow is covering the tree branches and rooftops.  The beauty of the whiteness conceals what is underneath with clean snow reminding me that this is a fresh moment, a new beginning, with no footprints, no action by me until I chose to put my fingertips to the keyboard to communicate.   

My work at the book store will be finished on January 5th.  The grad application to University of Michigan MFA program has been submitted along with writing samples and recommendations;  I will wait for an answer.  I am dedicating the winter months to finishing the rough draft of the novel I have been working on along with teaching a creative writing course in my local area.

How about you?  I send wishes of peace and love:  Happy New Year.