Always coming home

Lately it’s been rough; my work life is hectic and occasionally emotionally draining, my weekends seem to fly by, I’ve lost track of a few friends I’ve been meaning to connect with, and the events of the larger world seem overwhelming and disheartening. I can forget to breathe, to ground myself and re-energize, to connect with the primal forces older, wiser, and more enduring than I. I know they’re there, I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by abundant thriving nature–parks and hills all around me, woodland a matter of minutes away, the gorgeous camellias are already blooming and the daphne is  covered in buds in my back yard. But it’s easy to lose track, isn’t it? To become consumed by worry, doubt, frustration, our digital devices, the news. The good news, the gift, is that we always get to come back.

Recently, Coyote took me to a favorite wandering spot of hers, the nearby wetlands to the west of town;  it was time to claw our way out of the winter funk and general malaise of living in late stage capitalism in the Trump era. It was drizzly and grey, we bundled up and wore raincoats, but were determined to spend some time just being outside. As we started walking an exasperated bearded man in his 30s was wrangling his over-excited pitbull who was leaping about in joy to greet us but absolutely digging in his paws when his owner tried to get him to walk. We gave him lots of love and strolled on, laughing. There are several trails throughout different parts of the wetlands and we decided to head vaguely south. It was windy and chilly but truly beautiful. Almost immediately we saw half a dozen or so egrets, brilliantly white against the buff, green, and grey landscape, as they flew from bank to bank. Nearer to the path, the grasses suddenly erupted in wild chirping, a host of fox sparrows debating some hotly contested trailside real estate.

 

We also heard frogs calling each other from time to time, a sound that always fills me with affection and reminds me of the time Coyote and I lived together in a little cottage near the river, frogs singing us to sleep.

Directly ahead, a stately blue heron stood on the path and kept an eye on us. When we got a little too close he flew a short way, emitting his bullfrog cry, but otherwise not terribly perturbed. We climbed a bird viewing platform to see the view spread out, a muted but rich carpet of grasses and sedge, water and silt, hillocks of tree-topped land punctuating the wet lowlands, rounded berms curving in swirling druidic patterns.

When we decided to turn back, more from cold and approaching sunset than from any desire to leave, our blue heron friend was waiting on the path again. We came quite near before he flew off. I think there is something special about them, my heart always lifts when I see one, like they carry my worries away and leave me a little more serene. An old man greeted us as we passed the bird viewing platform again. He showed us pictures of a great horned owl he had spotted in an oak over a hundred yards from the trail. He seemed eager to tell us about the birds he’d seen, including birds uncommon to our region. His bright blue eyes were full of light, a true and simple joy in the patience and devotion required to learn the birds’ habits and distinguishing features.  There was a gentleness and a quietness to him, even as he rambled on, telling us of the various species of birds to be found and where they liked to roost. His pace was slower even than ours, his dedication to stillness evident.

Heading back, we kept an eye out for the tree where he’d seen the owl–and were utterly thrilled when Coyote’s binoculars were strong enough for us to spot its humped shoulders and striped plumage among the bark and branches. Being able to spot the camouflaged owl felt like finding unexpected treasure, much like anytime the shyer and more cautious wildlife make themselves known.

Tall teasels and cattails, dried out and brown, stood in the ditches to either side of us, sentinels of winter. In many ways, these wetlands are at their most beautiful in this season, when their muted colors glow against the grey skies and blue mists. As we returned to the truck, hoping in vain the heater would start working, we talked of the predictable joy that comes with being outside, reminding ourselves we are merely creatures moving through land and water, just like the egrets and sparrows, the stubborn pitbull, the bird-loving old man with his expensive camera and beautiful eyes, travelers through an ancient land that existed before us and will endure after us. The gift is that we get to come back, to remember, when we get distracted and dismayed by the human world we’ve created. We get to come home again and again, until perhaps, one day, we stop forgetting.

 

 

*Yes, this entry’s title is an homage to one of my favorite authors, Ursula K. LeGuin. RIP.