Lemon tree full of finches

Five perch on feeder while two wait in lemon tree

  My lemon tree flutters and shimmers with life these days. House finches have discovered the nearby feeder, and they have spread the word. As they dart by the dozens from feeder to tree and back, they squawk and wrestle and chatter with delight. At least, I hope it's delight. Their friendly rivalry for a perch seems harmless enough; meanwhile, they entertain me, a rookie backyard bird watcher.
  This began a few months ago with my uninformed purchase of a wire mesh feeder at a local pet store. I noticed it when I had gone to buy dog food. Thinking about the rural area in which I live and the deck just outside my favorite room, I decided that attracting birds might provide a pleasant pastime. I also purchased random seed, came home, filled the cylinder and hung it on a pole where I could see it easily from my room. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
  When I mentioned this to one of my bird-watching friends, she said I had put the wrong food for the kind of feeder I had. "Buy thistle," she said. "The birds can't get to the seeds you bought. The mesh is too fine. You need thistle." So I bought thistle. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
  "Be patient," my friend said. "They have to find it. Once they find it, they will keep coming."
   How hard is it, I'm thinking. It's the only feeder out there.
  "Try sprinkling some on the ground to see what happens," she said.
  I sprinkled. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
 Then I went to visit another friend for help on an entirely different project. While there, she showed me her backyard, which overlooks a canyon near the coast. She had several different feeders and birdhouses. Birds swooped about and twittered happily. When I asked her secret, she sent me to a nearby store that specializes in attracting backyard birds. A sizable chunk of change later, I came home with some wild bird education, two new feeders and poles on which to hang them.
  Whether coincidental or by design, a few days later birds began to peck at the thistle on the ground where I had placed my original feeder. As if on cue, the next day a few more showed up on the new feeders filled with seed. I had no idea what kinds of birds they were, so I grabbed my camera and started snapping pictures. I e-mailed them to my informed friends, who identified them as white-crowned sparrows and house finches. Soon some mourning doves joined the group.
  Apparently they had "found" the feeders.
 I became a bit giddy about this avian food frenzy. I began to arise at daybreak to see what might be happening each morning. I marveled at the different shades of color in the male finches. I smiled at the sparrows who occasionally hopped up onto the deck. I paid close attention to see if I could discover new visitors.
   Some might accuse me of developing not just a new interest, but an obsession. I have shared multitudes of photos, and I have increased the number of feeders from three to four. I have varied the food so that a diversity of birds might get in on the action. The latest is suet, which should attract wrens and woodpeckers.
   At the advice of my newfound friends at the wild bird store, who are genuinely knowledgeable but also probably have little objection to my wallet, I have added the element of water. I found a lovely glass birdbath with a brilliant cardinal embossed in the bowl.
  The cardinal reminds me of my dear Aunt Ruth, who loved to gaze at her cherished cardinals as they visited her prize-winning garden in Toledo, Ohio. She called them "redbirds" and fed them sunflower seeds from a table in her backyard. She loved to sit by her kitchen window while sipping iced tea and watch their antics. As an adult, I learned that she often spiked her iced tea with Southern Comfort, which explains why she usually had a sweet smile on her face. I'm not likely to see actual cardinals here in Southern California, so I will enjoy this replica to remind me of my familial connections.
  Now I must go to bed. I have an early morning date.

Transcendence

  In a way, it somehow feels wrong to think that God already has begun to create good out of yesterday's chaos in Newtown, Connecticut. It somehow feels insensitive to even entertain the notion that good can emerge from something so horrific, so unspeakably cruel, as the mass shooting of 20 elementary school children and the six heroic adults who gave their lives in an attempt to protect precious young lives. Yet the efforts and expertise of first responders began to reveal the nobler side of humanity immediately, even as we watched and listened in horror as the outrageous evil unfolded.
  If nothing else, the tragedy has drawn us together. In many cases, it has brought us to our knees in prayer. It has caused us to hug our loved ones more often and to say "I love you" and "thank you".  It has turned our hearts to compassion and our minds to seeking solutions. It has leveled our humanity as we watch our leaders brush away their tears and distraught parents cling to one another in shock.
  Thus I unwittingly have given myself permission today to feel hope. It percolated within me as I listened to my church choir rehearsing the "Gloria" cantatas composed by Antonio Vivaldi and John Rutter. As the choir's rich vocal tones swelled and receded with the music's passion, as kettle drums reverberated throughout the sanctuary, as brass and strings echoed and enhanced the joyful sound, music transcended the despair we all feel. It lifted my spirit to a holy place as praise and prayer expressed in words and notes spanning centuries surrounded me.
  As I observed the individual choir members, I began to reflect on my association with them. Some have been my friends and acquaintances for more than 30 years. Some of us reared our children together. Some of us traveled together to Germany, Switzerland and Austria in 1990 to share the experience of a choral concert tour. Some I know only by name. Some I do not know even that. Some of them are unemployed. At least one is experiencing a heartbreaking marital crisis, while another is glowing with the joy and anticipation of her upcoming wedding. One has recently celebrated the anniversary of more than 60 years of marriage. Some are recovering from serious health issues. Some are caring for ailing family members, and some are struggling with issues associated with aging. Their experiences represent a microcosm of human experience everywhere. Still, in this moment, they have embraced the gift of music together. Their voices blend in hauntingly yet soothingly beautiful chants and then reach in vibrant crescendoes of "gloria" and "amen". They invoke a celebration of creation and beauty even in the midst of our national agony.
  Tonight, as I reach for the words to express my thoughts, I listen to a member of The Tenors, a popular and talented quartet,  sing "Bring Him Home" from the musical version of "Les Miserables," a masterpiece of grace and mercy. And now all four members of the group,  joined by female vocalist Natalie Grant, are losing themselves in their rendition of "Amazing Grace." This is creation. This is hope.
  If we can notice moments of grace, soak it up, infuse ourselves with it, hope will prevail. We can co-create. We can heal.

October clouds

Clouds have inspired poets and song lyricists for generations. I have no desire to compete.
Let Joni Mitchell, looking at clouds from "Both Sides Now," speak for our loss of childhood innocence. Allow William Wordsworth (whose poetry I idolize) to wander lonely as a cloud until he notices the beautiful brightness of daffodils, which dance and wave and beckon him into gratitude and appreciation. Leave it to visionary Percy Bysshe Shelley to explore endless possibilities of clouds as they make their way though various landscapes.  Watch Walt Whitman, while addressing the immortality of stars, contrast them with "ravening clouds, the burial clouds in black masses spreading," clouds that threaten but ultimately cannot devour the luster and radiance of stars. Remember to make room for the Rolling Stones to kick everyone off of their clouds as they rock on about life's frustrations. Hey, you! Get off!
No, I cannot compete nor compare. October skies, however, invite me into sweet reverie of my own.
As giant balloons of cumulus clouds billow across the heavens, forming a rabbit here and a turtle there, I remember the first time I learned to imagine shapes in the sky. As a child living in the Midwest, I had gone with my parents to visit some friends of theirs. The family had a son a few years older than I who had the undoubtedly unwelcome task of entertaining a little kid while the adults chatted and reminisced. Long before the days when parents would balk at sending their young daughter anywhere alone with an older boy, even if a longtime friend, they shuffled us off into the back yard of the Illinois home to find something to do. We lay on our backs in the thick, sweet grass, and he began to show me what he saw . . . a dog, a sword, a snowman. Soon I could recognize shapes, too. This kept us spellbound for what seemed like hours, or at least long enough to allow the parents to finish a pitcher of chilled martinis. To this day, I delight in the poodle shaping up in the sky and then reforming into a teddy bear and then into a Santa hat. Truth be told, I sometimes, now in adult years, see hints of  X-rated arrangements that make me laugh, should anyone read my thoughts.
Fast forward some childhood years to my first airplane trip. My father told me I would be soaring above all the clouds, giving me a whole new perspective, all sunshine despite the dark and gray world below. He said it would look like a marshmallow carpet of sweet goodness. I think he intended this to excite me and comfort me. Because I had a death grip on the arms of my airplane seat, I apparently blocked the blood flow to my imagination. I didn't care about an endless summer of brilliance. I could not comprehend any kind of heavenly platform that looked as if I could jump into it.  All I wanted to do was plant my feet safely on the ground, even under a dark, gray sky.
 Now, this evening, as the setting sun paints clouds and sky with a brilliant palette of colors, my heart skips a beat and then fills with a sense of awe. Such glory cannot be captured completely even in the most detailed paintings or the most precise photographs. This is a sight, an experience, that one must ingest firsthand. With each breathtaking moment, the moveable feast imprints itself on my soul and becomes part of my spirit. I will invite it to create the truest sentence I know.

God Shot: June 18, 2012 Cactus in Bloom

Psalm 98:4
Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises!

Even the plain and lowly cactus, full of thorns, spending most of its days in barrenness, cannot contain its inner splendor. Today is our day to blossom.

Gentle purple explosion

As a child, summer began the day I rode a bus home on the last day of a school year. At the end of this day’s ride, I would step off and walk into summer vacation.

Every other day of the school year consisted of routine. Walk from school a few blocks to the bus stop. Wait on the corner, always a bit nervous because creepy hood Whitney Miles stood in front of his house on the opposite corner, smirking at me as he did every day, hair slicked back in a greasy ducktail (D.A., as we called it, a far less polite term than “tail”), a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his white t-shirt. Looking back, Whitney probably was harmless and more than likely lonely. We didn’t have many greasers at Smith Elementary School in Oakwood, Ohio, a suburb of Dayton. He simply did not fit in. Neither did I, but that’s another whole story.

When summer began, I knew I would spend more time outdoors, away from the cement and noise of downtown. I would trade the lonely hotel room where I lived because of my father’s occupation for a country club swimming pool or, even better, a week at my grandparents’ house in Toledo, where I eagerly mowed the lawn, ran through the sprinklers on days that water rationing would allow, and sat on the porch swing chatting quietly with my sweet grandmother.

Summer meant I would spend hours playing Clue with my friend Craig Campbell, always accusing him of cheating (because he did). He won every time. I never could prove that the true perpetrator of murder was Professor Plum, who committed the deadly deed with the candlestick in the conservatory. After we tired of Clue, which we enjoyed while our parents played bridge and drank martinis, we ventured into Craig’s backyard and experienced the magic of lightning bugs. We laughed with delight as they flicked their way through the dusky night sky, and we captured as many as we could. Not realizing at our young age that we were being inhumane, we put them in a glass jar with holes in the cap, even adding grass so they would have food. They never lived until morning.

Even earlier in my childhood, summer meant paddling a canoe on Lake Winola, near Scranton, Pennsylvania. It meant riding a bit recklessly in Nancy Smith’s motorboat, frolicking over the wakes of other boats, laughing with glee as we rode high on a crest and then smacked back down on the other side. Summer meant digging up earthworms to save for bait when we fished off the boat dock later in the day. It meant stuffing my mouth with freshly picked blueberries while hiking in the Poconos, and it meant running around with sparklers on the Fourth of July.

Now, many years later, peeking into my twilight years, the first brilliant lavender blossoms of jacaranda trees signal the beginning of summer. They create a symphony of purple beginning in late May and lasting well into July. During my 20-year tenure at a local high school, one I loved and one that made my life feel tethered and tedious at the same time, huge jacarandas in the school quad began to blossom just before graduation. Tedium transformed into delight. The jacarandas changed day by day, eventually laying a soft violet carpet to cover the remnants of each day’s lunch and wads of gum. They made me realize my students and I had survived another year. They meant we would celebrate the culmination of hard work, laughter, tears and sneers. They meant I could take a much-needed break from grading papers, and students could take a break from writing them. They gave hope of a new beginning for everyone. They signaled a bright tomorrow. 

As a gift from God, I live in an area of Southern California where I see jacarandas at every turn. The median on a street I travel every day has blocks of them, each in various stages of bloom. The one in my backyard is teasing me with just a few blossoms. The one in my neighbor’s yard is a delightful palette of greens and lavenders. The ones at the local high school, right on cue, have bloomed completely. Of course they have. Graduation time is here.

I love this annual gentle purple explosion. I love the sense of ongoing creation. I love nature’s artistry. I love the coming of summer. I love jacarandas.