A Conversation With Crows

I know I talked about crows last time, but I keep having experiences with them, especially when I am out and about. From a spiritual perspective, when crows keep showing up for you, it symbolizes change and transition, alluding to a shift in one's spiritual or emotional well-being. 

This week's lesson for me had to do with communication. I was taking one of my early morning walks on Saturday when I encountered a lone crow sitting on a wire above my head, crowing loudly. With the hills and woods so close, and the usual weekday noise gone as people slept in, it echoed quite loudly. The crow sent out four sharp calls, followed a few seconds later by the sound of another crow, perhaps a block or two away to his right, sending back exactly four calls. A few seconds later, the first crow repeated the four calls, only to be answered again, but this time from a crow a few blocks to his left. What fascinated me about this avian conversation was the fact that each crow waited a few seconds, then sent back the exact same sound. It was almost as if they were actually listening to what was being said before they responded.

It occurred to me as I listened that most of the time, humans may listen, but they don't really hear what's being said. They are only interested in their response, which they start formulating before the other speaker is actually finished. We listen to respond, not to actually hear what the other person is saying. When we do that, we miss so much. We miss the actual meaning of what is being said, the tone of voice, the nuances in speech that may indicate something quite different from what is being said. Generally, people respond to, "So, how are you?" with "fine," when, if we really listened, we would hear that "fine" was definitely not what the other person was feeling. Maybe, like the crows, we need to pause and give ourselves a chance to really hear all that is being said before we respond. Maybe, if we truly listen, we will hear ourselves in the thoughts and feelings of others. In fact, now that I think about it, that is probably exactly what those crows were doing ... consciously participating in community.

And so it is. 

When It's Time To Spread Your Wings

One of the things I like most about June is the chance to see all the new life that was born in April and May take their first, tentative steps into the world and discover the wonder of it all. For example, my squirrel family next door have already seen their little ones go from timidly exploring their immediate surroundings before darting back into their nest, to now being big enough, and strong enough, and brave enough, to not only go out on their own, but make flying leaps from the rooftop to the big pine tree next door. Who needs to go all the way down and crawl back up when you can just take a leap of faith and for for it. I've never even seen their mom do that, but these little ones have the heart and the courage of lions.

Perhaps the family that has moved me the most is a family of crows that live nearby. At first I would see mom flying across the open sky with the little ones flapping their wings hurriedly trying to keep up (and keep airborne, I would imagine). She took them out every day, and every day they got a little braver, a little stronger, and flew a little higher. A few weeks ago I saw them finally able to keep up with mom and practice their loop-di-loops up and down. The other day, however, I couldn't help giggling when I saw mom flying across the sky as usual, except this time the kids were doing their own aerial acrobatics like stunt pilots, not even paying attention to where they were supposed to be. It was obvious that they no longer needed mom to show them how to fly. They figured it out on their own: it was time to spread their wings and fly.

So often we start out taking baby steps to help ourselves go out into the world and do what our heart tells us we need to do, but our steps never progress beyond the baby stage. We find a million reasons not to take bigger steps, or more steps, or climb uphill so we can finally reach the top. There comes a time for all of us when we need to spread our wings and fly, to step off our perch of safety and take a leap of faith. Sure, we may stumble, and maybe even fall a time or two, but so does everyone else. Just like those baby crows, we may have to flap like crazy at first but, if we keep at it, before you know it, we'll be soaring. So let go and fly, my friend!

And so it is. 

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

“Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Gone to graveyards every one.

When will they ever learn?

When will they ever learn?”

I cannot think about Memorial Day without thinking about flowers. I see rows and rows of graves, those that lost their lives for their country, and others, covered in flowers of every kind. It reminds me of the field of poppies that were planted on the field in France where the soldiers landed in WWII.  The practice of leaving flowers on graves began thousands of years ago when the Greeks would honor fallen warriors. The custom has carried on until this day. 

This Memorial Day, there will be fresh, new little graves covered in flowers. They are the graves of the children, our littlest warriors. What kind of flowers could ever bring solace to the ones who stand by those graves? Perhaps instead of just flowers, planting something that will take root and grow, something that is a constant reminder that if we plant a seed, water it, nurture it, and pull out the weeds, it will grow into something strong and lasting. 

So, what seeds do we plant on these little graves? We plant seeds of peace, of hope, of courage, and the strength to do what we all know is right. I think another field of poppies sounds about right for the littlest warriors among us, don’t you?

And so it is. 

Sweet Sunday Mornings

Even though the town I live in isn't large by most standards, living on the main street that runs from one end to the other does have its share of noise and traffic six days out of seven. Cars and trucks can be heard as early as 6 A.M., with school buses and city buses joining the symphony by 7. While it's certainly not Manhattan by any means, it can be annoying if you were planning to sleep in. Sunday, however, is a whole different story.

Since the sun has been rising earlier and earlier, I find myself waking up earlier as well. On a Sunday morning, it has a beauty all its own. There is almost no traffic except for an occasional car of folks on their way to the 6:30 mass at the Catholic church up the street, or running to the convenience store for milk and the morning paper. It is blissfully quiet of humans and their annoying interruptions. Instead, I am serenaded by birdsong, often lost in the day-to-day commotions during the week. I sit perfectly still except for my eyes which roam the treetops, hillsides, and sky watching for my feathered friends to come and help me greet the day. The air has a velvety softness to it and brushes my cheeks through the open windows, and the smell as the dew kisses the grass and trees is perfume to my senses. There is no better way to start the day than to experience it as all of my relations in nature do every day. We humans are just too distracted to realize that it is always there.

This past Sunday was especially poignant for me. On Saturday I tested positive for Covid. It is only a mild case, one that I had been misdiagnosing as acute allergies for over a week before the constant fatigue and the cough that wouldn't end suggested to me that maybe I had better check it out. Sitting there at my desk the next morning, with the windows thrown open wide, all of my senses, and my heart, went through a cascade of emotions. First, I was sad. Then I was mad ... and then I felt that first stir of the morning breeze on my cheek. Two blue jays came soaring overhead, playing chase and calling to each other. Two solitary geese flew silently overhead towards the river. The first golden rays came up over the rooftop to illuminate the hillside ahead. From the beginning of time, this is how life starts every day, for all my animal, plant, and human relations, and this is how it still begins even when we're sad, mad, or anything else. The sun always rises, the birds always sing the day awake, and the breezes blow the sleep from our eyes. Instead of being mad, I switched to gratitude, for being able to wake to another golden day, and for all the days ahead as long as I remember to rise, shine, and open the windows on the world.

And so it is. 

A Celebration Of Life

I have written often about the squirrels who live in the roof of the house across from my window over my writing desk. I have named them Pip and Mrs. Pip after a character I created for a series called Grandmothers' Wisdom Stories which I am hoping to complete and publish sometime in the near future.  Anyway, I look forward to seeing them emerge from out of their hidden nest in the roof and go out into the world to seek food, recreation, and just to enjoy the beauty and freshness of Mother Nature's gifts. They have had babies in their tiny home before but usually they have been chased off by the Angry Birds who wanted to steal their nest. This year, however, Mr. and Mrs. Pip stood up to them quite well and kept them out. That did not stop the birds from chasing the poor squirrels every time they poked their nose out, but my furry little friends have survived and, this year, even thrived.

The other day I was at my usual perch in front of the window writing about the unbelievable change from terrible snow storm/4 day power outage to 70 degrees and sunny when some movement out of the corner of my eye caused me to look up. There on the roof was a much smaller squirrel than the ones I have been watching. At first I couldn't figure out where he came from until another one, just as small but just as energetic, climbed out and joined his or her sibling on the roof. It seems that the happy parents had given birth to two healthy, vibrant little ones. I almost got teary-eyed (okay, I DID get teary eyed), like a proud auntie or grandma, when I saw them. They scampered around, checking out the roof, the gutters, the chimney, and then, to my amazement, made a Superman-like leap from the roof onto the giant pine tree and managed to climb all the way to the top, a good 50 feet or more, where the freshest pine cones were. Mom and Dad soon emerged as well and followed the young ones until they made their way back home. Obviously, the kids have been out and about before but this was the first time I had seen them.

Why am I making such a fuss over some baby squirrels? Because of all that has gone down this year and continues to go down. The up and down, often violent weather causes us to wonder if climate change is even worse than we thought. Wars, political in-fighting, hatred and pandemics take up all of our attention. Sometimes it takes something like the appearance of new life, whether it's baby squirrels, or the first green buds on the trees, or the hillside now covered in green where before there was just brown, to remind us that life goes on all around us, and that beauty and compassion is always there if we take the time to look. The squirrels romping up and down the tree aren't worried about wars or politics. They are focused on eating, living, breathing, and loving both life and each other. 

Maybe that's where our focus should be, on the celebration of life rather than trying to control it or destroy it. Maybe watching a family of squirrels living their lives will give us some clues as to how to live our own, in freedom, love, and joy. It may take a village to raise a child, but for me, it only takes two new, furry, little lives to give me hope that life will go on even if we're not looking. I don't know about you, but I intend to spend more time looking. Care to join me?

And so it is. 

Snow Drops or Snow Flakes?

Seriously! Easter Sunday and the snow showers were flying around all day, not to mention the all-out snow storm my sister and I drove through the day before Easter on our trip to The Iroquois Museum in upstate New York. All I keep thinking about, besides how tired I am of being cold, is how badly I feel for the flowers that started blooming during the warm snap we had only to be frozen out and weighed down under the new snow ... and they are predicting another 5 plus inches for tonight!

Someone at church yesterday said that Mother Nature was getting her revenge on mankind for all the destruction humans have been doing to the earth and each other. I have a hard time believing that. I don't think that Mother Nature, or God, for that matter, gets even with humans. Instead, I think we reap what we sow, and we've been sowing a whole lot of greed, hate, and destruction. The earth responds to how it is being treated. Pollution, extinction of whole species, extreme cutting down of trees, threatening the ozone layers, and a host of other things are robbing the earth of its ability to thrive. We did this. Is it any wonder that the atmosphere doesn't know what season it is any more?

I know, you're probably thinking, "well, what can I do? I'm only one person." If we took every single person who says that, we'd have a majority of people who can save our planet one plastic bottle, one solar panel, and one tree at a time. Times a few million, that's a lot! I do what I can, little, old, retired me. I recycle. I use cloth napkins, rags, and recycled or sustainably made paper products instead of regular paper whenever possible. I try to buy organically whenever I can. I garden responsibly (no Round-Up and poising in the ground), unplug what I'm not using, use cloth shopping bags, donate to groups that support sustainable living and animal rights, and let my shopping habits speak for the earth. If even half of the earth's population did that, just imagine what we could accomplish! Never, ever believe that one person can't make a difference.

And so it is.

P.S. After many years of writing this blog every week, I've decided to go to a twice-a-month blog post instead. This will allow me to do more exploring on subjects I want to share with you, as well as to free up time to work on my next fiction book, the second in a series devoted to "third age readers." Never fear, however. Flower Bear will still be around to share with you the wonders of this beautiful garden we call earth, and to speak for Mother Nature and all her creation. It is an honor we take very seriously.

Happy gardening!

April Showers Bring May Flowers ... and Mud Season!

 

You'd think after living up in this neck of the woods for 30 years, I'd be used to the idea that, while other places might be enjoying the first daffodils, we're digging out our rain boots and "wellies," as the Brits call them, keeping them by the door and hoping that mud season will be a short one this year.

Allow me to explain. Mud Season, as we call it here, starts around the end of March when the snows begin to melt off and is replaced with days and days of rain. If we are extremely lucky, we may get a day or two a week of sunshine and temps above 45. Then it's back to the rain. I know the farmers need it to get the fields ready to plant, but here in town all I want is to be able to look out of the window and see the daffodils, and the snowdrops, and the crocuses, all pushing up and bursting out with color after the cold and drab winter. Right now I have to be thankful for the neighbors' green lawns (from all that rain), while everything else is mud covered, mud splattered, and must plain muddy!

But fear not! What is my remedy for Mud Season? Indoor gardening! I've put away the winter decorations in my tiny tabletop garden and pulled out those that tell me it is, truly, spring. I've even purchased my first packets of seeds from the garden department at the store. It's a bit too early to start my basil and spearmint seeds, even indoors, because of the very real possibility of an April frost or snowstorm up here that turns the temperatures indoors damp and chilly regardless of how many grow lights I have going (maybe this is the year I buy an indoor greenhouse?). Nevertheless, just seeing the packets of seeds, the pots filled with soil, and my tiny garden tools laid out, helps me remember that, once Mud Season has passed and those first, tiny shoots poke up through the ground, Spring will have genuinely arrived inside and out, and the growing season will be here. Thank heavens for that!

And so it is.