Knee Gazing

Great Egret visited our pond!

It used to be houses had windows to let in light and air. These days, I'm thinking the purpose of
windows is to remind us of the world outside of them. I'm looking out the window right now, and I think my view is extraordinary. There's a red tree and a variety of green trees, a blue sky, and a huge puffy white cloud. When I'm trapped washing dishes, I can at least see my garden and my hummingbird feeder. Yes, windows are nice.

I didn't have to go out the door
to see him.

Here's what I can't see through my window; what I actually have to breach the door and maybe even climb a fence for. Tadpoles. Orioles who, despite being orange for Pete's sake, are actually really adept at invisibility. Damselflies. One thousand baby fish. Water spiders who may possibly consider me a snack. Arachnophobes, beware. There will actually be two pics of the eight-legged variety somewhere in this blog.

Lady beetles are always available to add color.

I used to spend a lot of time on what is sometimes called navel gazing. This is not to be mistaken for Naval gazing, which I think is the perusing of handsome sailors in uniform. Navel gazing is the ruminative contemplation of who am I? Where did I come from? While a certain amount of introspection seems necessary for self-improvement, I find what I'm beginning to think of as knee gazing to be more rewarding. Knee gazing requires getting up, going out, and actively looking for the microcosms to be found at or below knee level. It is taking a walk, but slower, with a camera maybe, and definitely wearing a pair of jeans that you don't mind getting dirty.

But Sheep Sorrel
is just as good.

Here's where I have a confession to make. I got lucky. It's likely I never would've discovered knee gazing if it hadn't been for the man I married and the sons I had. I had plans for what I was going to do with my life. Literary plans. Urban sort of plans. Hipsterish plans, if you can believe it. Okay, you can stop laughing any time now. I might've managed my editorial ambitions. I might've been happy that way. I might've even owned a chihuahua. But I wouldn't have found the world that opens up with flower petals and breaks free on bird wings. I wouldn't have taken the journey that follows the ever changing rivers. I wouldn't have travelled with pockets full of snail shells, seed pods, and mushrooms.  I'm glad I didn't miss it.

Aw! Look at the cute orange baby spiders!

I don't know about the phrase, "God has a plan for your life." It seems to me that the implication there is that there's only one way to go and you can't meander any. I think it is more like God knows the map of your life, all the ways you might turn, all that those turns might bring. Faith to me isn't a GPS telling me to turn right in fifty feet, and making me back up if I missed it. Divinity is more like Google Earth: you're visible to God wherever you go. And isn't that more freeing? Choose the turns as they come, with whatever is true, noble, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy in mind, and you can't go wrong. Even if you forget to think about those things, you can pick up wherever you are. No need to backtrack.

Common Blue Damselfly is hardly common. 

For me, in between all the normal whatsit like bank balances and the behavior of boys, I like to ponder what is true in the creation of the Creator. I like to see things working the way they were made to work. I like to wonder what they might've been like back when creation was new and excellent. I like to know that tiny fish in a pond don't mean anything much except that the promise is being kept: "As long as the earth endures, seed time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease." And I get to be in that for a while. And I'm vastly content.

Post-Tadpole

Tadpoles

Zillion baby fish!

See? Everywhere.

Dragonflies are vain.

High rise woodpecker apartment.

Okay, arachnophobes, here's the part you aren't going to want to see.

Nice fishing spider... Don't eat me...

Moms

Today is Mother's Day. I'm not sure whose idea this was. Don't get me wrong: I'm all for it. Moms deserve notice. These are women who gladly go through labor to make more people. They feed these small people, clean them, hold them, dress them, take embarrassing pictures of them. They bandage ouchies. Once, when my son cut his wrist in the storm door (and wasn't that fun to explain at the emergency room...) I actually laid on his head so he wouldn't freak out while receiving stitches.

I like to think of motherhood as the world's most eclectic calling. No two moms are going to go at it the same way. My mom friend Elaine is an elegant, independent mom. She takes care of two kids and a husband, a house, and a school library, while at the same time being a student. She may have a red "S" tattooed on her chest. I'm not sure.

My mom friend Angela is a compassionate, activist mom. She's got two sons in her arms and one in her heart. Among her talents are cooking soy/dairy/corn/gluten free meals that are totally yummy, kickboxing, and writing about being a mom after child loss. She's probably got a halo on a hat stand.

My mom sisters-in-law, Susan and Katie are inspiring modern moms. They do birthdays and play rooms with artistry and panache. They are super-cool moms raising happy, independent kids with spunk and personality. And I personally would like to thank them for making me an aunt four times over.

My mom friend Heather is a deserving mom. She's a blessing to two kids who needed a great mom. But if you mention that to her, she'll tell you that she's the blessed one. She's just humble and loving like that. Besides that, she has the cutest dog-babies on Facebook.

My mom friend Barb is a wise mom. My mom friend Susie is an adventurous mom. My mom friend Cassie is a joyful mom. My mom friend Alexis is a fun mom. My friend Beth is a funny mom. I could type all night and not manage to mention all the great moms I know. There's definitely no way I can describe all their wonderful qualities in one blog. But whether I mention their names or not, this blog is for them.

And now I'm going to spend a few minutes on two very special moms. 

Hi Carolyn. You're my other mother. You opened your arms wide to me when you found out I would become your daughter. You've always helped when you could, advised when I needed it, forgiven every mistake. Your strong hands always touch with love. You're beautiful and passionate and faithful. You gave me your son and have trusted me with his heart. I know there's no more precious gift. Thank you. I love you and I'm glad to know you. Happy Mother's Day, Mom2!

Hi Mom. You were there when I was born. I don't remember it, but you definitely do because I decided  to give you back labor and emerge face up. Sorry about that. Here's what I do remember: you always let me be myself. Looking through pictures of my childhood, I'm not sure that was always a good thing.  I mean, yikes--the things I tried in the name of fashion! Burn those pictures, okay? You were there when I fell off the slide and landed on my head in first grade. Did you know you were upside down and black and white? It was a good trick. You let Joel and me take over the entire living room with blankets and kitchen bowls and build elaborate Constructs landscapes. I don't remember you ever threatening to throw our toys in the creek if we didn't clean them up for weeks at a time. You let me dress up as King David for Halloween at school. Looking back, that may have been the cross dressing incident that spelled the end of Halloween parties at the Christian day school, but it was fun while it lasted. You used to read books at stop lights while driving us to school. Shame on you. You have always been the most truthful person I know, and I think that's brave. You sewed me a beautiful wedding dress because I asked, even though I'm sure you'd rather have just bought one. You have always been there to help me when I didn't know what to do with babies, or when I did know what to do with babies but wasn't used to having more than one. You know where everything is in the Bible when I need that wisdom. You read my poems and blogs and act like they're worth reading, which sometimes is the only thing that makes me think that they are. I think I can safely say I wouldn't be here without you. Love you, Mom! Happy Mother's Day.

Like Martins from Heaven

Yesterday was a bit of a rough day. Nothing apocalyptic, just farm life at its most stark. One of my hens, the best that I can figure, had a heart attack. Dead hen. Being the stout-hearted farm girl I am, after I got over my nausea at the limp, fluffy body, I decided that I had to retrieve her for burial. The literally pea sized brain of Phineas the Rooster apparently concluded that I had caused Phern the Hen's death because he poofed out his fringe feathers like a lion's mane and attacked me when I went into the yard. I had to kick him three times and hit him twice with a 2X4 before he decided that I was, in fact, bigger than he. I wish I was exaggerating. Like I said, pea brain.

The butchering process was not without it's fascination. Chopping off a chicken head--yucky. Plucking--also yucky. You have to get the bird wet in hot water to get the feather sockets to relax, and then your hands are caked with wet feathers. Removing crop, neck, and feet--not so bad because the chicken then looks a lot like the chicken you're used to from the store. Removing the viscera--eeeeeyew! At least there ought to be some bragging rights involved. I mean, I did literally eviscerate something. Worst of all, a dead, wet chicken smells.... well, it smells exactly like a dead, wet chicken. I did it, though. Being the nasty educatrix that I am, I made my children help.

So we're going to eat her. Still, I was sad. She was the prettiest of the hens, with her hint of green on the back of her neck. She was the first one I named. And now we're down to a flock of only five. Like I said, nothing apocalyptic. Just farm life. Still, I'm a bird chic (pun intended) and I didn't like to see her looking so small and inert. All I had to go back to was mowing the lawn--not an activity guaranteed to cheer me. So I was a little down in the mouth, or long in the face, or chapped in the... never mind... for the rest of the day. Until about 6:00 p.m.

What happened at 6:00 p.m., you ask? Well, you didn't actually ask, but I'm going to tell you, so zip it.
First, my dear husband came home and gave me a hug. That is a thing never to be overlooked. Then we sat down on the porch swing, which did not rip free from the porch ceiling under our combined weight, which is also nice. As we looked out over the lawn to the pond in the near distance, first the hummingbird's began to visit. Their buzz and chitter, their iridescence, and their aerial battles are always a mood booster. Still, it was nothing we hadn't seen before.

What happened next, we hadn't seen before. If you read the last entry, you know our dilapidated martin house committed sudoku over the winter during a windy storm. I had concluded that it was no big deal, as it seemed to be mainly occupied by blue birds and tree swallows. I was pretty sure we didn't have any actual purple martins. I was wrong! As we sat on the swing, two martins, a male and female, came swooping right in under the porch roof. The searched the corners, hovering. The landed on the ledge above our back door, took off again, landed on the garage gutter, rested a while. They kept up their swooping, chirping, hovering display for an hour. Several times, they flew within five feet of where we sat. It was as though they were saying, "Hey, people friends. Where's the fence row house?" They were so beautiful, so acrobatic, so confiding that it brought tears to my eyes. Never have I been so close to any bird but the phoebes who nest on our track lights every year. (Phoebes are particularly human-adapted birds.) I finally went for my camera, certain it would be too late, but still the martins came.

As I sat trying to get pictures of the visiting martins, we watched the other birds that I love so much. The goldfinch on the feeder, the embattled hummingbirds. The newly housed tree swallows swooping. Out over the field, the amazingly graceful Great Blue Heron came in for a landing. At the same time, Joe and I exclaimed, "She's got something in her mouth!" She was carrying a long reed or grass--nesting material!

All my cares are everyday cares--things that in the long run are not truly very important. Where is the money for this or that going to come from? What's wrong with this or that animal? How will I lose these pounds? Why are those plants not growing? Did I leave anything in that chicken that wasn't supposed to be there? How am I doing as a mother? But as I watched that symphony of birds, I couldn't help feeling that God, in His infinite knowledge of His each and every child had provided this hour of winged grace to tell us, "I've got you. I've got them and I've got you. Be at peace."

Even Birds Have Nests

Nuthatches cling to things upside down.

Birds are a funny part of life. The way people react to them. Many people love them, feed them, invite them to stay in houses/boxes, entice them with certain gardens, study them, watch them. Spend a year getting emails from the Cornell Institute of Ornithology and you'll see that it it possible to be positively obsessed with them. Right now, Cornell is "advertising" Big Day 2014, on which, presumably, birders can try to see 300 species in two states in a day. (See you there!) 

Then again, I have, to my dismay, met at least one ornithophobe. She hated birds so much that she didn't even like the bird ornaments that the bookstore where we worked sold for Christmas. And who hasn't at least heard of the classic Alfred Hitchcock horror film The Birds? (If you haven't, you Philistine!)

One book I read recently (5th Wave by Rick Yancey-- Hunger Games fans, drop what you're doing and go get it now. Move, cadet, MOVE!) blames birds for being the delivery vehicle for a plague that wipes out most of humanity. Don't worry, though. It's the aliens that engineered the plague, so I don't think we have anything immediate to worry about. Birds are everywhere, no matter what you think of them.

They're Morning Glory, okay! Sheesh!

If you're reading this blog, you probably have an inkling of where I stand on the issue. As a fledgling birder (pun intended) it has been a good month for me. Since our decrepit martin house blew off its pole and exploded during one of the winter storms that preceded 2014, I have taken my digits and all my scrap plywood in my hands and begun an odyssey with power tools. I still have ten digits, thank you. I also have mediocre painting skills and three new bird houses. Two of the bird houses are probably not much good for actual birds. House Wrens or Chickadees might be willing to try them if I found the right place to mount them. That's what happens when I say to myself, "Any idiot can build a bird house." I become a bird house building idiot.

Once I'd made the ornamental houses and placed them, I began to observe a pair of birds who came daily to investigate them. The birds seemed less than impressed, but maybe a bit desperate. Gotta deposit the eggs somewhere. These were some really acrobatic birds, too. The swooped and dove and glided and burbled at each other in little voices like a whistle through water. The male tipped me off with his iridescent blue-green back. Tree Swallows. Tree Swallows eat bugs in the thousands, same as Purple Martins. They nest in cavities in looser colonies than martins and like to be near water. But.... they need deep cavity boxes with ample floor space to protect their large broods of up to seven young from natural enemies--the ever pestilential European Starling. Back to the sawing board!

Awesome aerial photo of male tree swallow that only
took half an hour of sitting on a fence post to get...

It was okay, though. I remembered some left over ends of cedar fence slats that we'd used in making our box garden last year that were the perfect size, and I had finally figured out how to use the table saw to cut "bevels" (technical wood working term that means all slanty-wise) so I knocked this house together with a minimum of swearing... Well, except for when the back slat split in half and I had to repair it with glue, lath strips, and panel nails, but what's a little invective among friends? Far more difficult, actually, was the base I made to mount the house on the top of the pole where the old martin house resided. That took three tries to get right before, as the saying goes, "If you build it, they will come."

Abraham in the grass, trying
to figure out why Mommy is
sitting on a fence post being
bird-brained.

Happily ever after... Until the other two swallow pairs showed up and the aerial battles began. Back to the sawing board again...

Easter eggin'...

In other news, the April showers have, as always, brought the May flowers and Spring seems to have decided to play nice now. Weather has been lovely since Easter at least, and some of my perennial favorites have shown their faces, such as: 

Just how tall is the Easter Bunny?

Tree frog rescued from the peril of the lawn mower.

Jacob's Ladder?

Carolina Larkspur

White! It's the new Violet!

Violet! It's the old violet!

Carolina Buckthorn, maybe.

Wild Hyacinth

Celadine Poppy

Broad Leaved Waterleaf

Wild

Stonecrop

Clutch of Turkey eggs

A Tiger Swallowtail takes its rest on our Box Elder.

The color is fully  back in life, and I feel like that Pharrel song...  Happy...

I do, however, still hate blogger with all my computational being. I really am going to switch blog engines one of these days!

Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is Jacob's Ladder