A Fierce Teacher, a Wonder & Delight
thoughts on a Saturday afternoon
I am lucky to have a five-foot, almost square picture window in front of my writing desk, and another, just the same, directly to my left. It offers beautiful natural light to work by on all but the sunniest days. My sweetheart, Rick, is our resident bird caretaker and he keeps the feeders, in front of my window view and in front of his window view at the other end of the house, well-appointed. There is always plenty of action.
If you are fortunate enough to have a view of birds, squirrels, chipmunks, the occasional vole, many rabbits, a herd of deer, raccoons, groundhogs, and even the occasional trotting red flame of fox and sleek strut of coyote, from your workspace, you know that nature is endlessly entertaining, sometimes distracting, but also instructional. It can be very very comforting—and heartbreaking, too. Watching the wildlife go about their work when my own work from my perch behind the glass is at a lull is a comfort, and also a reminder of the extraordinary and intricate circle of life and how much effort it really takes to stay alive on a daily, if not hourly basis. Watching a doe and her two fawns slowly high-step through five feet of snow in harsh winds, sub-zero temperatures, looking for a spare meal of a few bare twigs to sustain them through the night is something that can keep me from sleeping at night. It is hard work, the likes of which I have never known. It is a constant vigil and sharp edge between life and death. And to think I sometimes grow weary of cooking from a full pantry.
Once I saw a red-tailed hawk swoop down to brisk away with a tiny chickadee who was casually nibbling seeds at our feeder. It happened so fast. There was the tiny bird, there was the hawk, off flew the hawk to the highest branches of the white pine in my front yard, and the tiny bird was gone. I grabbed the binoculars to see if I could spot the hawk in the tree, and I watched for a brief moment, in awe of the circle of life, but not without a tinge of guilt for creating this gathering place for the tiny birds—an all-you-can-eat buffet, of a sort, for the local birds of prey. The feeders are so out in the open—do we make them an easier target? Perhaps. Do we sustain them through very lean times in the harsh of a northern winter? For certain. My heart broke a little in that moment, and pulsed in pain for that unsuspecting chickadee, and yet, in the same breath, I felt relief for the fiercely beautiful hawk to feed herself for another day.
Who am I, sitting behind the safety and warmth of glass, saddened and gladdened in one swift and full swoop. And isn’t that just life—complex. The truth, what is good and right and just is rarely all black and white. I think about that a lot lately when trying to find my footing with the terrible things happening in the world. I take a few deeper breaths and try to be okay with not understanding, for feeling such contradictions within myself, and with not being too harsh a judge of things I do not completely understand. Things that possibly no one completely understands.
I tell myself it is okay to sometimes see both sides of a story and to feel confused and saddened by my inability to help in ways that matter. I can hold it all, and still find beauty and a reason to hope. I can see the entire rainbow of grey between the duality, the polarity, of black and white.
Nature is a fierce teacher. Nature is a source of wonder and delight.
Such a beautiful piece, thank you for sharing!