Mid-January

The calendar tells me it is January 15, yet the temp says it's a spring day. The morning starts out with a thick blanket of fog. However, the haze burns off by noon, leaving the air clean and alive. The whole world is full of rejoicing. The chirping of birds resounds from every tree and thicket. A couple of male goldfinches have already started putting on their golden summer cloak. The cardinals are hopping about in the thicket. A robin is pecking for worms in the leaves along the fencerow. Never the least bit interested in sneaking up on anyone, the pileated woodpecker announces his arrival with his usual loud screech. I'm sure he spotted me, for he settles for pecking around in the chinaberry tree, instead of coming over for his usual snack in the nearby Chinese elm.

After breakfast, I sit on the deck, leisurely taking it all in. As I listen, the gentle wind exhales a syncopated breath, starting off with a soft whisper, then increasing until the pine branches start waving, only to pause to begin the process again. The three red and yellow leaves left on a tree shimmy and shake in agreement with the rhythm. The dried leaves littering the ground whirl on the fringe of the wind, then they are laid back down. All of us feel completely content in this gentle world.

If I were a poet, my specialty would be poems about bird nests. To me, no architecture man has created matches the beauty or talent of these little homes. How do they know to make the structure of sturdy material, then line it with a soft grass? I have one that has three layers: sticks, tough straw, then tiny wisps of grass. I brought four bird nests from Arizona, where I enjoyed a veritable bird paradise. One may be a hummingbird nest. Two of them are definitely oriole homes, but different renditions. One was woven of banana cactus strings and the other from dry grass. Although my eyes are continually s for scanning for nests here, I have been quite surprised that I have not found any in all these bare branches.

As I am sitting reminiscing, the blue sky disappears under a blanket of fleecy gray clouds. The wind has given up its playful mood and has started blowing in earnest. A pair of large black birds are soaring and swooping over the house, instead of in the distant meadow. All around me brown leaves are swirling helplessly under the large oak trees. Realizing that rain is on the way, I rummage around under the cedar trees picking up kindling to have a few days' supply. Before I have finished, the clouds have cleared again.

After lunch I take a breather to clear my mind since I am starting on a new chapter. The day turns out to be one to walk forever and never get tired. The energy of the gentle breeze, soft sunlight, green meadows, rusty withered leaves and towering trees keeps me expanded and unaware of any physical exertion. Occasionally, the wind lies low for several minutes, then I hear it approaching again. Riding over the tops of the trees, it sounds as if an ocean wave is surging toward me.

In the evening, after I feed the horse, I have to move the hay bales out to the shed (it was not a good idea for Gary to store hay for Copper on the porch) and sweep up the messy straw. Feeling that I still want to remain outside to catch the twilight time, I take off across the wide meadow for the pond. As usual, my antennae are alert to see what new creature I may encounter. The afternoon clouds settle into bands of frosty pink across the west. You can't compare this sunset to the bold fiery sunsets of Arizona, but somehow this soft pastel rendition is easier to relate to. The golden rosy pink seems to soak into my vibration easier than the bright hot pink sunset colors on the desert, which are so awesome to observe.

As I approach the pond, I see several thick branches to drag over to the fire pit. Around the pine trees, I gather some sticks and cones for kindling. I want to be ready for another bonfire just in case we have a warm evening soon. The dark night of the moon is approaching. Because of the clouds, I can't remember the last time I saw the moon, so I'm not sure I can hit the dark night. Anyway, clear nights are definitely the coldest, so in a sense I am dependent on a cloudy night to be warm enough to celebrate with another bonfire. But tonight may be the exception.

I exaggerate not. . . it is a summer night. I am reminded of my grandfather's apple orchard. Summer vacations at my grandparent's place were a wonderful connection to nature. Pop's orchard had a pond too, full of tadpoles, frogs and little fish for us to catch. And it had a site for many bonfires. I think I have to attribute my love of nature, bonfires and gardening to Pop.

Returning home, I decide to walk along the fence line to see if I can spot any nests in the tangle of vines and honeysuckle. No luck at all. But as I am heading back home, I spot the brilliant sliver of the new moon hanging in a band of light gray sky. A band of rose still outlines the dark silhouettes of the trees. We don't have too many associations with the phases of the moon, except for planting crops, but in India they harmonized many activities with the moon phases. When I was studying philosophy in the Himalayas, full-moon day and new-moon day were our days off.

I see one bright star riding high on the ecliptic, so brilliant it must be Jupiter. I pause to watch the stars come out one by one. It's not that you can see them slowly emerging; they appear instantaneously. To be able to observe the heavens daily gives one such a sense of harmony. Watching the sun make its path across the heavens, observing the moon as it waxes and wanes, I am continually reminded that in spite of the turmoil of our daily lives, the cycles of nature come and go, and return again.