Eary April

Even though I have managed to get myself back in front of the computer for long hours, the many tasks of spring are continually pulling me out-of-doors. I feel responsible to water and weed any seeds that I have planted, so it’s an on-going chore. Concentrating on limiting my physical activity, I am careful not to exhaust myself. I tend to want to get everything planted at the perfect time, yet I am learning that the perennial seedlings are content to sit in flats and wait until I have time to give them a space in the garden. Then hopefully Nature will intervene in our favor.

I recall that in the 1980’s I had occasion to pick up the Native American Shaman, Rolling Thunder, at a large metropolitan airport. He had been delayed because of a thunderstorm, which meant that we got caught in the thick of Houston’s five o’clock traffic. He commented that he was not at all surprised or bothered with the circumstances. Nature had its way of cooperating with him. He went on to explain that rain would always precede his visits to large cities, thus clearing the environment of pollutants so he would have fresh air to breathe.

I think of his words as I awaken to the sound of rain on the roof and tell myself: nature is surely cooperating with me today. I am listening to serious rain, not just April showers. Not only will I have fresh air to breathe; I am being relieved of my watering duty. A ripple of joy puts a smile on my face as I snuggle deeper into the covers. I feel as if I am encapsulated in a silken cocoon just like the one a caterpillar wove yesterday as I looked on. I think of all the people who are getting out in this storm to go to their jobs. Then I think of the little creatures in the woods who are burrowing cozily in their little nooks and hollows unconcerned about the day’s duties. I feel quite content to identify with the latter group. As I turns out, I am happily indoors for four days working at the computer while rain and clouds give plenty of water and shade for my garden.

Then I receive the most incredible, bodacious (as we say here in Texas) day. I suppose it sounds egotistical to say that the day was created for me, but I am in this little valley with its own little climate, so it’s probably too hot all around me. The temperature is a perfect seventy-two; the breeze is an exquisite gentle; the air I breathe is fresh and pure. I’m getting another spring day! After being cooped up for almost a week, I can appreciate it. Again I am reminded of the cycles of the seasons. Even though we hardly had a winter, it’s evident that cold winter engenders an internal peace, so one is content to sit inside by a warm fire. But the fresh air and glistening sunshine of spring exhilarates one to be outside. Since I have been so encapsulated in my mental world for four days—I give myself time off to dance in the sun's golden shafts.

After transplanting some seedlings that were shouting for my attention, I go for a walk through the meadow. I am amazed at the multitude of new representatives in nature’s rainbow the rain has brought. Along the path, I find the meadow is sprinkled with a variety of a tiny white flower with a yellow center, which is encircled by a delicate purple band. The leaves and stem of the plant are so slender that one would never notice them if they did not look carefully. Two days later, I notice that they are gone. They just jump up and shout “Yeah life!” for a short day, then are gone.

Nature is so incredible. How did this multitude of flowers all manage to germinate, grow and bloom on the same day? A botanist would be happy to explain to me that the seeds are endowed with some time clock. But that does not negate the miracle. Minuscule seeds with time clocks? That’s a miracle too. The following week I see some tiny sunny yellow flowers appear overnight. My life seems so meaningful being here to admire these tiny lovely cherubs. They remind me of the elegy written for Thomas Gray: “…Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

I do not know how many years these tiny jewels have been coming up just waiting to be admired. It finally happened for them. Their short life does not give them much of a chance either. On the other hand, the phlox and Indian paintbrushes are still in bloom after two months. While collecting some seed from the phlox, I am surprised to find that even the ones that are bearing seed have put up new flowering stalks, so it’s easy for me to select the seeds of the colors I like best.

On days like this one, I think I am made only for planting, caring for and enjoying nature. Nothing else seems relevant to me. The smiling faces of the little wild flowers are all I need to remind me of the beautiful self that I am. Truly we are sisters in this vast wonderful creation.

My days continue to be filled with such wonder that I am always only a moment away from laughter or a tear. Today is no exception—it is exceptional. Ruby-throated hummingbirds have been coming regularly to the feeder. I am surprised to see that, although they are called “ruby,” the iridescent radiance on their throats has an orange tinge. Also, the Ruby-throated is very tiny, about half the size of the ones in Arizona.

Even the hummingbirds find me late in the season. But one day in early April, the first hummingbird appears. I spot him busily gathering nectar from the honeysuckle that encircles the Chinese elm. This little ruby-throated is notably tiny compared to the ones that frequented my feeder in Arizona. In Sedona four or five varieties spent the summer with me. Although I miss them, I think this tiny treasure will fill in for them nicely.

This morning while I was out watering the wildflowers in my usual ecstasy of enjoying the butterflies bees and birdsong, I was watching one particular hummingbird at the feeder. He has declared the feeder as his territory and is fending off every other bird as an intruder. I have the biggest feeder with six feeding holes, and he’s not going to let anyone else use them, I observe with a chuckle.

Later, after I arrange the soaker hoses and am returning to the deck, I hear the familiar whirling of hummingbird wings. It is a distinct sound that is quite recognizable. Without even thinking, I pause and look up. Before me is the most awesome sight that I have ever beheld. Two hummingbirds are soaring and swooping together in an incredible harmonious dance. I feel that I have stepped behind the curtain of Nature. By some special dispensation, I have been allowed to behold their wonderful sacred dance. As the birds dip and whirl in their waltz, they recount the song of creation. As their fragile wings whirl in unison, their tiny brilliant bodies flash iridescent orange and green. Then together they make a final long swoop that almost causes them to hit the deck. They dive over the edge, then separate. Their performance is completed for this season.

I am left truly overwhelmed at witnessing such a spontaneous ceremony. It tells me of everything bright and good in the world and in my soul. I was in the middle of a whole list of “have to do’s” today, but I do not want to break the spell. I sit down for a quiet moment to remain in the grand space of this incredible glimpse into the wonder of the creation.

About six weeks later, I come inside from the garden and am quite startled to find an immature hummingbird buzzing around the kitchen ceiling. Even though it’s May the weather is so pleasant that I leave the deck door wide open. The little fellow found his way inside, but cannot find his way back out. Although I attempt to guide him toward the door, it quickly becomes apparent that he is confused because his internal programming is telling him to fly up.

Quickly grabbing my nephew’s butterfly net out of the broom closet, I gently fold the hummingbird into it. His tiny feet cling to its side with such a tenacious hold that I do not dare disturb him. Carefully, I close the door so that the handle is wedged securely to hold it upright. Then I wait. Finally, as I’m holding my breath, he makes his escape. He heads for a branch of a thin vine underneath the eaves. There he sits huddled in shock as darkness descends.

I am deeply pained to realize that I cannot do a thing for this fragile spark of life. In fact, anything I try to do would surely be to its detriment. Even to touch it with my big fingers could injure it, or put it into incredible shock. Fortunately, the next morning I see no sign of him, so he must have found his way to the safety of his mother's care.

What has meaning in life? Isn’t it more significant to be able to say that I watched hummingbirds for one hour every day of my life than to say I filed a tall stack of invoices with accounts amounting to millions of dollars “counting other people's money” for every day of my life?