“I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall-
what shall I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice
Excuse me, I have work to do.” Mary Oliver
I’m outside just about all the time these days, “working” in the garden as it explodes into green and blossom around me. They say that in the first year newly planted perennials sleep, second year they creep, and third year they leap. This is the 3rd year and everything is coming up enormous, helped no doubt by this year’s mild winter and strange spring. May was, by all accounts, the hottest in memory, and of course, the main topic of conversation in our town (the weather, no matter what it is, is always the main topic of conversation). “Isn’t this great?” people say. “This is July weather!” June has continued in the same way. And yet, despite all the warmth and glorious sunshine there is an undercurrent of unease to it all. The record highs also mean record rainfall lows.
I look up at Arrowsmith Mountain behind us to see that there is not much snow left on its peak. By the end of May It looked as it usually does in August, and now, there is no snow to speak of. River levels are low. Acutely aware of the drought problems of our neighbors to the south, we already have some water restrictions in effect including, get this, a prohibition on washing your driveway. Duh.
Doodles by Andre from AWaytoGarden.com
I’ve been living outside now for 2 months, up close and personal with the flora and fauna of this patch of land, as I tend to this exploding garden, where everyday something new comes into bloom. Recently I came across the expression “land snorkelng” that some are using to describe “taking the time to savor aspects of nature we ordinarily don’t see or pay attention to”. It caught my attention as I had spent much of the Bunkie Studio winter painting a series of studies inspired by (water) snorkeling in New Zealand and long ago recollections of ocean diving, trying to figure out how to capture my mood memories. Land snorkeling conveys that feeling of hovering and focusing and paying attention. Thinking about it I walk on the beach where most of the time my attention is on the water, the shapes of waves, the sky, clouds and views of distant mountains. This time I look down and immediately see the world of tiny crabs, smaller than my thumbnail, themselves hovering in and around the tide pools, scooting underneath tiny patches of lime green seaweed.
Back in the garden, looking closely at the soil and the leaves of the plants, no bug gets squished until firmly identified as friend or foe with trusty Garden Bugs of British Columbia book close at hand. Again the bees are abundant (and noisy) and this year is the first season I’ve seen butterflies. Their absence has always surprised me, given the numbers of so-called butterfly attracting flowers we grow. Hummingbirds are plentiful and always a delight to watch. Slowly (very slowly) I start to identify bird calls and notice the movements and activites of our feathered friends.
Some of which is very obvious. One day I watched two ravens, squawking madly, flying round and round above us, one larger and more vocal than the other. Every few seconds the larger raven would swoop close to the other and they would touch wings. It very much looked like a young raven learning to fly, coached by a parent. “Pull up! Pull up! Quick, dip the right wing. No, No, the other right wing!”
Some days later there was enormous screaming coming from the huge cedar in our front yard. A number of small birds within the branches were yelling their heads off and from nearby tree tops other birds started to arrive, also screaming loudly in support. The branches rustled, clearly the birds were highly agitated as they tried to protect their nest from…RAVEN. Sure enough after a couple of minutes of extreme agitation, out flew the raven from the branches with a new-hatched baby bird in mouth. Oh the drama that surrounded that raven’s baby’s lunch.
Mary Oliver, American Pullitzer Prize winning poet and author of the above poem, got up early every morning for decades to roam the paths and beaches near her home in Cape Cod, land snorkeling (although of course she didn’t call it that), observing everything, with notebook in hand where she wrote her poems on the move.
WAS IT NECESSARY TO DO IT?
I tell you that ant is very alive!
Look at how he fusses at being stepped on.