In Which Patience is Rewarded

Perhaps it is our higher elevation. Perhaps it is just that they were languidly enjoying the warmer climates and didn't want to leave. Perhaps the journey just took longer than usual. But although they were a full month behind others in the area, this afternoon I looked out at the feeder I've been diligently refilling in vain for weeks, and there they were: no fewer than three male ruby-throated hummingbirds. In Pittsburgh, when I would stand at the bus stop at the end of my block each April and see the giant magnolia tree finally in full-pink bloom, or finally see the mated pair of red-tails rebuilding the nest in the ancient oak along the parkway, I'd trust that winter was truly over.

Here my faith is placed in, to borrow a lovely phrase from a current student (thanks BG!), the "smallest of the tiny."

A Proper Naturalist I Am Not

So, I've admitted that I'm pretty good with identifying and knowing more than *normal* people should about a wide range of animals (don't get me started on my dull, but exhaustive knowledge of freshwater mussels...), save birds, since I have peculiar bird issues and they kind of creep me out (I'm working to overcome the creepy factor, slowly). But I also have to admit that I am really, painfully ignorant about trees and plants. I guess we all have elements of the natural/non-human world that we are more drawn to than others. And plants and trees just typically don't capture my interest all that much. Well, if I happen to learn about them I find this knowledge interesting, and useful, but I don't go outdoors with a guidebook in hand trying to figure out what things are.

So I have decided that to better appreciate where I am living, I should learn a whole lot more about this landscape. Today I started with identifying the beautiful pink trees that have exploded in bloom ALL OVER the place in the last week or so. Not a hard task: they're Cercis canadensis, the very common Eastern Redbud tree . I do like knowing the names of things.

It occurs to me, and maybe this is something L. should comment on, that my own interest in the natural world is often prompted simply by aesthetics, by my own perceptions of beauty, particularly when it comes to plants and trees. Things which I find attractive compel me to learn more, to uncover a meaning, name and significance.

Hidden Among Small Milestones

Am very much looking forward to going out in public this week to attend this campus author lecture: "A Natural Sense of Wonder- Connecting Kids with Nature Through the Seasons" . I had been wanting to meet this guy ever since I read on the English Dept. website that he had this book in progress. J. is actually the one who heard about it and suggested we both go. Right after that I will attend the anthropology lecture, "Comparative Settlement Pattern Research on Early Chiefdom Communities in Eastern Inner Mongolia, the Northern Andes, and Mesoamerica," because it's being given by a friend and former fellow grad student of J.'s back in Pittsburgh.

Am even more looking forward to the impending spring here in Appalachia. All the cherry trees are blooming and this entire town is swathed in an explosion of yellow forsythia blossoms. Purty!

Passing the Torch

Yep. That Lamb can take over for the Lion now. The sooner the better.

Earlier this morning, staring absentmindely out the second floor window while getting dressed to take out the doggles. I saw one. Then another. Kiting together. Then later, in the still-bare branches of the tall tall oak tree, rebuilding together the nest for another year. Yes, the hawks have returned for another season.

And I have nenewed hope that days of warmer weather will follow their lead.

Shall We Agree That Just This Once

Although the skies are heavy and dark today, the air is only lightness and warmth. I am barefoot in a floaty spring skirt (yes, on 'casual Friday'), impatient, ever impatient for summer. So close I can almost taste, teasing, lingering, on my tongue, just for today. Summer: the only time of year that really matters to me. I said last night (as I do again, and again, and again), that I still dream of a place that is filled with endless summer. I love the metaphorical possibilities of this time of year, the hopeful promise and possibility for changing what one once was into something else entirely. Longing for the perennial shedding of myself, both literal and emotional, the casting aside of everything that binds, contains, and no longer belongs in and of my world. The boundless, faithful leap into the comforting unknown. In my mind, that unknown is always a day like the summer Solstice, a day of perfect balance and light. A memory: some useless French lit class, Bloomington, Ballantine Hall, Spring, 1991. In a sudden fit and without warning, winter disappears almost instantly. I make the mistake of making my seat by the open window, can see people playing Frisbee with dogs many floors below in the grassy area where Brother Jed sometimes proselytizes when the weather is nice. I wonder where he is today. The air is truly intoxicating and I feel too dizzy and lightheaded to decipher the Passe Simple. I pass Mark E. a note, telling him that I am going to forcibly make him skip our fiction writing workshop to keep me company on the thick, green grass of Dunn Meadow. Today though, memory dissipates into the air, begins the only negative part of this process. For the next two months, I will find myself feeling constantly like I'm falling, dizzy again, unable to concentrate until I can say with certainty that I am ready to begin. I could almost swear the magnolia tree's buds grow larger every day now.

The Shape of Things

Two good signs that the long, dark winter will soon be gone: On my walk to the bus stop yesterday morning, I saw one of my red-tails. This means they're back, repairing the nest for another year of raising young. I've missed them. And, a small swarm of ladybugs accosted me this morning. Other things have gotten totally bizarre/crappy and aren't nearly so cheery, but I can't make myself care today. These are the two things to which I cling.