I am not feeding my year-round avian friends in the hopes that ‘my’ phoebes can nest in peace above my door and raise their brood without red squirrel interference. Last night I startled a nesting mother by turning on an outdoor light, so egg laying has begun. Every day I apologize to my beloved chickadees who must find food elsewhere (for now).
It’s hard to ignore the truth. So many birds that used to be common around here are gone. Mourning doves and white throated sparrows are two species that I miss too much. Occasionally, I hear a solitary w/t sparrow’s call. In March one mourning dove visited for a day; the flocks are gone
In this space in between bird loss and my choice not to feed those that I recognize by sight and sound, I have gradually learned how to listen to the invisible warblers that have probably been here all along.
I moved to the mountains to move mountains, to find peace in the hidden crevices of an endangered planet. We pull out her hair, clumps at a time, self-harming her* in a myriad of new ways. Wildfires burn up our forests, floods destroy precious lowlands. Loggers strip the possibility of new life from the soil. Our childhood stories become our adult lives: The Giving Tree who gave it all. . . . The land doesn’t break; just dips and hides in private caves. I moved to the mountains so that the predators of my past wouldn’t find me. Their spirits crawl out from unvisited graves.
They slip past the disappearing forests of canopied evergreens that once shaded and protected Ki’s children. [Ki is short for Kin – more on what this word means in Part 3.]
you whistled my name four notes chilled prickly skin needling truth we are forever bound you bird woman owl tree wounding wounding wounding we weep grief grief grief too deep half a million dead gunned down by Explosive Will I make no apology Return atrocity to those whose behaviors will one day destroy them too. What we do to nature we do to ourselves.
Context for Poem:
Yesterday I wrote an essay about the barred owl killings beginning with a personal story about my relationship with barred owls. I have known about this Federal Fish and Wildlife Organization’s proposal since 2023.
Hope is the thing with feathers . . . Emily Dickinson
Chickadee
I awoke this morning to bird song, and for a moment I was lifted beyond the despair that has caught me in its grip — despair for the country, for the earth, for loved ones whose lives are increasingly tossed into the chaos, for the future The disappearance of persons into labyrinths of prisons in this country, Guantanamo, and the tortuous CECOT prison complex in El Salvador has broken what was left of my spirit. Then this morning I heard a report that the State Department has changed what it considers to be human rights abuses in order to align with recent Executive Orders, deleting critiques of such practices as retaining political prisoners without due process of law, restrictions on free and fair elections, violence against LGBTQ persons, threats against people with disabilities, restrictions on political participation, coercive medical or psychological practices, and extensive gender-based violence. Ostensibly these changes are to lift restrictions on sanctions toward other countries, but I fear they portend clearing the way for such abuses in the US as well.
My heart is heavy in ways I have not previously known, so I am grateful for that brief moment of delight in the early morning. Later in the day, I found myself wondering whether those who suffered and died in concentration camps, whose despair certainly was beyond comparison with my own, found any solace in the sight and sound of birds who flew freely over the walls of the camps in ways they could not. The daughter of survivors of Auschwitz, Toby Saltzman, recalled that her mother, who often suffered bouts of despair over the Holocaust, found her spirits lifted by the songs of birds. When Toby later visited Auschwitz, she was greeted by flocks of birds. Upon her return, she reflected, “I left Auschwitz feeling a surge of triumph that my parents survived, and gratitude to the birds that gave my mother spiritual sustenance and hope.” We are sorely in need of such sustenance in these times.
My relationship with and time spent with Indigenous peoples reinforced my intuitive sense that seasonal turnings like the Spring Equinox need to be honored and experienced when the ‘time’ is right. Time, in the Indigenous sense is fluid. Because of this learning I have come to understand that although it is important to write a little ceremony that includes guardians, elements, prayer, gratitude, framing intentions/release that I also need to allow the powers of nature to determine when the actual passage occurs. Indigenous people dance their ceremonies which helped me understand that any experience that transpires around these turnings may become the body of the ceremony if it feels right though the words were written earlier. This year around the equinox darkness reigned in every sense of the word. Having set my intentions, I waited, wondering when the door would open… yesterday it did, and this is the story of what happened. Only afterwards did I realize that in every sense we had honored and experienced the beginning of spring and the rising of clear waters.
My Vet and dearest friend made one of his unscheduled visits. The moment after I got the text my little dogs began to bark. This is normal behavior for both animals who adore their Uncle Gary and are tuned into him on levels that defy explanation (he lives more than a half an hour away). They bark until he arrives, regardless of whether this is a regular visit, or one that’s a surprise. We keep track of the exact timing of his leave – taking, their behavior and his arrival for fun.
As we move deeper and deeper into full autocratic rule, the timeless themes found in mythology help me find my way.
My first thought for these days was of Pandora, whose story in the myth of Pandora’s Box serves as a powerful metaphor for the complexities of human choice—relevant today by the choice of many to elect Trump, resulting in multiple destructive consequences.
Women and trees belong together; our relationships with them stretches back to antiquity. They have been our protectors, guiding us through grief and difficult times. They offer us gifts of beauty, fruits, and nuts, are receivers of prayers, sometimes speaking through prophecy. Sometimes healing springs appear at their feet. And always they are wisdom keepers, these Trees of Life. It is not surprising that women’s ceremonies were and are often enacted in the forest under a canopy of trees.
Weeping white tears
Emergence magazine recently posed three questions that I want to share because I think they might help raise awareness for women who love trees and the relatively small minority of other people who are attempting to deal with what is happening to the rest of nature during this political crisis and time of earth destruction.
Some folks who are not Indigenous still love and care for the land as a beloved friend, relative and teacher and it is to these people, both women and men, that I offer up these questions because I think they may help to keep us grounded in a painful but potentially creative way. Queries like these attach us to a larger long-term perspective that allows for a ‘both and’ approach to the future. The last question invites the reader to take personal action. Feeling that reciprocal connection between an individual and some aspect of the land s/he is attached to is a key that opens a door to deeper engagement with the rest of nature.
This time one year ago, our world here in Appalachia seemed like it hadn’t changed in a thousand years. The giant, churning, awesome power of Hurricane Helene had not yet whipped our waters into a frenzy, and caused the mountains to slide downhill, carrying our lives away. And yet, from just below the earth’s surface, Spring reappears with all Her perseverance, Her steadfastness, Her fertile abundance. The slow, steady regeneration of our Mother inspires me to keep going, day by day, hour by hour.
Primavera
Toadshade Trillium
The newness of Spring, Primavera, ”first green,” soft petals that banish Winter’s icy grip, the return of the Galax, the trillium, the return! Full-blown rebirth, bright, brilliant green shining in the sun, Spring! Rebirth decked out like a debutante with a roomful of courtiers, flipping the world from darkness to light. Ferns unfurl, fiddleheads play on the forest floor, insects awaken and buzz in a hundred keys of life. Humans awaken too, reminded once more of the richness of the return. A breeze blows over the galax, the Mayapples spread their elegant leaves The promise of the Great Mother: we will begin again.
photo credit: Friend and mentor, bear biologist Lynn Rogers one of the finest naturalists I know
The day after the presidential election in 2016 I picked up what I initially thought was a saw whet owl wing while wandering down a red dirt road in Abiquiu NM. Just one wing and one talon. The hair on my arms rose up pricking my skin like needles. I started to shiver. One wing, one Owl. Women and owls have history. It was obvious that the message was an ominous one. A woman without two wings can’t fly. The day went dead as I dragged myself home. When I did some research to confirm identification, I learned that I had found the remains of a boreal owl.
I have only glimpsed a boreal owl a few times until this winter, but apparently, I have a resident because one hunts before dawn sitting on the same crabapple branch situated next to the side door. Although I eagerly look for him each dawning, I’ve also been concerned for the weasel that lives under the porch, although this owl is not supposed to eat mustelids but is said to feast on smaller prey like mice or voles and even little birds. Three nights ago, I heard one of his calls, a short series of staccato ‘whoos’. According to the literature this is not a mating call which would last much longer
January’s twilight hours draw me into her pale embrace stalactites and frozen streams whisper that winter’s skin is thin even with months to go flowing water is muted under seeded snow underground roots pulse with light sleeping forest boughs wake in wild winds crack and moan rest in peace at dawn bears sleep fox and weasel seek slivers of open water I walk in slow motion to stay upright at the edge of a meandering serpentine stream listening for the scent of just one hemlock singing feeling the tangles of gray and green Indoors standing at the window I ask how many forested eyes are meeting my own?
Feminism and Religion 