And Spring Slips In

　

According to those who monitor these things, spring arrived at 6:29 this morning. For days now, I've been listening to the birds, noticing how different their songs are as they sing about the passing of yet another winter into memory. Oh sure, we might get a few more flakes or maybe even another full-fledged weather "event." But as the earth turns her face toward the sun, anything the clouds send down from here on out won't create much of an impact and will be gone much more quickly.

　

It's interesting to note that, while I wasn't up at that time this morning, I was awake, listening to a loud symphony of crow music outside my window. I do sometimes get up a bit sooner than that and toss some bread out, and it seems I've created some sort of ritual in the process, as it doesn't take long for the crows to swoop in from somewhere to get at the scraps before the turkeys and gulls and squirrels do. But beyond that, I also heard a cardinal, and the tufted titmouse was finally singing its spring notes.

　

Not long ago, a snow-removal crew shoveled all the snow off the roofs here, and they bent my shepherd's hook over in the process. At the time, the ground was still frozen solid, so I couldn't do anything about it. Yesterday, though, I was easily able to bend it back to some measure of straightness, as the soil it's standing in was very pliable and cooperative. I also shoveled some of the snow away, exposing more of that soil in the process. And now, that whole area is bare and dark brown against the surrounding banks, a welcome sight for these winter-weary eyes.

　

One thing is certain: if the temperature does approach 50 degrees F. today, as predicted, there will be plenty of melting going on. The trees are also ready to leaf out, as is evidenced by the fat swollen buds on the ends of the maple branches across the parking lot. I read somewhere that the maple sap stopped flowing once the weather turned cold again, so hopefully the tappers will be in business again now that the days are warming...

　

...which they can't help but do as the earth turns her face toward the sun and continues to do so at the rate of 1,000 miles per hour until what snow there is no longer stands a chance.

Adopting Nature's Pace: A Writer's Journey

Not Winter...Nor Spring

It's that time of year again here in northern New England when there seems to be some indecision as to whether winter is indeed over. Yes, spring is officially only a little more than three weeks away, but we've been known to get some pretty wintry weather at this time of year. It's like Old Man Winter is puffing himself up like the robins I see in the trees outside my window and saying something like "I'm not finished with you yet!" And then, at first light, there are the birds singing as they haven't since last summer, which indicates that we're much closer to the start of spring than to that of winter.

　

Birds know things we don't about air pressure and sunlight and live their short lives by laws we only find fascinating in the reading of. Although species like the American robin often doesn't migrate very far and the Northern Cardinal never leaves, neither sings until spring, leaving no doubt that the season has indeed arrived.

　

After the spate of snowstorms we have here recently, this sunshine and higher temperature are both welcome. Snowbanks shrink daily, the sun casts shadows that stick around a bit longer, and even the sky seems bluer between what few clouds there are. There's a smell in the air, too, that is absent during the winter's bleakest moments, the aroma of the earth reawakening and moving back to her vanity where all manner of scents are to be found...that of the thawing soil and the sweet aroma of the burgeoning grass...the intoxicating headiness of the first flowers and the fresh smell of rain washing what's left of winter away.

　

While winter's not quite done with us yet, I still love this time of year. We can give ourselves permission to hope now, for it no longer takes as long to count out what time is left before the first leaves appear on the trees and the geese head north again.

　

"Poor, dear, silly Spring," the poet Wallace Stevens wrote..."preparing her annual surprise!" How accurate an assessment that is! For no matter how sure we are that she's coming, no matter how often we greet her or how many winters we've lived through, what she brings is indeed always a surprise and always, always, a lovely one!

　

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http://www.andreasweb.com/rachellovejoy/index.html

　

Night Light

As a child, I always assumed that night time meant the complete absence of light. Of course, that was when my youthful imagination came into play based on the many Saturday morning cartoons I watched that always depicted "night" as a solid black screen, often with just two big cartoon character eyes glowing in the middle of it. Since then, I've lived in many different places where the night is hardly ever completely dark, due mainly to the glow from street lights and the porch lights that some people leave on all the time.

My first exposure to total night darkness came when I moved to the woods of Lyman, Maine in 1999. There, I experienced as complete a blackness as is possible, which was hard to get used to at first. But it didn't take me long to come to appreciate it as a comforting shroud that descended on my world at the end of the day. The sounds that came from those woods at night also made for an interesting study in the habits of nocturnal animals, and to which I thrilled each night as I turned off my lights.

In time, though, I realized that, no matter where we are, no night is ever completely devoid of some shred of light, and that is best illustrated when the moon is full or in winter during a snow event. I can still remember how the light from a full moon pierced through the tops of the trees to depict their trunks as long shadows on the pale beige ground. As the moon moved in the sky, the shapes changed accordingly until dissipating at the sun's first touch. If clouds moved in to block the moon's light, the night was still brighter than on nights when the moon had completely waned, bathed in an eerie muted glow that cast everything around me into misty unidentifiable shapes.

After a winter storm, however, moon or no moon, I learned there is always some residual light lingering in the atmosphere, and it is this that the snow appropriates as its own, bouncing off snowbanks, rooftops, from tree branches and reflected on every single falling flake. Snowy nights in the woods are far from dark, and I often went out to experience this along with the softened silence and whispers of flakes falling on dried leaves.

There was a full moon last night, and once again, my bedroom was bright and the shadows of trees outside my window sharp and long. In spots, the snow was shiny like a new nickel, and in others, its accumulated mass sparkled like piles of gems, free for the taking.

And once again, I joyfully partook and sent the moon my silent "thanks..."

*****

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http://www.andreasweb.com/rachellovejoy/

Here We Are Again

Here we are again at that point in time in this particular part of the world where Nature steps back and puts a blank white canvas up on her easel. Sometimes without warning, our world goes from color, albeit muted, to solid white, leaving us to reminisce about how it looked not that long ago. We had an extended autumn this year, but winter was sure to make its appearance sooner or later, presenting us yet again with the challenge of finding something pleasant or pretty to look at.

Right now, it's snowing lightly, but the prediction is for it to become heavier as the day progresses before turning, as it so often does here, into sleet or freezing rain. What isn't actually white is gray, and any other color, be it that of a parked car or a pine tree's needles, is muted and bland in the absence of the defining sort of light the sun provides.

Snow not only dulls the landscape during its descent but also casts a hush over everything. Outside sounds are muted, less pronounced, as though the sharp whistle of the distant train is somehow caught up by the snowflakes and set down more gently upon our ears. Even the crow's cry is muffled as it lands to grab a slice of bread then takes to the sky once again to find a spot where it can enjoy the morsel undisturbed.

While astrological winter, which coincides with the solstice, does not officially arrive until next week, meteorological winter, the kind weather gurus rave about and which began on December first, has been in full swing for some time now, marked by some snow, high winds, and bitter subzero cold. Oh, and let's not forget the ice, without which it would really be winter in this part of Maine!

I just read a post on Facebook about folks in the northwestern U.S. who are dealing with an ice storm and power outages. I chuckled. That's a way of life here, and something we have all come to expect no matter how long we've called Maine home. Of course, it gets worse the farther north we go. But all things considered, the entire state suffers from one form of winter woe or another between the months of November and April, and sometimes even before and after those months!

So yes, here we are again at that point in time where winter weather has officially arrived and when even those who have had years of experience with it continue to complain. I must admit that some aspects of it are a bit much to deal with at times, and that get progressively worse as time goes by and winter's cumulative effects become tiresomely rote. I could live without the ice on walkways and roadways, but I must admit that it is stunning to wake up on a sunny morning after a storm and see every single tree branch and twig sparkling with it. I have also experienced rainy foggy mild sunless winters which just didn't feel right to me and which the word "blah" adequately described. But then, those speak of spring to me, and with each passing winter, we are that much closer to the season of rebirth. And wind...that's another story. Though I do enjoy hearing it howling and roaring of a winter's night, I cringe when day breaks and reveals to us an aftermath of downed trees and powerlines.

I also distinctly recall a few winters where it snowed so often and so much that even shoveling seemed an exercise in futility, for it seemed like I was moving the same snow from one place to another and back again. The worst, though, is having to clean my car off after each storm. So the less I have to do that, the better. Considering the fact, however, that I'm retired now, I am no longer in a very great rush to do that. And it's been my experience that, if I wait long enough, the sun will help that process along considerably once it comes out again and the air warms.

It's winter, when Nature's mood swings take chillier more tangible forms. For unlike after a spring or summer storm, a winter event leaves more evidence behind for us to deal with and either lament or marvel at. Being a Mainer, I suppose I will continue to do both. Once my car is cleaned off and I can relax, then I can indulge in the latter to my heart's content. And so far, Nature has never let me down on that score!

To read more Winter essays, as well as others dedicated to the other seasons, visit:

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My Feathered Visitors

While the earth continues to provide bounty for both earthbound and avian creatures, the time is approaching when my feathered visitors won’t be able to find enough to eat. The ground will freeze and be covered in snow and ice, and they will be hard-pressed to find some bit or morsel that will help keep them warm during the bitterly cold nights of deepest winter.


Research shows that birds are warm-blooded animals whose internal body temperature is roughly 105 degrees Fahrenheit. As they have virtually no body fat in which to store heat, it is crucial for them to eat almost constantly during the colder months, especially during those times when they are cut off from a natural food supply that includes seeds, berries, and insects.
Sudden dips in temperature can be fatal to birds, and it is then that they need our help more than at any other time. To maintain their body temperatures, birds need the extra calories that seeds and suet cakes can supply. Thus, it has been my practice here to try to fill that need as best I can, all the while fighting the good fight with squirrels and raccoons to make sure that the birds are the ultimate victors.


I recently downsized my feeding arsenal to just one feeder and one suet-cake holder, and these I place close to my front door for easy access and a fast approach during squirrel skirmishes. No matter how squirrel-proof the more sophisticated feeders are said to be, I have found none yet that those clever creatures cannot somehow defy. I have hung them from wires, from poles, and used all the baffles and foils I can think of. Yet, sooner or later, the feeder is on the ground, its contents scattered, and I’m faced yet again with deciding on another approach that, next time, may just work. I’ve even hung feeders from a long clothesline that is nearly 10 feet from the ground. Believe me when I say that squirrels can and do hang by their paws like high-wire acrobats and somehow make their way to the feeder. As frustrating as it is, it is nothing short of amazing.


Perhaps the greatest pleasure in feeding birds is seeing the vast numbers of different species that visit the feeder each day. Most bird-feeding devotees can attest to the thrilling antics of the chickadees, almost always the first to give in to hunger over fear. Other birds, like nuthatches, titmice, and woodpeckers take a while longer to trust that no harm will come to them if they come near. As for the seed that ultimately ends up on the ground, the ground-feeders such as juncos and chipping sparrows make short work of it. And barring that, raccoons can always be counted on to clean up the mess. A small flock of turkeys visited my porch on a cold winter morning a few years ago, and even an opossum visited once. Hunger is a powerful force that compels these creatures to go well beyond their natural boundaries.


It is a necessary and humane interdependence. For do we humans not reap, and sometimes even recklessly, from the animal kingdom for our own sustenance? And isn’t it only right to give something to them when they are hungry? As long as I’m here, or wherever I am, I will continue to provide a feast for the birds and other creatures while this good earth sleeps beneath its mantle of snow. And I will always believe that part of the reason they keep coming back is that they are indeed thankful.


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The Grass Harp (The Last of the Summer Series Essays)

A friend of mine and his wife raise horses on a farm in Bowdoinham and in his emails he paints vivid pictures of the hay fields that keep the feeding troughs filled, the livestock sustained and the rolling pasturage coiffed in gold. Through it all, he keeps time with the seasons, this man, remaining acutely aware of the pull and tug of the weather, of its imperatives and mandates, and its challenges. Sometimes, I feel that I can actually see him amongst the bales, guiding the tractor, forking and piling the fragrant grains, bending with them, ever at their mercy...

Haying season was one of the my mother's favorites times of year, as she herself had spent time as a girl involved in that hot prickly work, which hasn't evolved, technologically speaking, as far as other things have in this our complex world. It still involves interacting with the grasses, listening to their song (I am reminded of Capote's "The Grass Harp"), sweating and heaving and going from earth to mow and loft and as my friend proclaims, in preparation for the cold dark stripped and demanding days of winter.

It was a good thing when people had to get ready for winter, for the great drawing in, the wrapping up of things, the narrowing of vision and heightening of a thousand sensibilities and sharpening of ancient instincts in tune to nature's rhythm. Reading about the state of Alaska recently, I was pulled for the span of those 800 or so pages into a world where nature so often turns on a whim and plunges that part of the earth into deep and unforgiving cold or house-high snow, where natives have no choice BUT to be ready for all of that, or die. We have grown so complacent in other parts of the world, too much so, in our air-conditioned leaf and snow-blown comfort here in "civilization," where the advent of winter for many of us means nothing more than plopping a pair of boots down by the back door and remembering at the first snowfall that we forgot to bring a shovel inside. The weather, and all it portends, has become nothing more than a tweaking of our imaginations, to the point of lucratively warranting its own 24/7 televised coverage complete with all the drama and sensationalism that only nature can provide when other inane programming falls flat (which most does nowadays).

Fields dotted with bales, round or rectangular, flash by as I make my way through here in York County in an area once primarily devoted to generational farming and a firmly established way of life. Vestiges remain-a useful barn here, a few cows grazing there, a vegetable stand by the side of the road-thrilling and encouraging reminders that the practice is still alive and well in the minds and daily existences of a few at least who still maintain a direct connection to the earth and her processes.

The annual late-summer blackbird ballet also informs the watchful eye this time of year, as vast flocks of grackles and blackbirds cackle and swoop from place to place, decimating what little is left from the treetops and tall shrubbery before moving on in a great dark undulating cloud, a black lace curtain billowing in the great open window that is the sky. Though unrelated (or is it) to the grass harvest, it, too, is part of the cycle that folds over and over upon itself, leaving little untouched, unaffected.

It is September once again here in our little corner of the earth, and there is still time before the days shorten perceptibly, time to revel in what is not entirely summer nor entirely autumn but something wonderfully in between.


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