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/

Memories of a Pond

Not that long ago, home was a small loft apartment overlooking a pond.  While I spent just three years there, I will always treasure the experience. I'd always known that a fresh body of water had a personality all its own. But it wasn't until I lived near one, where I could observe it every single day, that I learned just how varied all its emotions could be.

It was autumn when I first arrived there, and I spent many hours looking outside the large window that had wisely been placed on the side of the building facing the pond. On nice days, I sat on my little deck, high above the ground and from where I had a perfectly expansive view of the ever-changing water. Some days, it was calm and still as a mirror, and others, as rough and choppy as the sea, its tiny wavelets capped with white foam as the wind whipped the surface into a frenzy.

During my first winter there, I watched as the pond froze over and less and less blue water was visible. Then, when the snow moved in, it was as if the area were just another vast field across which nothing moved save for the few souls who ventured out to poke holes in the ice through which to lure fish. On sunny windy days, the snow swept across in blue-white ripples. And at night, lights from the opposite shore illuminated the darkened expanse in large v-shaped swaths.

Spring saw the pond opening up again, shedding its winter layer in large sheets that slammed up against each other until the temperature rose just enough to erase them entirely. Summer  was a lush green experience, with vegetation in the form of trees and low shrubs draping over  all its shores as far as I could see. And the wildlife that flocked there was immeasurably wonderful to behold: great blue herons, mallard ducks, Canada geese, common loons, and kingfishers plied the waters daily, while bald eagles, ospreys, pileated woodpeckers, hawks and ravens flew over guarding their domain. Smaller birds flocked to my feeders daily, and one summer, a phoebe made her nest right under the deck, trusting me enough to rear her young close by.

Deer, foxes, raccoons and skunks were also frequent visitors. And once, I watched patiently as a turtle made its way laboriously toward the water, its short legs pushing it along over piles of dead leaves and protruding rocks. Squirrels made their homes in the surrounding trees, while chipmunks engineered their kingdom beneath the soil, popping up at random places and chattering to each other from hole to hole.

I took hundreds of photos there, penned many words, took many walks, and thought many thoughts. Those three years were an education like no other, and I graduated with the honor of having been there to see it all. Moonlight casting its haunting glow across a dark glassy surface, wake ripples left by boats, and sun stars sparkling on the water are all among the many memories I will cherish forever.

I've been fortunate to the point where I wanted to share my experiences with others. Many people never know the joy of living in such a place, and there was a time when it was only a dream of mine as well. But dreams have a way of coming true, as I've learned, and their stories are only improved in the re-telling.

https://www.amazon.com/Rachel-Lovejoy/e/B00JJ259DS

Starting Over...Again

I catch it every year. No, not spring fever. It's much too early for that. Or is it?

This is, rather, a sort of prequel to spring fever that I get every year about this time. The holidays are blessedly behind me again, and then there is that gap during which there is nothing at all to celebrate. So, I start celebrating the slow approach of the next season.

Unlike fall, which I also love, spring offers me more options. I can start browsing through seed catalogs and planning what I'm going to order, which isn't much anymore, as all I do now is grow things in containers. But still, it fulfills that need to grow SOMETHING, anything, that has never left me no matter where I've lived. I can also start thinking along the lines of starting some plants indoors. My options here are once again few, as I get sunlight only through the kitchen windows. Whereas my cat loves to perch on the table to look out the window, setting some pots up there is not an option. Not only are they in both our ways, but she loves to dig in the dirt. As an indoor cat, that's quite a treat for her, as is nibbling on the first few green things that appear above the soil once the seeds have germinated.

My only viable option to get things going on is the counter that spans the space beneath my other kitchen window. The window itself isn't high, but it is long, and the sill is wide enough to support a row of small pots. It does entail removing my decorative cobalt blue and clear glass collectibles. But it's a trade-off, as most things in life worth doing are. I can also perch small pots on top of storage canisters where they will also benefit from the bright sunlight. There, I can pretty safely get things going and keep them going long enough for them to be ready to put outside once the weather warms above 40 degrees F. at nights. Not only am I getting my garden ready, I also have signs of new life to enjoy inside until April. And the cat seems not to have discovered that cache or is just not interested.

It'll probably be my old reliables again this year: marigolds (of course), zinnias, and nasturtiums. Some parsley and maybe some basic...I saved lots of seeds from last year's plants, so that will save me a little money. Otherwise, I'll shop the dollar stores and treat myself to one extravagant purchase from a company like Burpee or Gurney's. That kind of makes it official that the growing season is once again off to a start. And as the old saying goes, "There is no time like the present!"

Indeed, there is not!

https://www.amazon.com/Rachel-Lovejoy/e/B00JJ259DS

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:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876

A Stewardship of the Heart

“…in any true sense there is no such thing as ownership of the earth and the shadow of any man is but for a time cast upon the grass of any field.” Henry Beston, Northern Farm.



It would be all too easy for me to fall into the trap of thinking that I own this land, this wooded five-acre hillside that slopes down from Grant’s Hill to Swan Pond. One of my neighbors has perhaps a better claim to that thinking, as this entire area, including my own humble parcel, once belonged to his father. So I’ve come to understand his attachment to it that extends even to my land, as it was once in his family, and he’s never stopped thinking of it as such. I, however, am a relative newcomer here, and unless I will the place to my own heirs, someone else will someday invariably take stewardship of this knoll.



But can any of us, no matter how long we’ve occupied it, truly own the land? Are the trees, hills and fields to be owned, or do they simply allow us the luxury of our imagined dominion over them? We’ve all witnessed the ravages of progress, how it can strip away acres of trees and replace them with shopping centers and apartment complexes. Yet, once abandoned, does the earth not take over again, with nature slowly but inexorably reclaiming what is hers? No legal proceedings are involved, no hand needed to sign deeds or easements. She simply moves in quietly, and over time, refashions the hills and fields into something more befitting her eclectic preferences.



Our history is full of stories of those who held unwritten rights to this land for centuries before the Europeans decided it was theirs simply to take. Who better to attest to the fleeting nature of ownership than those very souls who now eke out their existences in the places allotted to them by those with the power to decide such things? I think I know a little of how they must have felt as they left their ancestral lands, I, who have only been here a few years and who is hardly rooted yet can feel how tenuous my grip is on this place.



A good friend of mine once said that no one ever really owns the land, that we are all merely stewards, a reality that extracts from us a promise to leave it as we found it. He and his wife owned 80 acres of pine-studded wilderness not far from here, and he, too, had a healthy reverence for that wild place that held him in tenancy only. Even in death, whatever small space any of us occupies passes to someone else: heirs, new unrelated owners, even developers, and all perhaps thinking it is theirs, all theirs, to do with as they will.



None of us knows what lies ahead, and it’s perhaps better that way. If I should have to reluctantly leave this place someday, I hope that whoever comes after me will see the light golden in the pines at sunset and hear the wind approaching from the west on a stormy night. I hope they care for it, give back whatever they take from it, and not interfere too much with processes that have gone on long before any of us were here. But most of all, I hope they hear what it has to say and that they, too, take comfort in the truths it has to share.

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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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Night Lights

This is the first in the "Fall Series" of essays begun in 2010.



Contrary to what some might think, no night in the woods is ever completely dark. There is never a time when I open my eyes and feel as though I’d never opened them at all. As starless and moonless as some nights are, there is always some sort of light shining from somewhere, and the black treetops are nearly always silhouetted against a lighter background.



Cloudy nights can be surprisingly bright, as the clouds manage to reflect some of the sun’s residual light, making the sky appear lighter by comparison. If there is a full moon behind those clouds, midnight seems more like a late winter afternoon. And on the coldest January nights, the earth manages to reflect the light from the billions of stars that stand out in stark contrast to the black velvet drape they appear to be affixed to.



There are few street lamps along the long stretch of South Waterboro Road that separates me from both Biddeford and Waterboro. Sometimes, when it’s snowing, I turn my porch lights on and watch the soft and silent fall of flakes, each sharing its light with me before disappearing in the vast white sea below. Like fireflies on a hot July night, they possess a spark that is all their own as they fall noiselessly to earth on nights when the moon hides its face. Later, with the lights turned off, the glow lingers across my snow-enveloped world.



Some nights, I lie awake, my face turned toward the window, where I gaze upon the stars, occasionally seeing a light moving among them made by some celestial vehicle bound for parts unknown. On foggy nights, I stare up at a bare canvas through equally bare branches, watching them sway in the wind, soothed by a softening of atmosphere.



Once, on a full moon night, I saw a shadow skitter across the foot of my sloped driveway. It was a fox, probably on the hunt. It stopped briefly at one point to look back, ever vigilant, as is their kind, for danger. It soon resumed its moonlit trek and disappeared into the woods across the road. I sat for awhile, my eyes glued to where it had stood in the moon glow among the trees casting long shadows across the bluish snow. But it was not to retrace its steps that night, at least not while I was watching.



It is never completely dark in the woods. Even on the blackest nights, my eyes eventually adjust to whatever light shines faithfully behind cloud banks, allowing me to observe familiar shapes and shadowy objects that I take so much for granted during the day, objects that, in their altered nocturnal states, elicit a quiet reverence from their lone beholder.



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