On the Verge

I missed writing a blog in January. Sorry about that! I hope you had a wonderful holiday season. Happy 2018!

My January was full of upheaval, especially at work. A lot of things changed, some for the better and some yet to be seen. We were put into different groups, we were given different supervisors, we were physically moved around the room. It took everyone a while to get used to it.

I was one of them. I don't mind some change, but we got a lot thrown at us all at the same time. My team changed, my original group's title disappeared, I had to get used to a new location with a few challenges. I'll admit that I had a little trouble with it.

I think I'm getting more used to it, though. That's what happens, isn't it? You grumble and complain, you wonder why this had to happen ... and then you turn around and it all seems normal. It's happened before. I'm sure it will happen again.

Nevertheless, I was glad to have a few weekends to process things. It's nice to have some quiet time to put things in perspective.

This weekend was no exception. I'm on the verge of a decision regarding work and I needed some time away to think about it.

So why on earth did I find myself driving to work and parking in the lot on a Saturday?

By now, you should know that I'm a birder, so this next bit won't surprise you.

For several weeks at work, I've been walking in the hallway to get some exercise when something outside caught my eye. I've stopped by windows and doors to squint out at the field north of our building because there was movement in an otherwise empty space. As you might have guessed, it had two wings. It was a Northern Harrier. I wasn't sure at first, but then I glimpsed the white patch at the base of its tail and I knew.

Several times I've stood still to watch its aerial acrobatics as it glides, stoops and banks over the field, searching for some unlucky rodent to make its meal. I've had more than one person ask me what I'm staring at out there. Nobody seems surprised when I saw it's a hawk.

Without binoculars, though, I couldn't see the bird very well. It's a big field and the harrier seemed good at keeping its distance. As a result, I drove over there with binoculars this afternoon to see if I could get a better look.

It was chilly, with a brisk wind, and my heart fell as I pulled into the lot. The field looked empty. I put on some gloves and earmuffs before I stepped out of the car. Still no sign of hawks. Resigned, I decided I might as well walk a little before the drive home.

I walked around the building and stopped. There in the EAST field were two harriers! They hopped around, spreading their wings over the ground as if protecting something, although they didn't appear to have caught anything. Then one took flight and soared over to the north field. I followed and was rewarded with twenty minutes of watching a beautiful hawk gliding over a field. Every time the hawk turned, I got a good look at the striking patterns and colors on its chest and tail. Its long yellow legs hung down and then tucked up against its body. The wings were masterful at propelling the hawk through impressive maneuvers. In short, it was breathtaking. I forgot the chill in the air, the craziness at work, pretty much everything as I watched in awe.

Now I'm back at home, where it's warm, but I can still see that hawk. I don't think it ever saw me because it was concentrating on the field. I'm sure it wouldn't have admired me like I admired it!

As usual, Nature provided me with some time to leave behind my cares and worries, to enjoy something with a clear mind and open heart. I think I'm ready to make a decision.

Don't forget the Great Backyard Bird Count this month! Here's where to find more information: http://gbbc.birdcount.org/  I encourage you to give it a try and turn in your counts. You never know what you will see.

Transition

Tomorrow is the First Day of Spring.

That phrase means many things to me. It means sunlight, warmth, birds, flowers, baseball, hope. It means I can think about travel and birding and long walks in the park. It means I won't huddle inside, shivering in the darkness even when the furnace is running.

Later, there will be bugs, loud motorcycles, people not wearing enough clothing ... But I won't think about that now.

Phlox in our front yard March 2017

For now, I'll look at the flowers that survived the sudden frost this past week and I'll smile. Winter has been vanquished once again ... at least temporarily.

I wouldn't have it any other way. What I mean is this: I wouldn't enjoy spring if I hadn't had to struggle through winter first. It's only months of neutral colors and chilly temperatures that can make this season so special.

Grape hyacinth in our front yard March 2017

If there were hyacinth blooming all year long, would I even notice them after a while? Probably not. If there were mockingbirds here all the time, would I cherish the first time I hear that unique series of songs and calls coming from atop a telephone pole? Nope. If I had to mow the grass all year long, would the sight of green in the yard make me happy? Certainly not.

I salute winter for making me appreciate spring. I can still recall snuggling under a pile of covers, happy to be safe and warm, dreaming of long days and a time when I could put hats, gloves and coats into storage. I'm grateful that winter gives way for a while, allowing us to take a deep breath of fresh air without making our lungs hurt.

Flowers in our back yard March 2017

I might even miss winter eventually. But not now.

Happy Spring!

Winter Show

I’m not fond of several aspects of winter: the cold, the long nights, the relative lack of wildlife and birds.

But these past few weeks, I’ve discovered something, a bonus that makes me a little more tolerant of the lengthening night (and the end of Daylight Saving Time).

When I step outside after a day of work, I’m facing west and I’m confronted by a sunset. The nearby buildings and trees aren’t tall enough to block it. I can’t bury my face in a book or hide inside four walls because I have to walk to my car if I want to get home.

In other words, I can’t miss it.

So I stop. I stare. I marvel.

The sun has usually just gone away, leaving a bright flare of yellow, orange and peach. Above my head are the clouds, which come in all shapes and, more importantly, colors. They’re white, gray, light blue, purple, yellow. They’re edged with orange, pink, purple and dark blue as the sunlight reaches out before slipping over the horizon. If I’m lucky, the display is accented by the sliver of a pale moon.

I stand there in awe as co-workers scurry past me, rushing to the comfort of their cars. I don’t even realize my breath is visible or my hands are going numb.

Winter is a time of neutral colors: white, gray, brown. But she has a few tricks up her sleeve, and this one is magical.

By the time I get home, it’s usually dark and the colors are gone. But they live on in my memory, enough to hold me until the next day when the show begins again.

There will be sunsets in the spring and summer, but I’ll most likely miss them.

Right now I have no choice, and I’m glad.

Here’s to beauty in unlikely places and times.

Cold

Southeast Kansas is in a Winter Storm Warning this weekend so I thought I'd better post before things get interesting. (For those of you who've seen the movie Serenity, not THAT interesting!)

As amazed as I am that it's already March, I'm one of many Americans who are tired of cold weather.

     "I hate the cold," Hawkins said, and then he disappeared into the swirling snow.

That's from Another Shot and it has more than one meaning: in this case, "cold" refers to both the weather and the relationship between two people. Hawkins can't control the first, but he's done what he can to repair the second.

As I was thinking about cold weather this weekend, I happened to reread a Ray Bradbury story that really summed up what it means to be cold and alone:

        "One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound
     of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, 'We need a voice to call
     across the water, to warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of
     time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty
     bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the
     door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying
     south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard,
     cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that
     whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer,
     and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll
     make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and
     whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.'"

That is from "The Fog Horn" (The Golden Apples of the Sun And Other Stories, New York, Harper Perennial, 2001).  If you can, read the whole story sometime. It's an amazing work.

And writing like that is why Ray Bradbury is my inspiration (yes, that's him on my dedication page).

Stay warm.