The Generosity of Geese

One evening in early August I was strolling in Stewart Park, at the southern tip of Cayuga Lake, when I spotted a couple carrying a large animal crate toward the lake shore. Intrigued, and anticipating a release of some kind, I followed and watched the following scene unfold…

The door of the crate was opened, and the couple stepped aside as they waited for whatever was within to emerge. Nothing happened. The crate was then up-ended, and out slid two young geese. (I later learned they were the outcome of a school project involving eggs). Our lake is a big lake and the geese stood as though stunned for a few minutes as they gaped at the expanse of water. Uncertain what to do or what was expected of them, they shifted from one foot to the other, and paced nervously along the shoreline. The couple settled on a log to wait for the moment that the geese would take their first step to freedom.

 In the meantime, the new arrivals had been spotted by some of our local geese gathered on the lake. A pair, apparently a mother and adolescent, separated from the rest and started to float a bit closer. Lingering about 50 feet from shore they expressed obvious interest and curiosity by establishing eye contact with the new arrivals and maintaining an open stance as they ever so slowly drifted forward. There were quiet calls. The orphans watched them for a few moments. 

Then, suddenly, the two geese on shore lifted off as one and flew low over the surface of the water to a point just beyond the welcoming pair. Upon landing they turned and swam – quickly – over to the mother and child, taking positions on either side of the smaller goose.  The youngsters appeared to be the same size and age. They looked like they belonged together. The new family turned, and quietly paddled off into the fading light.

I have sat for some time with my memories of that night, from the initial uncertainty and not knowing to the creation of a new family. As an introvert, I appreciate being approached with gentle curiosity and interest. Seeing this play out with the geese was stunning. I was especially struck by the sense of welcoming and of being welcomed. Recalling times when I have felt welcomed with a warm embrace, I have also wondered how often I am truly welcoming. There are so many examples in the world today of “us” vs “them”, of building fences, turning back and pushing away. Where do any of us truly belong? Even as a small child I remember feeling like an alien, looking around and thinking “this is not the way it is supposed to be”.

What does it say about humans that I find the highest ideals I aspire to being played out by geese on the lake shore? I'm afraid they are better at this than I am.

Their generosity of spirit continues to reach deep into my being and fill my heart with amazement and something akin to joy. Watching our native geese so simply and graciously gather in the outsiders reminded me… this is the way it is supposed to be.

Spring Gratitudes

Doors were flung open and people tumbled outside to feast on a sky unmarred by clouds and alight with a blazing sun. Sixty degrees and a soft caressing wind invited us to come out of hibernation and celebrate the end of a brutal winter. Bikes, trikes, scooters, skates and strollers rolled happily along. You could feel the solar panels sucking up the sun. Pairs of osprey wheeled overhead, calling faintly to each other. Two bald eagles flew low down the inlet, a sight so unexpected and surprising that I cannot be sure I actually saw them.

But my first gratitude blossomed yesterday, at the annual return of a pair of mallards swimming in a nearby roadside ditch flowing with the winter melt. They pique my curiosity… why the ditch, when there is a lake, a creek, and a pond within a half-mile radius? Spotting the ducks feels like a homecoming. Something in me loosens when I know they have come back, and some piece of the world swings into place. Here is the ditch where they hang out.

The second gratitude is simply relief. Warmth, unmarred by the piercing of a bitter wind.

Third – a lightness of being – no coat, or scarf, or mittens, or hat or any of the other paraphernalia required to master the winter.

Fourth… with any luck (and I won’t count on this, although I will hope) I will not have to scrape frost off my windshield until November.

So, the animals and birds are returning to their summer home and we are emerging from our winter homes into the light of day. Hallelujah.

Longing for Home

When I was eight years old I spent four weeks at a summer camp for girls in West Virginia. My mother grew up in this camp, and I imagine she hoped I would grow to love it as she did. Nestled in a corner of the Shenandoah valley, surrounded by mountains, the camp provided wide-ranging activities. Best of all, it had horses, and we rode several times a week. Four weeks, however, was a very long time for a little girl's first adventure away from home. Every day I received a warm, newsy letter from mom or dad, and every day I wrote the same thing... "I miss you. I am homesick. I want to come home." This was followed by a list of all of the activities and adventures that had taken place in the last day or two. Looking back on this time it is clear that I was generally recognized by camp staff as the most homesick camper that season. Special attention was given to me in many ways, such as being chosen to be the Indian princess for one of the camp tribes.

When the last day of camp and my parents arrived, I ran and threw myself at my mother in relief. There were a number of Parent's Day activities to be endured. After a humiliating showing in the horse show (I was given Haymaker, and he made some hay) I insisted that we leave right now. And we did. I still remember sitting in the back seat of the car wheeling out of the camp. On some level that experience had been a trial and a burden to me and I was relieved to be headed for home and safety.

That said, it may be a surprise to learn that I spent the next twenty summers at camp. Closer to home initially, for shorter periods of time. As I got older I was a counselor-in-training, then a counselor, then a camp director. And as I got older I longed for camp as I had once longed for home. Longed for the outdoor living, the meaningful relationships, and the freedom to be a different "me" at camp. It has been many years now since I have been at camp, but every spring I start thinking about heading off on another adventure, and camp songs haunt me throughout the summer.

Today, at 62, I again hear myself repeating the same refrain: "I want to go home. I want to go home." In this voice I recognize the longing for relief, comfort and safety. A longing for something beyond my daily life. A spiritual yearning for those still and exultant magical moments that I most often experience in the out-of-doors. This longing often takes me out of the present moment. I don't want to be here, I want to be there. And yet, as I finally came to recognize camp as home, it seems as if the little girl longing for home might have been at home all along. Perhaps our fears and insecurities, our uncertainties and worries, drop a veil in front of our eyes and keep us from seeing that we are always home, always held in a loving heart.

Leaving camp early that day more than fifty years ago meant that I missed the final council fire. Seasoned campers cherish the memories of the ceremony that brings closure to the camp experience. It is one of the few places where the ritual of saying goodbye, of remembering and honoring our time together, is enacted. Next year I will be returning to my mother's and my camp to attend the closing council fire and finally complete the summer of my eighth year. I am going home.

This blog post was picked up by the American Camp Association for their "Parent's Place" blog dated November 18, 2013.  

Honoring Our Wounded

While most people today are remembering the soldiers who have given their lives for their country, I would like to take a moment to recognize and honor people the world over who are carrying the wounds and scars of daily living. The men, women, and children who have been victims of abuse or violence.Those who suffer from any one of hundreds of life's traumas. The agonized souls who drop to their knees in the dark night, wailing their pain and grief in an empty room. Those who could no longer stand the pain and took their lives, and those who are left behind with holes in their hearts.

Who among us does not bear the burden of such experiences? On this day I ask for the grace to forgive those who have caused us pain, and the kindness to embrace ourselves with love and gentleness. May our souls be soothed and rest in peace.

A Rain of Leaves

The falling leaves of autumn teach me about letting go and passing away. I like to stand in the deep woods and watch the leaves rain down. Some seem to fall gladly and willingly, while others need to be shaken free by the wind. What I especially notice as I watch the leaves is just how easy it seems. One second the leaf is attached to the branch… the next second it is falling. The letting go seems effortless, and the descent is often slow and gentle. Watching this fills me with a sense of peace. I am quite sure that this is how I want to die. So I watch, and pay attention, every year. Trying to absorb the ease with which this happens and trying to take in just how easy letting go can be.

A friend recently asked “what do you do when things are hopeless?” (As a life coach people imagine I have the answer to questions like this). After some hemming and hawing I asked “what advice does your higher self have?” The response: Let go. Immediately followed by the question… but how do I do that? This is why I watch the rain of leaves every year.

While people typically connect the return of the light to the winter solstice, for me the light returns when the leaves fall. Living surrounded by woods, I see the light streaming through the branches as the canopy empties. The sun, sky, clouds and stars become visible in places they were hidden all summer. If you are contemplating letting go, look around to see where the light is streaming in. What is being illuminated? What is revealed that was once hidden?

My feet are crunching the leaves now when I walk through the woods. A thick layer of leaves is being laid down, providing a blanket of protection against the cold of winter and nourishment for next spring’s growth. This is the cycle of living and of dying. I imagine the leaves falling with a sense of relief and excitement… relieved that this part of their journey has come to an end and now they can rest. Excited about the transformation that will allow them to support the growth of the forest in a new and different way. In what ways do your experiences fertilize the ground for your next project or job, or just for tomorrow?

The Joy of Parachuting

One day, back in 1978, I looked “parachuting” up in the Yellow Pages, found a local “school”, and signed myself and a friend up for a Saturday morning expedition. This would be the fulfillment of a long-held dream.

Growing up in a town with a flying club, I expected to find a hanger, a few planes, and a tarmac runway. As we rattled up a dirt road to the address given, we were greeted with a 3-bay garage, a large expanse of grass, and a single airplane, reminding me of Sky King (which reference only children of the 50’s and 60’s are likely to appreciate). A scraggly looking fellow sauntered out to greet us. Some part of me was beginning to think this was not such a good idea. Being told that the primary training for flinging myself out of an airplane was to jump off this fellow’s workbench did nothing to allay my growing anxiety. Lynn, on the other hand, seemed to grow more excited with every moment.

My dread increased as we piled in the plane and headed toward the sky. Lynn was eager to go, so she was in the front seat, chatting and laughing. I sat in the back, trying not to be sick as my heart bounced like a drunken basketball between my throat and the pit of my stomach. When the time came, she stepped out on the wing, assumed the position, then jumped and did a perfect swan dive. Then she was out of sight. The pilot was circling as I moved into the front seat. Too humiliated to suggest we just turn around and go back, I went through the motions. Let me tell you what this involved.

The plane was a 4-seater, with wings atop the cockpit. Outside the passenger door there was a steel plate, about one foot square, which served as the step into – and out of – the plane. A strut began at the bottom of the plane and ran diagonally upward, attaching to the wing about four feet from the door.  First, you turn in your seat so your feet are on the steel plate outside the door and you are looking along the length of the wing. Next you reach out and grab the low end of the strut with your left hand. Then you haul yourself out of the plane, pivoting toward the front of the plane while grabbing the upper part of the strut with your right hand. (Remember, the plane is high up and moving.) Finally, you lift your right foot in the air and turn your head to the left so you can see the pilot and hear his direction to JUMP. It was at this point that it occurred to me that the pilot was going to have to land this plane with me standing out there.

JUMP! Such was the force of the command that I let go, and jumped backward, stepping off into empty space. After a moment the parachute opened and I had the opportunity to take a moment and look around. I felt like a milkweed seed, floating gently in space. The compelling experience was of total and complete silence. I fiddled with the controls on the chute to turn myself around and enjoy the landscape. Too quickly, the earth came up to greet me and I landed (with exactly the force of jumping off that workbench).  I was relieved and satisfied.

When the pilot landed the plane he came over and allowed as how he got a good laugh over my departure from the wing. “Your legs started going like you were running”, he chuckled. “You’re damn right, I was trying to get the @#$% back on that airplane”.

Clearly, there is a death-defying element to parachuting, and this experience taught me a lot about the gift of life. It is also perhaps my best example of moving through fear to achieve a desired goal. But most importantly it gave me a story to tell, one that has left people doubled over with laughter, especially when I act out the process of getting myself out of that darned plane. Do you have a story that you can share today?

This I Believe

The world would be a better place if people knew where the creatures around their home lived. This spring a pair of mallards has been paddling in the ditch by my country road. Why they would choose the ditch over the nearby lake or pond is somewhat of a puzzle to me. Are they eccentric vagabonds? Are they introverts, seeking an escape from the hustle and bustle of their comrades? Perhaps the ditch simply provides the shortest and most direct route to my neighbor’s house, where there is a daily buffet of corn and birdseed. Noticing the homes and habits of birds and animals has always given me a special delight.

A few years ago I purchased a pair of binoculars after taking the Spring Field Ornithology program at Cornell’s Lab of Ornithology. When I got home I took a walk in my woods in the late afternoon and, spotting a woodpecker hole high up in a tree, I trained my binoculars on it. To my surprise there was a squirrel curled up in the hole, gazing quietly out into the dusk. I still recall the wonder of that picture – it was a moment of absolute contentment… for both of us. I tiptoed away.

Just the other day I saw a red squirrel dart into the narrow hollow of a tree. Looking carefully it was hard for me to believe that it fit through that small gap, but I could see it in there. How many times have I walked past that tree without imagining the shelter it provided to little animals? It gives me a warm feeling to know that there are safe and dry places for these small creatures… even when the winter scuffling in the wall of my bedroom leads me to believe they are making a home in my home. (We don’t need to talk about how I spent Christmas day this year trapping and carrying half a dozen mice out of my kitchen.)

Walking in the park I spotted a large pile of sawdust next to a rotting tree. The ants were carving a home in the trunk, and an ant (or two or three, all ants look alike to me) was making a continuous round. It would disappear into the trunk and pick up a piece of sawdust in its jaws. Then it appeared in the opening, balanced at the edge and dropped the tiny grain of wood over the side. Back it went to get another grain which it carried to the lip of the opening and dropped onto the pile below. By the time I noticed this activity the pile of sawdust on the ground was about six inches high. Clearly the ants had been doing this a long time. Do you think they were complaining? “Boy, I’ve about had it with this. I am bored to death. Let’s go out for a smoke.” Or can you imagine they were doing this job with pride and dignity, or perhaps something like joy?

Noticing that animals have homes is tremendously reassuring to me. The instinct to nest, and to find shelter, to settle in for a good night’s sleep and to contemplate the events of the day is not limited to humans. We are a part of a larger community, all going about their daily work and returning home at the end of the day. When I have the privilege of looking in the windows of some of these homes I am filled with a quiet satisfaction and contentment. I can’t help but believe that if more people paid attention to this, they too might experience the stillness of knowing that, for the moment, all is right with the world.

A duplex beaver lodge